Some Like It Wild (15 page)

“Oh, my!” Sophie exclaimed, slipping right past Pamela. She eyed the watercolor fashion plates that had been propped up on gilded easels throughout the room, swaying on her feet as if she might swoon. “I’m willing to wager they smuggled these right out of Paris! Aren’t they the most exquisite things you’ve ever seen?”

A sea of expectant faces greeted Pamela, but she only had eyes for one of them. She stood frozen in
place as Connor came wending his way through their ranks to greet her.

“What have you done?” she demanded, sounding nearly as breathless and prone to swoon as Sophie.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, as if assembling a virtual army of dressmakers and linen drapers was something a highwayman did every day. “I summoned them to start work on your trousseau.”

“Do you even know what that word means?”

“It’s a French word for—”

“Hush, Sophie,” Pamela and Connor snapped in unison.

Sophie’s wounded pout quickly shifted into a gasp of delight as a display of elegant silk slippers in a variety of sizes and a rainbow of colors caught her eye. Their gemstone buckles sparkled in the sunlight.

“The hardest part was getting them all to agree to close up shop for two days and work around the clock,” Connor admitted, “but I’m quickly learning just how persuasive a title and the promise of a generous reward can be.”

Pamela already knew exactly how persuasive he could be, even without a title or the promise of a reward. Judging from the bliss she had experienced at his skillful fingertips only last night, he could probably persuade a woman to do just about anything he wanted her to do, no matter how deliciously wicked or wanton.

“I can’t do this,” she said, taking a hasty step backward.

“And why not?” He narrowed his eyes and squared his freshly shaven jaw in an expression she was coming to know only too well. “You don’t dare refuse me. You said it yourself, lass. I can’t have my bride embarrassing herself—or me—in front of all of London.”

His bride.

For a dizzying moment, it was only too easy to imagine herself on his arm, wearing one of the elegant gowns sketched in the fashion plates as she gazed up at him adoringly. Only too easy to forget that they were only playing roles and that her part in their little farce would be over long before the curtain rose for the second act.

She eyed a bolt of shimmering sea-green crepe with open longing, reminding herself that even the most miniscule of roles required a costume.

“Very well, my lord,” she said softly. “I shall strive not to disgrace your good name.”

Grinning his approval, Connor crooked a finger at his waiting minions.

Connor felt a brief pang of sympathy as they rushed forward, descending upon Pamela in a flurry of pins and feathers and measuring tapes and Brussels lace, all chattering at once in English and French with a smattering of Italian tossed in. She shot him a panicked look before she was swallowed up completely.

Knowing his work here was done, he started for the door only to find Sophie standing all alone, her pretty face blanched nearly green with envy.

Following her wistful gaze to the dazzling array
of slippers, Connor leaned down and whispered, “Why don’t you pick out a bonny pair or two for yourself and pretend they’re for your mistress? Since she ruined your finest pair with her
enormous feet
, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Sophie’s face lit up and for a minute Connor was afraid she was going to forget all about her role of maidservant and throw her grateful arms around his neck. But she stopped herself just in time. Lowering her eyes, she bobbed a deferent curtsy. “Aye, my lord. Whatever you wish, my lord.”

Connor watched her scamper over to the display of slippers, wishing her sister could be so easily seduced by a taffeta bow or a shiny buckle.

P
amela felt as if she were floating down the grand staircase. Her white satin slippers gently hugged her feet without pinching. With each step the hem of her evening gown rippled over the lustrous pearl buckles that adorned them. The gown was fashioned from sea-green crepe with a pleated skirt that seemed to waltz with each graceful sway of her hips and a rounded bodice trimmed in blonde lace that displayed the creamy swell of her bosoms to their best advantage without threatening to evict them every time she drew in a deep breath.

She was doubly grateful for that when she spotted Connor waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. She sucked in an uneven breath, her heart betraying her with a stumbling lurch.

Apparently, while her new French modiste was
cobbling together a handful of dresses she could wear until the rest of her trousseau was completed, Connor’s tailor had paid him a visit.

His transformation from highwayman to gentleman was now complete. He wore the elegant doeskin breeches, striped gold waistcoat and black cutaway tail coat as if he’d been born to them. Since the clinging breeches were cut to just below the knees, a pair of plain silk stockings hugged his powerful calves. He wore polished black shoes and a snowy white cravat tied in a simple bow that complemented the sun-bronzed strength of his jaw.

Oddly enough, he didn’t look any less dangerous than he had the first time they’d met. Instead of polishing away his rugged edges, the trappings of civilization only sharpened them.

Pamela breathed a sigh of relief to see he hadn’t succumbed to the fickle whims of fashion by cutting his hair. He was still wearing it tied back at the nape. Her fingers twitched with a wicked urge to tug away that velvet ribbon and run her fingers through it.

As she neared the bottom of the stairs, trailing her gloved fingers lightly along the mahogany baluster, he sketched her a graceful bow. “Miss Darby.”

“My lord,” she replied primly, bobbing him an equally graceful curtsy as she stepped off the last stair.

