Scotsman of My Dreams (20 page)

 

Chapter 23

“W
here are we going?” she asked when they were in the carriage. “And why so early?”

“To a woman I know. The time is early for us, but late for her. She normally goes to bed around nine.”

“Who is she? Another member of the demimonde?”

“I would hesitate to call Lucille Grampton any name at all. She defies explanation and description.”

His smile effectively stole her words. She stared at him, wishing her experience of his world was greater.

“You think she might know Neville.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because young men gravitate to Lucille like a child to candy. Neville wasn't an exception.”

She hadn't eaten anything for breakfast, which she told herself was why her stomach clenched. She was most definitely not affected by his words or the hint of admiration in his voice.

Of course the Rake of London would admire a woman of ill repute.

“Why is it necessary for me to come with you?”

“You're my chaperone,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lucille is very . . .” His voice ground to a halt. His grin startled her.

She waited, curious.

“Insistent.”

“Insistent?” Her eyes widened.

He wouldn't say another word until they arrived, the carriage halting before a town house in a prosperous square.

She left the carriage first, and when he extended his hand, she gripped it with one of hers, helping him leave the vehicle.

All the way to the front steps she was rethinking her decision to be here. But then, it hadn't been her decision, had it? Dalton simply waved his hand and here she was.

Who did he think he was? He acted the dilettante made a hermit by injury, a recluse because of circumstance. It wasn't as if he wished to reassess his life and change his direction. No, he hid from the world because he was no longer as perfectly handsome as he had once been.

What balderdash.

He was a charming wizard, capable of convincing any woman to do almost anything. Look at her. She was acting as his eyes and his secretary and neglecting her own work. No doubt experienced women gazed after him with longing. The unsophisticated girls of the world probably sighed after him, as if realizing that MacIain was not for them. Wait until they were matrons, bored with their husbands, and then he would be there to assuage any desires they might have.

She was not among that group.

No, she knew entirely too much about Dalton MacIain to fall victim to his sorcery. Nor did she pity him.

She'd never known a less pitiable man.

“We're at the front door,” she said. “Would you like to knock, or shall I?”

“What's wrong?” he asked, turning his head in her direction.

“Nothing.”

“I sincerely doubt that, Minerva. Your voice has a coating of frost that wasn't there when we were in the carriage. Are you annoyed because I said that Neville was fascinated with Lucille?”

She didn't answer, only lifted the knocker and let it fall.

When no one came to the door, she began to tap her foot.

“Is there a rope to the right of the door?” he asked. “About waist high, I think, emerging from a small hole?”

“Yes.”

“If you'll pull on it, it will ring a bell inside the house. If no one answers, then I've miscalculated and Lucille has retired early. We'll simply have to return around midnight.”

She yanked on the rope, hearing a bell peal from deep inside the house.

A moment later the door was pulled open by a thin scowling woman in full skirts and a white apron, a perky white cap on her crown of black hair.

“Yes?”

“Dalton MacIain here for Lucille. I hope she's still receiving.”

The woman turned and disappeared into the house, leaving them standing on the stoop.

She'd never been so summarily dismissed, and in seconds. Before she could question Dalton, she heard squeals of excitement as footsteps raced down the hall. A flurry of red, perfumed silk enveloped Dalton, nearly knocking her over in an attempt to reach the man. Minerva heard his laughter, then the tinkling tones of a female as she rained kisses over his face.

“My darling Dalton. Where have you been? What have you been doing? What is this ugly patch for? Who wounded you so dreadfully? You must tell me. I'll set my dogs on him. Was it a duel? Did you fight for a woman? No, no, I do not want to know. I would be crushed. No woman must hold your heart more than Lucille. I will not hear of it.”

Minerva moved farther to the left, the better to allow the reunion. What a pity Dalton couldn't see the woman. She was practically spilling out of her décolletage. Or perhaps eyes weren't necessary, the way Lucille was pressing herself up against him. She wouldn't be surprised if the woman took his hands and brought them to her bosom.

After a quick, dismissive glance in Minerva's direction, Lucille put her arm through Dalton's and pulled him forward.

“You must come inside. How bad of Pansy to leave you standing on the doorstep like a peddler. Come, my darling. Come.”

Lucille was evidently French or affected a French accent. If she wasn't mistaken, the woman's perfume was also French. It followed her like a noxious cloud, providing an olfactory trail to follow.

Minerva entered the house behind them.

