Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society) (8 page)

“Papa will be sorry you left without saying good-bye,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll understand. Besides, I’m a rogue and a scoundrel of the worst order.” He made his face somber. “If he knew where I’d just kissed his daughter—almost on her cherry basket…”
Almost.
Damn it. A feverish need to finish the job rendered him short of breath and words for a moment. He recovered, but stiffly. “He wouldn’t want me around if he knew that.”

Her reply was a jaunty, “I’m sure that scoundrels association would revoke your membership for cooking my dinner.”

They looked at each other for another long moment, Ness waiting patiently at his master’s side.

“So,” she said with a brisk sigh, “the debt—my brother’s debt to you—is now paid.” She’d said that already. Perhaps she was just as blown off her course as he was.

He nodded thoughtfully. “You kept your promise.”

“Of course. I told you I always do.” She crouched to pet his dog again, blocking their way out. At least, he let that be his excuse for not moving. “I like to keep a clear conscience and I pay our debts in full,” she added. “As I try to tell my brother, a responsibility is not nearly so onerous if one attends to it promptly.”

He stared at her fingers while she stroked the dog’s head and tickled its ears. Any minute now, Ness would roll over and show her his belly, clearly enjoying the attention. He wished it could be as easy for him. “You’re a kind and generous woman to have taken us in this evening. Not many would have done so.”

She smiled up at him. “It causes fewer wrinkles to be kind than it does to be unkind. And it’s easier on the nerves in general.”

Luke realized he was wrong about her bearing any resemblance to Dora Woodgrave. She was very different, unselfish and completely without sly, ulterior motives.

Unlike Dora, she had no idea that she was beautiful, had never learned how to use it to her advantage. There was no false modesty in her at all, no vanity. His compliments and his kisses had taken her by surprise, poked a hole in her defenses.

The first time he met her, she had greeted him with a rapid introduction, hammered into the ground like sharply pointed fence posts, meant to keep intruders out. But behind her bravely guarded borders, he had found some insecurity after all, and a little soft spot of vulnerability. Now she held out her hand—not flat for a kiss—but angled on its side, as a man would. “Good-bye, then.”

Even as he took her fingers carefully and gave his parting thanks, Luke had a feeling that far from this being the end, they’d just become somehow inescapably bound, twisted up together.

“I suppose I shall forgive you for groping me in that fashion when it was only supposed to be a kiss,” she added pertly as their fingers slipped apart again. “The closest I ever came to being manhandled like that was when I rode a crowded mail coach to Jaipur and a very brazen gentleman with a monocle spilled his purse full of coin then formed the impertinent idea that I was sitting on some of it deliberately. Men! Give them an inch and they’ll take a yard, as my friend Jussy says.”

He shouldn’t have given the wench her lips back so soon, he thought wryly. It didn’t take her long to recover.

Heaving his leather knapsack over one shoulder, Luke assured her, “What I gave you wasn’t a grope, Miss Sherringham. That was a caress, and rather a chaste one too, by this rake’s standards.”

Her eyebrows rose in high, graceful curves. “Then I should hate to be fully groped by you.”

“Would you?” He smiled quite unintentionally. It pulled at his lips before he could curb the urge. “I thought you hadn’t decided whether you liked it yet.”

She replied coolly, “I have
now
. And I hated it.”

“Lesson well learned then, eh? Don’t run about like a wanton hussy, kissing strange men.” He whistled sharply. “Come, dog. Pick up your lazy paws or I’ll leave you behind.” He moved by her and through the door while she was still muttering indignantly under her breath about how she didn’t need any lessons, particularly from the likes of him.

A few moments later, he and Ness were out in the snow again and heading up the hill.

He didn’t feel the cold now. The taste of her sweet skin was warm on his lips, like the remnants of brandy. Just as intoxicating too.

He stopped and looked back at her house. She was a brave wench, and he’d known that since she marched into a crowded tavern and pulled a pistol on him. But she was honorable too—paid debts, tended to responsibilities. Even those that weren’t her own.

Fate had dropped this extraordinary woman in his path again for a reason.

Her kiss must have restorative properties, he decided, for it gave Luke Wainwright his courage back.

* * *

On the inside, Becky was not half as calm as she hoped to appear.

She had let a stranger kiss her. On her inner thigh and then on the “cherry basket,” as he called it.

Somehow, when it happened, it hadn’t seemed quite real.

But the sight of a shocked face at her window had soon brought her back to earth. Mrs. Kenton, the vicar’s wife, had indeed spied one time too many, just as Becky predicted earlier that evening.

