Some Like It Wicked (5 page)

“We’ve met before, although I can hardly expect you to remember me.”

Just as she could never expect herself to forget him.

“Then you do me a grave disservice”—Simon’s gently chiding look could have melted an ice floe—“Miss Kincaid.”

Catriona’s mouth fell open in shock.

He lifted the glass in a mocking toast. “I never forget a lovely face.”

Her mouth snapped shut. “You thought I was a boy.”

His lips twitched with amusement as he glanced ever so briefly, yet boldly, at the generous swell of her bosom. “A mistake I can assure you I won’t make again.” He took a sip of the port, a teasing lilt infusing his voice. “Surely you didn’t think I’d forget a bonny Scottish lass who smelled of fresh-cut hay and cinnamon biscuits and whose only champion was a savage orange kitten named Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

“Robert the Bruce. I suppose you remember my cousin as well?” she could not resist asking.

He blinked at her, all doe-eyed innocence. “You had a cousin?”

“You really should remember Alice. You were about to complete your seduction of her when I tumbled out of the hayloft onto your back.”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget dear sweet…” He frowned. “What was her name again?”

“Alice.”

“Ah, yes, dear sweet Amelia.” He clapped a hand to his heart. “I’ve thought of her fondly nearly every day since the cruel hand of fate tore us apart.”

Biting back a reluctant smile, Catriona reached out to flick the end of one of the scarves that draped the stone walls. “What sort of prison affords you the luxuries of wine, tobacco and women of easy virtue?”

“I hate to corrupt your delicate sensibilities, my dear, but incarcerated men of means have always honored the age-old tradition of bribing the gaoler.” He hefted the glass in another toast, giving him a valid excuse to drain it dry. “God bless his money-grubbing little soul.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand. If you have means, then why are you locked up as a debtor?”

He winced. “Perhaps I should have said the
illusion
of means. Everyone here knows that the Duke of Bolingbroke is my father. And they believe that surely not even the most icy-hearted of noblemen would be so cruel as to allow his bastard son to rot away in Newgate. They expect him to charge up to the gates in his coach-and-four at any minute, tossing coins from his overflowing purse to the slavering peasants.”

“Is that what you expect as well?” she asked lightly, trying to hide how critical his answer might be to her plans.

The ghost of a bitter smile tugged at his lips. “I expect him to provide the rope for my hanging. I’m afraid I’ve always been a dreadful disappointment to him. My most recent transgression was to survive my encounter with Napoleon while my brother Richard died an ignoble death from dysentery on a mud-soaked battlefield in Malta, leaving him with no proper heir.”

“I’m sorry,” Catriona said softly.

“That my brother died? Or that I survived?” He leaned back on the settee and patted the cushion next to him. “Enough about the rot in my family tree. Why don’t you trot over here, rest your pretty head on my shoulder and tell me just how word of my sordid crimes reached ears as refined and lovely as yours?”

Ignoring his audacious invitation, Catriona gingerly settled herself on a rickety three-legged stool a few feet away. The thing tottered wildly, nearly upending her before she recovered her balance. She sought to reclaim her dignity by briskly removing her bonnet and resting it on the floor next to the stool.

“As I’m sure you’re well aware, your most recent incarceration is the talk of every drawing room in London.” She drew off her gloves and placed them on top of the bonnet. “But you really shouldn’t be so modest about your accomplishments, Mr.

Wescott. Or should I call you
Sir Simon?
You didn’t just survive Napoleon. You were knighted for valor after Trafalgar because you saved the life of your captain on the
Belleisle
by throwing yourself in front of a musket ball intended for him. Upon your return from Spain, you were hailed as a hero before all of London.”

He snorted. “This city has always been quick to embrace any fool with a handful of shiny medals and a bit of braid on his shoulders.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t your rise to glory that truly captured the city’s imagination. It was your rather spectacular fall from grace. Or should I call it a plunge? Instead of accepting the promotion to commander that the navy offered you, you resigned your commission and proceeded to wench, drink, and gamble away every ounce of respectability your valor had earned you.”