The parlor was lovely, decorated in restrained taste in pale blues. No gaudy crimson here, or abundance of tassels and fringe. Only a settee in silk upholstery in a shade so pale as to be almost white, and a matching chair and ottoman sitting at a right angle. Ferns sat on pots in front of the large bay window, and porcelain knickknacks with a French flair sat on the tables and mantel.

“If you wish,” Lucille said, glancing at her, “you may go and take tea with Pansy in the kitchen.” The other woman wiggled her fingers at her. “Go on now.”

Go on now?

“Lucille, if I may, I'd prefer her to remain with me.”

“But, my darling—­” she began, only for Dalton to interrupt her.

“She's indispensable.”

That was nothing more than a bald-­faced lie. She was almost tempted to retreat to the kitchen, but she was too curious to leave the room.

Dalton had been led to the settee and was now joined by Lucille, whose red hair had fallen to her shoulders in a style more applicable to early rising than entertaining guests. But then, her attire was hardly acceptable, either, with the silk garment leaving little doubt that the woman was nearly naked underneath.

Sitting beside Dalton, Lucille wound herself, kittenlike, over him. Her right hand patted his chest, which made Minerva wonder what her left hand was doing. One leg stretched up, her calf beginning a slow rubbing motion on Dalton's right leg.

Insistent? Yes, the woman was definitely that.

Sitting in the adjoining chair, holding her reticule in front of her, Minerva felt rendered invisible by Lucille's cooing and stroking.

Dalton was clutching his walking stick in what looked to be a death grip.

Minerva's mood suddenly lightened and she began to smile. Now she understood why she was Dalton's chaperone.

“Lucille, my dear,” he said, reaching up and slowly removing her hand from his chest.

“You have not called on me, my darling. You have not let Lucille know you were all right. I worried so about you. I wept many nights. Many, many nights.”

Every time he moved Lucille's hand away from him, it crept back in place. Plus, the woman was kissing her way up his shoulder and would hit his ear any moment. He'd tried to stretch away from her, but her leg had trapped his.

“I'm sorry, Lucille. I've been a bit of a hermit.”

“I could have soothed you in my way, Dalton. You know that. Give me a chance.”

“Yes. Well. I've come to ask about some friends,” he said. “Men you might know.”

Lucille reared back. “Friends? Who are these friends of yours?”

He gave her five names, one of which was Neville's.

“Have you seen them lately?”

The question did what his hands had not been able to do. Lucille moved to the end of the settee, frowning at him.

“Why is this? Why do you wish to know?”

“Let's just say I'm renewing my acquaintances,” he said.

Lucille suddenly looked at her, the green-­eyed gaze like chips of glass.

“This involves you?”

“Yes,” she said at the same time Dalton said, “No.”

Lucille looked from one of them to the other.

Minerva could see Dalton's irritated look all too well. The trouble was, he couldn't see hers.

“It's no good, Your Lordship,” she said, sitting forward. “My shame must be told.”

She withdrew a handkerchief from inside her reticule, grateful her mother had insisted that all ladies carry one in case of unforeseen emergencies. She also had smelling salts, but thankfully had never needed them.

Blotting the handkerchief to the corner of one eye, she made a sound remarkably like a sob. Who knew she was that good an actress? For that matter, who knew that she would be in the presence of someone like Lucille and need acting skills?

“He doesn't know about the little one. I shall be banished from my home. But I think he would want to know. I know he would.”

Lucille's frown deepened. If she didn't take care, those lines would become permanent. As it was, she had the distinct impression that the woman wasn't as young as she'd originally appeared.

“Who is this man you seek?” she asked.

“Neville Todd,” Dalton said.

Lucille's considerable eyebrows arched northward. “This man? Isn't he too young for you?” she said to Minerva, who buried her face in her handkerchief and managed another credible sob.

“Do you know where we can find him, Lucille?” Dalton asked.

“My darling, was he not with you? One of those men you took to America? I have not seen him since. But he is not like you. If he were in London, he would come to see Lucille. I know this. He has not come.”

A few minutes later, having declined refreshments, dried her nonexistent tears, and attempted to summon the last of her composure, she and Dalton made their way to the front door.

Their departure was delayed by Lucille's version of a farewell, consisting of numerous kisses rained over Dalton's face and one very long one on his lips. In addition, her hands roamed from his shoulders to his hips, with one grabbing his backside in a proprietary manner.

Lucille had all the promise of sticking to Dalton like an extra appendage or a barnacle.