She couldn’t have had a clear view, as she was barely tall enough to see over the ledge, and snow on the window must have blocked much of the scene. With these hasty reassurances, Becky put her mind to practical matters, knowing she would deal with this problem alone. As she always did.

Time to sweep the hearth, bank the fire for the night, and cover it for safety.

At least that overdue debt was finally paid. She and Lucky Luke would never meet again, and no one else would ever know how Becky the Bold momentarily succumbed to illicit passion with a stranger. A vexing man, a self-confessed villain. The complete opposite of her ideal gentleman.

He’d called her a wanton hussy. Of all the damned cheek!

Satisfied that there was no sign left of his presence in her kitchen, she finally went to bed, but it was a long time before she got to sleep that night. Although Lucky Luke had moved on, her thoughts couldn’t.

Where would he go now? Would he and his dog find warm shelter? She might have offered him her brother’s room across the hall, but that would hardly be proper.

Proper?
She could hear Mrs. Kenton’s voice already.
It’s a little too late to think of propriety, madam.

Try as she might, however, she couldn’t be in the least sorry about her extraordinary descent into the realms of wanton hussiness. Not tonight, anyway.

Midwitch Manor was quiet and mostly in darkness, except for one Argand lamp in the hall and candles in his brother’s study.

“I thought it best for my wife to go to bed,” Darius said, passing Luke a glass of brandy. “She was tired after a busy day.”

“I look forward to meeting Mrs. Wainwright in the morning.” After the tragedy of Dora Woodgrave, he was genuinely glad to find his brother settled and content with a woman. It gave him hope that the damage he caused had not been too deep.

“I thought we’d be seeing you again tonight, Lucius. Although I had no idea when you might arrive.”

“You knew the room above the tavern was taken?”

“I know Mr. Bridges has a young maiden daughter, as well as an eye for the cut of a man’s coat. He’s unlikely to rent a room in his home to a vagrant who looks as if he might have escaped a prison hulk. He was sure to toss you out on your ear before he even heard the name. But you allowed me no chance to tell you that.” Darius gave a slight smile. “You’re looking the worse for wear these days, Brother.”

“Well, I
am
supposed to be dead.”

“Yes…quite. I had my housekeeper prepare a cold tray before she left us this evening. It didn’t look as if you’d had a good meal in some time.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten tonight. Enjoyed quite a feast, in fact.”
To
put
it
mildly
, he thought. She lingered on his lips still.

“I see.” Darius’s mouth tightened in a hard line and he looked, in that moment, very much like their father: disapproving, suspicious, and accusatory all at once.

“A local lass took pity on me when I couldn’t find a room at the inn,” Luke explained with a chuckle. “I daresay it was the spirit of the season that inspired her.”

Darius scowled. “You will behave yourself in this village, I hope. Good, honest people live here. Not your usual company.”

Luke sighed. His younger brother’s superior attitude had always chafed, but he was determined to persevere.

He set his glass on the mantel. “I have much to apologize for,” he began. “You’ll have to give me a moment to get it right. You know words ain’t my best talent.”

Darius waited, a faint frown creasing his brow.

“When Dora—”

Barely had that name crept out into being than the color drained again from his brother’s face. “Certain things should be left behind us,” he snapped. “Best forgotten.”

“Left to fester? Let me at least tell you what happened.”

“What earthly good would that do?”

“We should get it all out in the open, don’t you agree?”

“I can’t imagine what purpose it would serve to mention
that
matter, beyond dredging up bad memories. I was nineteen at the time and have long since put that behind me. If you came here to be absolved of your sins, you should find a priest. I’m afraid I cannot help you with that.” Darius quickly strode around his desk. “We’re both grown men now with our own lives to lead, and I’d much rather look to the future, in which there is promise, than wallow in the past, which cannot be changed. Thankfully, in that case.” Finally he managed a stiff smile. “In a sense, I should be grateful to you. I could have made a terrible mistake.” He sat. “So what are your plans now that you’ve returned?”

But Luke knew their problems would not be fixed so easily. Even if Darius was willing to forget, Luke
could
not. He leaned on his cane, swaying slightly, wishing he had a better way with words.

“I don’t know how much time I’ve got,” he muttered. “I wanted to set things straight.”

His brother squinted doubtfully at him from across the desk.

Luke raised a hand to his heart and, with what he felt to be suitably dramatic aplomb, announced, “The end will soon be upon me.”