He straightened, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. As he leaned down to whisper in her ear, his warm breath ruffled the upswept coils of her hair, sending a delicious little shiver down her spine. “I
trust you were finally able to replace all of those raggedy drawers of yours.”

“Oh, my new drawers won’t be ready until next week. So I decided not to wear any,” she informed him, smiling sweetly.

His mouth fell open but before he could respond, a shrill creaking warned them that a footman was pushing the duke’s wheeled chair across the marble floor toward them.

“I just came to see you off,” the duke said. “Astrid is almost ready. She’ll be along in a few minutes.”

As Pamela exchanged a guarded glance with Connor, the duke rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with an emotion that could have been either malice or glee. “I might be too weak to venture out myself, but you didn’t think I was going to send the two of you off without a chaperone, did you? I’m not so close to the grave that I can’t remember what it was like to be young and desperately in love.”

Pamela plucked a speck of invisible lint off the ivory silk of her elbow-length gloves, suddenly even more eager to avoid both men’s eyes.

“So is it true what they’re saying about her? That her mother was an opera dancer?”

“I heard she was an
actress
.”

“Well, I heard her mother was a common little…” An inaudible whisper was followed by a flurry of malicious female titters. “That came straight from Lord Biffledown’s wife. Apparently her husband had some
dealings
with the woman.”

“What can one expect?” interjected a new voice that was so tart one could almost smell vinegar in the air. “After all, he’s been living among those savage Scots for all these years. He probably believes a lady is any female who wears shoes and bathes once a month—whether she needs to or not.”

One of the voices dropped to a sly murmur. “I’ve heard the Scots are cursed with insatiable carnal appetites. Perhaps he was afraid a true lady wouldn’t be able to satisfy him.”

“If what his tailor is bandying about town regarding his
measurements
is true, I wouldn’t mind trying.”

That droll pronouncement was greeted by a scandalized ripple of laughter and a flutter of fans.

Connor inclined his head toward Pamela and whispered, “I do believe that’s our cue.”

They stood in the foyer of Lord Newton’s stately Wimpole Street town house, waiting for the red-faced footman to announce them. Pamela was staring straight ahead, her cheeks burning with humiliation and her spine stiff with pride. It hadn’t surprised her in the least when Lady Astrid had abandoned them at the front door, drawing a hare’s foot from her reticule and claiming she needed to powder the shine from her nose.

Connor offered her his arm. She tucked her gloved hand in the crook of it.

As the liveried footman stepped into the arched doorway that led into the drawing room, an expectant hush fell over the guests. “The Marquess
of Eddywhistle and Miss Pamela Darby,” he announced, his voice cracking like a lad’s in the first throes of manhood.

Pamela felt a petty twinge of satisfaction as the circle of women who had been gathered by the doorway went scurrying off in different directions like a pack of wide-eyed rats that had just spotted a hawk circling overhead.

The spacious drawing room was occupied by a veritable crush of guests. The pungent scents of the wax wall lights mingled with the heady aroma of the freshly cut flowers decorating the tables and a variety of perfumes to form a cloying potpourri in the overheated, overcrowded room. Pamela was grateful the stays of her new gown allowed her room to breathe. Had she been wearing one of Sophie’s gowns, she would have probably fainted dead away.

As they drifted further into the room, accepting flutes of smuggled French champagne from a footman’s tray, the idle chatter resumed but the curious stares only intensified. The very women who had been denouncing Connor as a savage Scot only minutes before were now eyeing him with open appreciation. Had she not been on his arm, Pamela suspected he could have found any number of willing women to woo before the night was over.

She lifted her chin, returning their avid gazes with a cool stare of her own. That was when a familiar face near the hearth caught her eye.

“Oh, no,” she breathed, draining her champagne in a single gulp.

“What is it?”

“It’s Viscount Pemberly. The man I told you about. The one who was trying to force Sophie into becoming his mistress.” Tightening her grip on Connor’s arm, she sought to steer him in a different direction.

“Don’t be so hasty, lass,” he said, his jovial tone belied by the wicked gleam in his eye. “I’ve been wanting to make the fellow’s acquaintance ever since you told me about him.”

“You offered to kill him for me,” she reminded him.

His grin only deepened. “Precisely.”

Setting his own half-empty champagne glass on a footman’s tray, Connor made a beeline for the hearth, leaving her with no choice but to accompany him or be dragged across the floor behind him. Given that the viscount’s wife was hanging off his arm, Pemberly didn’t look any happier to see her than she was to see him.

“Why, Miss Darby,” he said, flashing his white teeth in a grimace of a smile. “How lovely to see you again. I just heard the news about your rather stunning reversal of fortune.”

“And just how is it that you and the marquess’s fiancée came to be acquainted?” his wife inquired with frosty politeness.

The viscount’s handsome face flushed. “Now, dear, you know I’ve always been a devoted patron of the arts—especially the theater. I was a great admirer of Miss Darby’s talented mother.”

“And of her charming young sister, from what
I’ve heard,” Connor said, earning the nobleman an even icier look from his wife.