Minerva separated them by beginning to cry again, the masquerade surprising her because she was strangely close to tears. Because Lucille had no news of Neville, she told herself. That's the only reason she was feeling weepy.

Once in the carriage, having made their escape, she turned to Dalton as he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.

“I thought you never paid for a woman.”

“I haven't.”

“Doesn't Lucille charge you?”

“Appearances to the contrary, I have never utilized Lucille's ser­vices.”

“I'm not sure I believe you. She seems very . . .” Her words trailed off.

“Interested? She is. She nearly attacks me every time I see her, which is, blessedly, not often.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied him.

“She's a madam.”

“She is that,” he said.

“You took me to a bordello,” she said, amazed.

“I haven't taken you to a bordello. Lucille's establishment is run very differently. Her clientele requests companions for the evening and Lucille sends the girls to them. She bills them once a month for her ser­vices, and most of them pay immediately. Those who don't, well, let's just say that's the last time they use Lucille's ser­vices.”

“And Neville did.”

He nodded.

She stared out at the passing scenery.

“What, no outcries that your brother is a saint?”

“No.”

He reached over and found her hand where it was resting on the seat.

“He's a man, Minerva. Men have needs.”

“Do you?” she asked, turning to look at him. “How long has it been since you were with a woman?”

His laughter caught her off guard.

“I should have guessed that would be your response, but you never fail to surprise me, Minerva. What possessed you to claim to be a girl in trouble?”

“A more sympathetic ruse than being an older sister,” she said wryly. “What happens now? Are we going somewhere else?”

“I've explored every single haunt your brother might visit. I've left my card. All we can do now is wait.”

“Truly?”

“I know you're disappointed,” he said.

“I merely want to find Neville.”

“We will.”

For the first time, he said it in such a way that she didn't feel as if her brother's life was in danger. He still held her hand, and as they drove back to his home, he gently squeezed her fingers.

She would not let him know how close she was to real tears this time.

 

Chapter 24

D
alton stood at the library door, listening to Minerva's footsteps in the corridor as she headed toward him. Even her steps were confident and assured, but of course she knew the way by now.

This was the third week of their arrangement, and he knew he had to end it soon. Otherwise his fascination with her would only grow, and nothing could come of that.

What woman would want a blind man?

He had a fortune, but she didn't need it. Any charm he might have once possessed had been drowned in the months he was mired in pity.

He couldn't even dance with her.

“I thought of an idea,” he said when she reached the door.

She was wearing a new perfume, something that reminded him of lilies and other spring flowers. He sniffed audibly, smiling when she laughed.

“I decided to smell of something other than cinnamon,” she said.

“What is it called?” he asked.

“Spring in Scotland,” she said. “It's supposed to remind the wearer of thistles and heather, but I can't smell it myself.”

“It doesn't smell like Scotland to me, but an English wood.”

“Perhaps I'm a wood sprite come to visit.”

He suspected she was smiling. He wanted to place his fingertips on her face and feel her smile.

“What's this idea?” she asked.

She took his hand as naturally as if she'd done it before, leading him to the two wing chairs in front of the fireplace. She sat and then he did, wishing he could see her.

“I have a cousin who recently returned from America. Her husband was with the British Legation. I know she must have contacts. There is every possibility that Neville never came back to England.”

“Would they know if he was dead?”

Her voice was a careful monotone. Perhaps she thought it revealed nothing of her emotions, but he'd had days to listen to her, to study her inflections. He probably knew her better than anyone on his staff. Or anyone else, for that matter. Fear lingered in her tone along with a grief he hoped she'd have no cause to express.

He stretched out his hand, unsurprised when she placed hers on it. She could read gestures and moods better than anyone he'd ever known. Or perhaps she was just learning him, too.

“Let's not think that, but since we haven't found him, perhaps he hasn't returned to London.”

Her hand gripped his firmly. “I didn't want to think that Neville would avoid me,” she said. “The last time I saw him, we argued.”

­“People forget inconsequential things when they long for home. Arthur and I didn't part on the best of terms, but I didn't think about that when I wanted to come home.”

He didn't tell her that one of the first greetings he'd received while still on board ship was the news that his brother was dead and he was now the Earl of Rathsmere. No man had ever ascended to a title with as much regret.

“I think it's possible Neville's still in America. I telegraphed my cousin and asked if she could make use of some of her contacts. He might be trying to arrange passage back to England. He might be sailing home this minute. He might have even gone to the British authorities and asked for assistance. We need to investigate that angle as well.”