Darius’s squint deepened. “You look healthy enough to me, Lucius.” He paused and then his eyes widened, the little lines smoothed out. “Don’t tell me! Another of your dreams?”

Darius was one who had always sneered at his propensity to believe in the mystical power of dreams. “It was a vision of what will soon come to pass,” Luke replied tersely. “There will be flames. Whether that’s how I meet my end or where I’m headed, I can’t say, but I’ve dreamed it more than once.”

“Lucius, these dreams of yours…have they ever come true?”

“Yes.”

“Which?”

“A plentiful number.” He couldn’t remember which at that moment, but he knew there were several.

“You don’t think perhaps it’s merely coincidence? Or just an excess of rum pickling your brains? As I recall, you have a tendency to use a wide interpretation when it comes to these visions.”

“I cannot help you, little brother, if your mind is so closed to the possibility of a sense beyond the usual five.”

“I study facts, Lucius, not fancy. This odd whimsy of yours never fails to amuse me.”

“No need to be envious, just because I have a talent you cannot fully comprehend. We can’t all be special.”

“You certainly are that, Brother.”

“Don’t hurt yourself admitting it.”

How quickly they had fallen into their old sparring. Perhaps things hadn’t changed so much after all in the last dozen years. Luke was almost relieved to hear and feel the old, competitive animosity. He knew where he was with that.

Darius cleared his throat. “Are you staying in London with our stepmother?”

“Good God, no. Rather have all my teeth pulled and a hot poker up my backside. Simultaneously.”

“But she does know you’re alive?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“I paid her a visit.” There would be time to explain about that prank later. When Darius was in a more genial mood. “It’s a long story.” Luke approached the desk slowly. “In any case, I thought you wanted to look forward to the future, so let’s discuss that, shall we?”

His brother sat back, eyelids half lowered, hiding whatever went on behind them. “You’ve spoken to the solicitors, I suppose.”

Naturally Darius assumed his return was prompted by the lure of the Wainwright fortune. “Yes. They told me where to find you.” He looked around the book-lined room. “You made this old mausoleum into a cozy home. I’m pleasantly surprised. As I recall, the walls were falling down around that ancient miser’s ears when we came to see Great-Uncle Phineas. However many years ago that was.”

“Almost fourteen.”

“Really? So long?”

“I thought you would remember.”

Luke rapped knuckles against his scarred brow. “In my advanced years, the memory for numbers gets less sharp.”

“And how is your memory for names?” The words fell with ominous heft.

“Names?”

“Sarah, for instance.”

“Sarah?”

“She was four when you left us, Lucius. I would never have known of her existence had your mistress—one of them—not brought her to me for safekeeping.”

Ah, yes.
There it was—the reason for the meaningful tone: the illegitimate child of Sally Hitchens.

“The family solicitors told you that Sarah lives with me?” said Darius.

“They did.”

His brother seemed to be waiting for something further, but Luke was still coming to terms with the idea of an inherited daughter—one who was not actually his—and couldn’t think of a blessed word to say. He was, after all, a man who lived alone on his island. And happily.

Finally Darius spoke again. “Sarah is a bright girl with a quick mind.”

“She doesn’t take after me then, does she?”

This was the moment to tell his brother the truth about that little girl, but would he be believed? There was no way to prove she wasn’t his, and Darius would assume he was simply trying to avoid the responsibility. If he meant to reform his ways, he must tread carefully in this business, especially since Darius had spent twelve years raising the mite. Besides, what would happen if the truth came out? He wouldn’t wish a father like Kit Clarendon on anyone.

“If you have returned to be acquainted with your daughter, Lucius, I hope you take it seriously and do not mean to flit in and out of her life with complete disregard for her feelings or your responsibilities.”

“Why would I do that?” he protested.

“It is rather your habit. At least, it has been.”

“Well, I’m here for her now.” He tapped his cane against the floor. “In the flesh. Just a little older and more worn about the edges. Hopefully I won’t disappoint her too much.”

“We should be honored you bothered to return at all, I suppose.”

“If it won’t inconvenience you greatly—and some nuisance is inevitable, of course, since it is, after all,
me
—I would like to stay a while and get to know my family again.” Luke reached across the desk and picked up a silver paperweight, tossing it in his hand and then turning it over to study the marks. “Or what’s left of them.”

“Of course you are welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“I should be welcome.” He couldn’t resist reminding his haughty brother. “Midwitch Manor is, by rights, my house, is it not?” He turned the paperweight over again.