Pemberly suddenly seemed to be having great difficulty swallowing. He clawed at his cravat, seeking to loosen it. “And just how is dear little Sophie?”

Pamela glanced behind them, thankful Lady Astrid hadn’t yet made her entrance. She couldn’t very well tell the viscount she’d left her sister sulking in the window seat because Pamela got to go off to a party in her pretty new things while Sophie was expected to stay behind and turn down the bed.

Before she could respond, Connor edged closer to the viscount, the move emphasizing the disparity in their heights. “Dear little Sophie is under my protection now. If any man tries to make improper advances toward the lass, his own fortunes are going to suffer a stunning—and perhaps fatal—reversal.”

The viscount winced as his wife dug her fingernails into his arm. “Come, Sherman,” she said, her voice cracking like a whip. “I want you to take me home immediately. We have
much
to discuss.”

Connor watched them go, a lazy smile flirting with his lips. “’Twill be a slow death. And far more painful than any I could have devised.”

Pamela laughed and shook her head, almost pitying the poor viscount. “Remind me to never make an enemy of you.”

Connor brushed her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, his gaze searching her face. “Would you consider making a lover of me?”

At first Pamela thought he was teasing her, but all traces of humor had disappeared from his eyes. All she could see reflected in their smoky depths was her misty-eyed reflection. As Connor leaned toward her, her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth went dry with longing, already anticipating the taste of his lips, the velvety caress of his tongue against hers.

“Tsk, tsk,” someone said, practically in Pamela’s ear. “This is exactly why Uncle sent Mummy to chaperone the two of you. He’ll be quite disappointed to learn she’s faked a megrim and is languishing in Lady Newton’s dressing room with a cool cloth on her brow.”

They jerked apart to find Crispin leaning lazily against the mantel. His eyes were sparkling with a malicious glee that reminded Pamela of the duke.

She glared at him. “Did your uncle send you to chaperone us as well, or are we here to play nursemaid to you?”

“Neither. Actually, I was hoping my dear cousin here could settle an argument for me.”

“What sort of argument?” Connor asked warily.

“One that could easily lead to bloodshed if not settled quickly and definitively.”

Seizing Pamela by the hand, Crispin dragged her toward a group of guests gathered around the towering bookshelves at the far end of the drawing room, leaving Connor with no choice but to follow.

“Byron versus Burns,” Crispin said to the rapt group of young people clustered around him. “Who was blessed with the most eloquent tongue? The most persuasive pen? A living libertine or a dead Scot? That is the question I must put before you on this night.”

“I’ll vote for any poet who can romance my Emily into letting me steal a peek at her ankles,” a freckled young man called out, earning hoots of laughter from his male friends and a cuff on the arm from the blushing Emily.

While the laughter was dying down, Crispin slid a thin leather-bound volume from the shelf. “I shall begin tonight’s experiment by reading to you from Lord Byron’s
When We Two Parted
.” He thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for, cleared his throat and began to read:

From her place next to Connor on the settee, Pamela had to admit that Crispin would have cut a striking figure on the stage. He seemed to grow taller and more confident when not forced to share the limelight. Several of the other guests had abandoned their conversations and were drifting toward their little group, drawn by the rich timbre of his voice.

An enthusiastic smattering of applause greeted the end of Crispin’s reading. He took a bow, then tucked the book back on the shelf.

“As most of you already know, my long lost cousin here has spent most of his years living with that hale and hearty race known as the Scots.” As Crispin’s calculating gaze settled on Connor, Pamela felt a twinge of foreboding. “Since there is no greater pleasure than hearing a poem rendered in its native tongue, who better than my dear cousin to bring to life the words of Robert Burns—the most famous Scotsman of them all!”

As Crispin plucked a cloth-bound volume from the shelf and tossed it at Connor, Pamela felt her blood run cold. She had sought to spare him the embarrassment of her outmoded dresses, never dreaming he might endure a far worse humiliation at his cousin’s treacherous hands. She’d had every intention of teaching him how to read before anyone discovered his lack of education, but they’d certainly had no opportunity for study since arriving at Warrick Park.

She snatched the book out of the air before Connor could catch it. Glaring daggers at Crispin, she said, “I’m sure the marquess has better things to do with his time than play at these ridiculous games.”

Connor gently removed the book from her hand. “It’s all right, darling. A Scotsman welcomes any chance to enlighten an Englishman when it comes to the romance of poetry.”

His words were greeted with bemused glances and nervous chuckles. A hush fell as he rose to take Crispin’s place at the bookshelf, his imposing presence commanding the attention of everyone in the drawing room.

“May I choose my selection?”

Crispin extended a gracious hand. “Be my guest.”

Pamela held her breath as Connor flipped through the book several times before finally securing a page with his finger. Without introduction, he read:

The words were as simple and heartfelt as when the poet had first penned them, but Connor’s evocative burr transformed even the simplest syllable into music. He glanced at her, no longer making any attempt to hide the passion simmering in his eyes. Unlike Crispin, he was performing for an audience of only one. Pamela felt helpless tears start in her eyes as he continued: