The Perfect Wife (7 page)

“Go on.” She nodded for Erick to continue.

“Well...” He hesitated, with that uncertain look on his face that always told her he was summoning up his nerve. His words exploded in a quick rush. “Belinda wants us to go after them. But we can’t go without a chaperone. So it would be of great assistance to us if you would agree to come along.” He stared at her with a hopeful look.

Egypt? The mystical, magical land of the pharaohs? A thrill swept through her veins. This was her chance! Her first step toward a new life of her own. And who knew? Maybe she wouldn’t come back. In her role of chaperone she could ensure Erick’s marriage and her obligations would be at an end.

Her voice betrayed none of her mounting excitement. “You say this is Belinda’s idea?”

Erick grimaced. “She doesn’t seem to feel her mother’s virtue is safe in Father’s hands.”

“Wise girl,” Wynne said under her breath. “Well, if we are to undertake such a venture, we have no time to lose. There are dozens of preparations to be made.”

“You’ll go?” Surprise flooded his face.

“Of course.” Wynne nodded. She grinned to herself at his stunned expression. No doubt the boy was shocked that his competent, efficient, reliable Aunt Wynne would agree to uproot herself completely and head to the ends of the earth. The poor child had no idea of the dreams and desires of Wynnefred Harrington—dreams and desires she could see beckoning just over the horizon.

Lord Benjamin Melville impatiently thrust his coat at a footman and scanned the club lounge for his companions. He spotted the duo in their usual corner near the fireplace and hurried toward them, pausing only to place a drink order with a waiter. Bursting with the need to reveal the latest
on-dit
, he nonetheless restrained himself, now that the moment of release was at hand. Melville settled into a chair and savored the anticipation of imparting information to which he alone was privy.

Sir Reginald Chatsworth and Lord Patrick Norcross barely acknowledged his presence, resuming their lackluster debate on the relative merits of the horseflesh currently available at Tattersall’s, and whether the absence of quality was inversely proportional to the outrageous prices required.

Melville surveyed his friends with a practiced eye, wondering, as he often did, how a group so dissimilar in temperament could be quite so compatible. The trio was of a like age and shared a common heritage and breeding. They were, to his way of thinking, a shining example of the best of English manhood. Still, Chatsworth was a talkative, amicable sort of fellow, where Norcross had a disturbing tendency to brood and frequently submitted to bouts of melancholy. As for Melville, he thought of himself as the best of the bunch: attractive, witty and generally not given to overexcitement. Except where the occasion warranted, and this was just such a time.

The companions shared one other thing that bound them together, one factor that through the years had variously prompted rivalry, triggered resentment and, ultimately, a common sympathy. A bond that frequently filled their conversations with enthusiastic speculation, glimmers of hope and lengthy debate: Each had loved and lost the enchanting Lady Sabrina Winfield.

“She’s gone off, you know,” Melville blurted, his secret bolting toward freedom like a cornered rabbit desperate for the sanctuary of a hedgerow.

Norcross and Chatsworth turned to him at the interruption, satisfying Melville that he now had, if not their rapt attention, at least their mild interest.

Norcross raised a dark brow in a manner Melville found annoyingly superior. “She who?” he said idly, as if the answer were of no real concern, and the only purpose to his question was to cater to Melville’s obvious excitement.

“Lady Stanford. Sabrina.” Melville leaned back in his chair and smirked at the curiosity now evident on the faces of the two men before him. “She’s gone off and...” he paused and took a swallow of the fine Irish whiskey in his glass, savoring the taste of the liquor not nearly as much as the expressions of his friends, “... she’s not alone.”

“What on earth are you babbling about, Melville?” Chatsworth snapped. “What do you mean?” He repeated Melville’s words in a snide mimicry of his friend. “ ‘She’s gone off and she’s not alone.’ Explain yourself.”

Even Chatsworth’s biting manner could not diminish Melville’s pleasure at telling his tale. He considered just how long he could continue to delay without evoking real anger from his companions.

“Get on with it, man,” Norcross added impatiently.

“Very well.” Melville directed his gaze first at one, then the other. “Sabrina has left London on a voyage to Egypt. No one seems to know why exactly. Apparently, quite at the last minute I understand, she was joined by ...” he hesitated, to allow his next words the impact they deserved, “... Lord Wyldewood.”

“Wyldewood!” Norcross gasped.

“Good Lord,” Chatsworth groaned. “Not Wyldewood. Why did it have to be Wyldewood? I can’t believe she would prefer him to one of us.”

“He is an attractive sort,” Norcross muttered, “and rich as Croesus.”

“We’re rich!” Chatsworth sputtered.

“It does appear she has finally made her choice,” Melville said morosely. In the excitement of possessing this exclusive information he had failed to realize, until now, that this bit of gossip shattered his dream of one day claiming Sabrina as his own.

The trio sank into a heavy silence, each man pondering lost desires, cursing the fickleness of fate and questioning, not for the first time, the inexplicable and wholly irrational mind of a woman.

Norcross swirled the amber liquid in his glass and stared at the whirlpool thoughtfully. “Why did you say Wyldewood joined her at the last minute?”