He wanted to reassure her somehow, but what could he say to ease her mind? There was every possibility that Neville had died, but he wouldn't say that. Nor would he tell her about the conditions under which they'd lived for so many weeks and months. That wouldn't reassure her, either.

The wish to comfort her was new, yet this compassion he felt was not exclusively singled out for Minerva. Somehow, over the last year, he'd become more aware of his fellow human beings' welfare.

Before, he would never have noticed that Mrs. Thompson was always a little weepy after her half day off. Or that one of the upstairs maids had a lisp when she talked that evidently embarrassed her, enough that she mumbled when she spoke. Nor would he have been as acutely aware of Howington's displeasure. The man had a way of expressing himself without words. The atmosphere of any room immediately changed when Howington walked into it.

Had he been so immersed in his own pleasure back then, or the drive for it, that he hadn't been aware of the ­people around him? Had he been so surfeited by drink or exhausted from his adventures that he'd never seen what was before his eyes?

A strange and ironic twist of fate, that he saw more being blind than he had sighted.

“What will I do if he's dead, Dalton?”

He couldn't bear the sorrow in her voice.

Gripping her hand tightly, he pulled her toward him.

“Come here, Minerva.”

He could hear her stand. When she moved in front of his chair, he didn't hesitate, reaching up and placing both hands around her waist. When she tumbled into his lap, he smiled.

“What are you doing? Let me go, Dalton.”

He cupped her face with his hands.

“Kiss me, Minerva.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have this dislike of looking ridiculous,” he said. “If I lower my mouth to yours and hit your nose, it will bruise my consequence. I'll be an object of pity.”

“I can't kiss you.”

“Just a taste of passion,” he said.

“Absolutely not.”

“I have needs,” he said with a smile.

“As if that's my concern.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of course not. I just don't want to kiss you.”

“Not at all?”

“Not one little bit. Not an iota.”

“No curiosity about what it might be like to kiss the man Queen Victoria said was most certainly the worst rake in all of London?”

“No.”

“You're fibbing, Minerva.”

“I'm not.”

He lowered his head, brushed his lips over her heated cheek. To his surprise, she didn't move away. Slowly, he traced a path to her lips, breathing against them before placing his mouth on hers.

A kiss should be an appetizer. A kiss was a prelude, strings being tuned in an orchestra pit, dawn on an important day.

A kiss was not a feast. A kiss was not an explosion of the senses. But this one was.

He could smell her, that hint of earthiness mixed with her new perfume. Her skin was warm against his fingertips, her cheek heating as he inclined his head to deepen the kiss.

Her mouth opened slightly on a gasp.

He wanted to banish her sorrow, the pain Neville had caused her. He wanted to change the tenor of her thoughts, give her something to replace her dread.

He could give Minerva passion. That's the gift he could give her.

He'd been too long without kisses. Too much time had passed since he'd had a woman in his arms, pliant, female, soft and fragrant—­a mystery and a delight.

He inhaled her breath and the small sound she made when one of his hands reached around to hold the back of her head.

Her lips were so soft, pillowy, and welcoming.

He'd been without color in his life for nearly a year yet he could swear he saw sparkles of blue, red, and yellow as Minerva's tongue darted out and touched his.

He'd never seduced anyone in his library, but he was giving thought to doing so.

Would the astounding Miss Todd be amenable to a little afternoon loving?

S
HE ABRUPTLY
stood, moving a few feet away.

When he smiled, she glanced toward the desk, not wanting to be charmed by him. That kiss was bad enough. She had succumbed, only too willingly. She had been swept up in passion again and it happened so suddenly that she hadn't thought to protect herself. If he'd seduced her, she would have allowed him. She had no defenses against a kiss—­and more—­from Dalton MacIain.

She didn't have any doubt whatsoever that a great many women would've tumbled into his bed for the sheer beauty of him. Then, added to his physical attractiveness was his charm, when he chose to use it, and his intelligence when it crept out.

She moved to the chair in front of the desk.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, wishing her voice didn't sound so tremulous. It wouldn't do to let him see how shaken she was by a kiss.

“I heard from Dorothy,” he said, standing.

For a moment she stared at him, trying to remember the name. Then it came to her. The girl who'd known Neville.

“Did you?”

He made his way to the desk without faltering. Here, in his library, he didn't use a walking stick.

“She came to see me last night.”