He stretched out on the settee and folded his hands behind his head, looking thoroughly bored. “You left off brawling and dueling. I haven’t killed a man yet, but I’ve winged several.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Not a fortnight has gone by since then without some torrid mention of you in the scandal sheets.”

“Which you no doubt pore over every night in your virginal white nightdress before you slide between the cold sheets of your lonely bed.”

His taunt struck uncomfortably close to home. He would never know how many times his memory had warmed both those sheets and her dreams.

She lifted her chin. “How do you know I sleep alone?”

“Because you look like you’re in desperate need of a good—” He met her unwavering gaze for a long moment, then finished softly, “Husband.”

Catriona rose to pace the cell, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve heard other rumors about you since your return as well. Rumors not printed in the scandal sheets but whispered in drawing rooms and back alleys. They say that you’re willing to use the skills you acquired in the navy to provide certain services for those in need of them—protection, transportation, retrieval of lost items.” She paused before one of the plaster statues, running one finger lightly along the nymph’s dimpled cheek. “All for a price, of course.”

“Devoting oneself to a life of debauchery doesn’t come cheap, you know.”

Behind her, she heard the settee creak as Simon sat up. “Is that why you came here today, Miss Kincaid? Because you wish to hire me?”

“No, Mr. Wescott,” she replied coolly, turning to face him. “I came here today because I wish to marry you.”

S
imon had received some unconventional proposals in his life—many of them too lurid to whisper in mixed company—but none of them had involved anything as shocking as the prospect of matrimony.

His nimble tongue failed him as he gaped at his visitor, wondering if she was as balmy as she was lovely. The promise of beauty he’d glimpsed in that barn five years ago had been fulfilled beyond his wildest expectations.

Hers was the sort of beauty that required no cosmetics or artifice to enhance it. She didn’t need a beauty patch to draw attention to the kissable plumpness of her bottom lip or rouge to heighten the natural roses in her cheeks. There were those who might have judged her nose a fraction too sharp or her jaw a shade too strong, but Simon would have condemned them as fools. He found her flaws to be as endearing as her charms, especially the unfashionable hint of strawberry in her hair and the delicate scattering of freckles that dappled the cream of her skin. As far as he was concerned, trying to bleach them away with buttermilk or Gowland’s Lotion should be considered a hanging offense.

His jests had held a damning ring of truth. He could barely remember her cousin Alice.

Hell, he could barely remember the face of the randy young countess who had taken him to her bed the night the magistrate’s henchmen had dragged him out of it and into this cell. But he had never forgotten this girl or the look in her eyes when he had so recklessly cupped her cheek in his hand and seduced her into meeting his gaze.

He’d admired his own reflection in the eyes of countless women through the years, but the man gazing back at him from those misty gray mirrors had been a stranger. A man who might actually be worthy of such admiration. A man who still had a chance to make both his country and his father proud.

This time Simon didn’t bother with the glass. He simply lifted the bottle of port to his lips and took a deep swig of the liquor, welcoming its familiar and numbing burn. “Your driver must have taken a wrong turn on the way here, Miss Kincaid. This is Newgate, not Bedlam.”

“I’m well aware of how mad such a notion must sound to you.” She reached up to swipe away a stray curl that had escaped her neat chignon, reminding him of the awkward girl she had been. Her years in England had finally succeeded in polishing the lilt from her voice. Simon was surprised by how much he missed it. “But what I’m offering you is very much a business proposition. Isn’t that what most marriages are anyway?”

“Why, Miss Kincaid,” he drawled, “I had no idea the heart of a true romantic beat beneath that lovely bosom of yours.”

That lovely bosom heaved in a sigh of frustration. “You can mock me if you like, but you know I’m telling the truth. An impoverished duchess weds a wealthy merchant to save the fortunes of her family. Two young people who grew up on adjoining estates pledge their troths simply to please their families and unite their lands. Hearts are bartered all the time and for far less noble pursuits.”