“Phineas left the property to the last surviving male with Hawke blood in his veins, yes.”

“Which is now me, disreputable old Lucky Luke Wainwright. The deed to the houses in Mayfair and Bath are now mine too, are they not?” With every word, he watched Darius’s eyes narrow another twitch. “And the lion’s share of the family business.”

“Yes.”

“Now that I’m back, I really ought to learn about the roots of my fortune, don’t you think? Take a hands-on approach to business.”

“You mean to work?”

“What do you suppose I’ve been doing to keep food and ale in my belly? Sitting on my thumbs and begging for it? Can you see me doing that?”

Darius frowned. “But this is different. Entirely different.”

“You mean, I’d have to wear a pompous waistcoat, cut my hair like a dandy, and be polite to people. Preferably not use my fists to end a quarrel?”

“Preferably.”

Laughing, Luke exclaimed, “I’ll try my best.”

Darius began straightening an already tidy pile of books. “What have you been doing to occupy yourself all these years?”

“This and that.”

His brother’s countenance remained grave. “The last message we had from the army was that you were injured and honorably discharged. For six months, we expected you home, but then we received a parcel containing your boots and a medal instead, with a note that you were believed dead.”

“Yes, that was a slight…mishap.”

“So since then you’ve gambled and drunk your way around the world, while it didn’t occur to you that some folk might have liked to know where you were and that you still breathed? But perhaps that would have been asking too much of your free spirit.” His tone was achingly polite but venturing closer now to the jabs he clearly wanted to use but had forbidden himself. Darius didn’t like to lose his temper. He kept to a strict schedule, which any outburst or argument would interrupt and delay. He was the most frustrating, bottled-up, self-tormented boy Luke had ever known.

Leaning forward, Luke reminded his brother, “Did you not just say we should leave the past where it is—or was—and look to the future? In that case, you should not be so keen to suspect me of the worst, Handles.”

Darius winced. “Quite.”

“Now that I’m back, I could sell some property—this place, for instance—and put a bit of coin back in my pockets. I am rather light at the moment.”

Darius reached across the desk and snatched the paperweight from his hand, placing it carefully back atop a neat pile of documents. “You must do what you think best, Lucius. As you say, it is all legally yours now.” He paused. “As long as you can fulfill the requirements of our father’s will.”

“The part about settling down with a bride? Yes, I’ve been informed of the terms.” He nonchalantly swung his cane up and aimed it like a cue at the small silhouette of their father above the mantel. “The shrewd old man pockets his last ball from the grave.”

“You are willing to comply?”

“Need the money, don’t I?”

His brother’s irritable glance once again grazed the front of Luke’s grimy and ragged attire. “So I see.”

“Now you’re wishing I was still dead, eh?”

Darius had no answer for that, but his face kept getting grayer.

“Don’t fret, old chap.” Luke relented with a chuckle. He shook his head, too weary to continue the pretense. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the money. I haven’t come back for any of that. You can have it all. You and that pretty young wife of yours.”

Darius stared. “But I can’t—”

“What would I want with it?”

“Of course you must take your inheritance now you’re returned,” Darius insisted firmly. “It is your right, Lucius.”

“But I told you, I haven’t got long left.”

Darius tightened his skeptical lips.

“And can you honestly see me as lord of the manor, Handles?”

“The responsibility might do you some good. What about Sarah? You have her future to think of now.”

“I do, don’t I?” What the devil was he going to do about that? A daughter. Of all things to find washed up on his island’s shore. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a stray under his coat, he mused, glancing at Ness who was sprawled by the hearth, already making himself at home. “Worry not, Brother. You know me. I’ll work out the—”

“—details later,” his brother interrupted with a smirk. “Yes, I remember your modus operandi.”

“My what?”

“Your methods. Leap first, blindly into chaos, and put together your reasons and excuses after the fact. As long as you get away with it, all’s well in your world.”

“Pah.” Luke sniffed. “Never did trust a man who speaks Greek.”

“Latin.”

“Splendid! You can write something for my headstone. The only words I remember aren’t fit for ladies’ eyes.”

“Then I would think they were perfect for your epitaph.”

Luke laughed at that, and after a moment, Darius smiled too.

“I daresay it’s the part about finding a bride that scares you off,” said Darius suddenly, fingers tapping on his leather desktop as he scrutinized his brother’s face. “You’d give up your rightful inheritance rather than comply with Father’s terms. You’ve always been deathly afraid of giving your heart to one woman and settling down.”