She was not going to feel a spike of jealousy. How utterly absurd.

“She smelled of turnips.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Turnips and a nauseatingly sweet perfume.”

“Is my perfume nauseatingly sweet?” How foolish of her to ask.

“No, but I prefer you smelling of cinnamon and dust.”

“Why did Dorothy smell of turnips?”

He shrugged. “I've no idea, but I earned her disfavor, I'm afraid. I suggested that less is more in the scent department. She left in a huff.”

“Had she seen Neville? Please tell me you questioned her before you insulted her.”

His bark of laughter might have made her smile at any other time, but she waited impatiently for him to tell her what Dorothy said.

“She has not seen Neville,” he said. “And misses him greatly. Evidently, your brother was quite generous in many ways. She offered to allow me to take his place in her affections.”

“Of course, one could expect a woman of low repute to be fickle. After all, they survive by the whims of the gentleman they pleasure.”

“It's not only the women of low repute who are fickle, Minerva.”

She was not going to ask him to explain that comment. She didn't want to hear about a parade of titled women through his bedroom.

“If she hadn't smelled of turnips, would you have taken her to your bed?”

No, she really shouldn't have asked that question. The kiss had disturbed her. When he didn't answer, she retrieved one of the packets on his desk and began to feverishly read. This problem involved cattle, of all things.

“No,” he said. “I wouldn't have.”

He smiled again, and this time she studied him. He looked dangerous and charming at the same time, a warning to all young girls not to look too close or stare too long lest they be mesmerized.

She was no longer a young girl.

“At least you know you didn't frighten Dorothy.”

“How reassuring,” he said. “You mean, by that remark, that if I find myself desperate and lonely I can, at least, pay for pleasure.”

“Did I say that? How shocking of me.”

“You implied it.”

“Perhaps it's true. If you need release that badly, you can always hire one of the women at the pleasure gardens. Or Lucille.”

And not kiss me.

“I've never, as you say,
hired
one of those women in my life.”

“Why did my brother?”

“I can't say.”

“Or won't?” she asked.

“I find this conversation strange in the extreme, Minerva.”

“Why, because I'm being frank? You're the one who's the Rake of London. Have you never had an honest conversation with a woman?”

“Not one in which she encouraged me to employ a prostitute, no.”

“Oh, bother, you know very well I did nothing of the sort. Besides, I doubt you'd ever get that desperate or lonely.”

“Let's pray you're right.”

She studied him. His right hand was on the stack of paperwork, palm flat on the pages, fingers drawn up as if he wanted to make a fist. His other hand was out of sight. Was that clenched into a fist as well?

It was evident the kiss hadn't disturbed him like it had her. Her heart was still beating too fast. Her lips felt swollen and sensitive.

They worked for several hours and she was careful to keep the conversation on the task at hand and not anything personal. They solved the problem of the wandering cattle, the repairs to the ballroom floor, and a new roof on top of Gledfield's north wing.

He was adamant about approving the new stable design, and she had to describe it to him numerous times, making a notation of his comments and improvements. But he surprised her when he demanded that one of the maids be sacked.

“She stole something,” he said. “That's grounds enough for dismissal.”

“Doesn't the poor thing get another chance?”

“No,” he said, then refused to say another word.

“Why not? Everyone makes mistakes.”

“That wasn't a mistake, Minerva. That was a choice. A mistake is when you don't know the difference. Her choice was to steal. It's a rule at Gledfield. No one will remain on staff who's proved themselves to be a thief.”

“So, you do adjudicate morals after all.”

“Someone who makes the wrong choice should reap the consequences of that choice,” he said, his voice brittle.

She studied him, realizing what he was saying. He believed his blindness was the payment for his choice to go to America. He was reaping the consequences of his idiocy.

Finally, it was time for her to go. She stood.

“Thank you for today,” he said, as he did every day.

As she did every day, she said something innocuous in response and went to the door. She always said good-­bye to him with a final look, as if to enshrine him in her memory.

Today, the sight of him disturbed her on an elemental level.

He'd kissed her, yet made no mention of it afterward, as if it were unimportant.

She'd never received a more important kiss.

The curtains were open at the window behind him, allowing the afternoon sun to stream into the room, bathing his shoulders and showering him with light.

His black hair and black eye patch gave him the appearance of Lucifer, God's beloved angel before his fall from grace. Had Dalton MacIain ever been that innocent? Or had he been a rake from the cradle, winking at his nurse and cozening the female servants?