“Why don’t you tell me what pursuit could possibly be so noble as to drive a woman like you to storm the walls of a prison to search for a prospective husband?”

She drew nearer to him, her expression disarmingly earnest. “I want you to escort me to my brother in the Highlands.”

Simon took a minute to absorb that information. “A simple enough task. Why should it require me to trade one set of shackles for another?”

“Because I don’t have the means to hire you outright. But I do have a
very
generous dowry.” She lowered her eyes, her thick lashes casting a shadow on her cheeks. “A dowry that’s just been doubled by my uncle in his desperation to be rid of me.”

“Was this before or after he found out you were going to Newgate to look for a husband?”

She gave him a reproachful look. “He doesn’t know I’m here. No one does.”

Simon held her gaze without blinking, watching color creep higher in her cheeks as she realized what a dangerous admission she had just made. She had risked not only her reputation but her virtue itself by allowing the gaoler to lock her in the cell with him. For all she knew, he was the sort of heartless blackguard who could have her beneath him on the settee with one hand up her skirts and the other clapped over her mouth before she could so much as draw breath to scream. Not that anyone in this godforsaken hole would care if she screamed. The men in the common room were more likely to cheer him on while demanding their turn when he was done with her.

Dragging her gaze away from his with visible difficulty, she began to pace the length of the cell once again, the graceful sway of her hips beneath the scarlet wool of her redingote drawing his jaded eye.

“I’m willing to split half the dowry with you,” she informed him, speaking as if he’d already been fool enough to accept her offer. “After you’ve escorted me to my brother, you can return to England. The money should be more than enough to settle your debts and still leave you with a tidy little profit.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “For gambling and wenching?”

“If that’s how you choose to squander it,” she replied with acid sweetness.

“How is it going to look when I abandon my beloved bride in the wilds of the Highlands and return to London to resume my debauched ways?”

Her snort was less than ladylike. “You weren’t concerned with appearances last summer when you stripped off all your clothes and went swimming in Lady Abercrombie’s goldfish pond during the middle of her afternoon soiree, were you? But have no fear. I’ve prepared for all eventualities. Once you return to London, I will petition for an annulment. I doubt another scandal will tarnish
your
reputation. I’ll be the only one running the risk of ruin.”

“You’re already running the risk of ruin,” he gently reminded her. “And I hate to point this out, but the only way to obtain an annulment would be to prove that we
are
actually brother and sister, which is impossible, or that I was incapable of performing my marital duties to your satisfaction.”

“Which I’m sure you believe is equally impossible,” she finished dryly.

He let his shrug speak for him.

“That’s precisely my point, Mr. Wescott. If I make such a claim to obtain an annulment,
I’ll
be the laughingstock of London, not you. You, on the other hand, will be free to go back to devoting your days—and nights—to proving me a liar.”

She had finally drawn near enough for him to snag her hand. He tugged her closer, forcing her to look at him and see that the teasing light had completely gone out of his eyes. “Once you’re my wife in the eyes of the law, why should I settle for half your dowry? What’s to stop me from absconding with every penny of it and leaving you abandoned and destitute?”

She blinked down at him. “Why, your word, of course.”

Simon couldn’t remember the last time anyone had put faith in his word. It might have been nothing more than a trick of the flickering lamplight, but for an elusive instant he would have sworn he caught a glimpse of that old adulation in her lovely face.

Catriona was taken aback when a hearty bark of laughter escaped Simon, then another.

Freeing her hand, he collapsed against the cushions of the settee, laughing so hard he was forced to swipe tears from his cheeks. “I hate to disillusion you, my dear, but my word isn’t worth the breath I’d waste in giving it. If you’re looking for a knight-errant to aid you in your noble quest, then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.” He offered her a fond leer. “This knight is far more likely to ravish a damsel than rescue one.”