Melville shrugged. “I learned all this from my valet, who got it from servants from either Wyldewood’s or Sabrina’s household. You understand.” The others nodded, knowing all too well the vast network of servants of the ton, who spread news, accurate and inaccurate, with a speed far surpassing the finest racehorse. “While Sabrina packed for the trip, Wyldewood did not. I hear his man prepared a valise for him without prior warning, and a servant barely managed to get it to the ship before he sailed. Word was also sent to his soliciter to procure letters of credit at the last possible moment. It’s obvious he did not plan to accompany her.”

Melville sighed dramatically. “It sounds very much as if they were overcome with romantic passion and sailed off together to exotic, foreign lands.”

Norcross stared, an expression of amazement on his face. “I cannot believe you could say something that completely idiotic.” He shook his head disparagingly at Melville’s indignant expression. “Don’t bother to deny it. For as long as I’ve known you, you have jumped to completely inaccurate, although I might add highly inventive, conclusions. I don’t view this situation the same way at all.”

He leaned toward them, and the others drew nearer. “I’m not convinced Sabrina has made a choice. If they were planning to go off together, why wouldn’t he already have a bag prepared? Why this last-minute haste? And why the secrecy? They are both of age. No one, beyond us, would censure them. Although ...” he said wryly, “... more than a few would question both her taste and wisdom for becoming involved with a rake of his stature.”

“So, you feel Sabrina did not wish to take Wyldewood along? That perhaps she is an unwilling companion?” Chatsworth asked. Norcross nodded firmly. Chatsworth considered his words carefully. “This puts a different light on the entire incident.”

“Do you think she needs assistance?” Melville’s tone displayed a hopeful eagerness. “That she is in need of rescue, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

It was odd to think of Sabrina as needing help. All three had, at one time or another, been allowed an intriguing glimpse at the fire that lay hidden beneath the woman’s serene exterior. Never more than a peek, a mere suggestion, the barest hint, and each man desperately wanted more. It was a continual topic of discussion among them and the reason why each had continued his pursuit, even in the face of her pleasant but firm rejection.

“If she is not with Wyldewood of her own accord,” Chatsworth said slowly, “then I propose we follow her. After all, regardless of whether she has turned me—and all of us, for that matter—down in the past, we still regard her highly. And it’s unconscionable to abandon her to the likes of Wyldewood.”

Norcross gaped in disbelief. “Follow her to Egypt? It’s preposterous!”

“Why?” Melville demanded. “I think it’s a bloody good idea. It just might be exactly what she needs to open her eyes. To make her see that I—” he glanced apologetically at his companions, “I mean that one of us is the right man for her. We’ll go after them and we’ll rescue her!”

“Like blasted knights in tarnished armor,” Norcross muttered sarcastically.

“No, like daring heroes,” Chatsworth added, saluting with his glass.

The others joined in the toast. “To heroes,” they chorused.

All settled into their own thoughts, of the woman, of the quest, of the triumph. All but one. He stared at his friends over the rim of his glass. Fools. They obviously saw this as a romantic quest for the woman of their dreams. He would have preferred following Sabrina on his own, but any overt discouragement on his part would very likely arouse suspicion. Their presence would make his plans difficult but not impossible.

He alone suspected the true reason for Sabrina’s abrupt departure for Egypt. He alone knew the eminently high stakes involved. He chuckled to himself. He would be the one to return to London, victorious in a game that had nothing to do with affairs of the heart.

And he would return ... alone.

“He’s got me trapped down here like a bloody rat in a cage!” Sabrina stormed, pacing the width of the spacious captain’s cabin, arms folded across her chest. The hanging lanterns flickered in time with the rhythm of her movement. She turned and glared at Simon. “Every time I try to go on deck he’s right there, difficult to ignore, impossible to avoid. But if I have to spend one more day, another hour, even a single, solitary moment more in this cabin, I shall go stark, raving mad!”

“It doesn’t look to me as if he’s the one keeping you here, lass,” Simon observed mildly. “It looks more to me as if this is your own doing.”

“My own doing?” She sniffed. “Hardly. I didn’t ask him to come along. I don’t want him here. He’s sure to ruin everything.”

Simon leaned back in his chair and studied her through narrowed eyes. “I still don’t see why you refuse to be around him. Hard to believe the woman I once knew is frightened of anything.” His eyes twinkled. “Especially of one, lone man.”

“Of course I’m scared. And you known full well, I have good reason.” She strode to the table, lifted a mug and held it out to him. Obligingly, he poured a healthy draught of the captain’s own, private brandy. It was her second of the evening. Sabrina drew a quick swallow, the pungent liquor searing her throat, matching her mood. She slapped the cup back on to the table.

“I’ve spent the last ten years of my life trying to live down the reputation Jack and I had when he was alive. A reputation, I might add, that was extremely well earned. We lived what could only be termed a very fast life. Oh, not completely scandalous, mind you—we did not totally disregard convention—but close enough. I’ve worked hard to overcome the memory of our behavior. And I’ve succeeded admirably.” Her voice carried a note of satisfaction.

“I’ve lived a relatively sedate life, well within the bounds of acceptable behavior, even tottering at times on the edges of outright boredom, to ensure that my reputation would not be held against my daughter. To guarantee that she shall take the place in society due her. I’ll not see that destroyed now. Not by any man, and especially not by Wyldewood.”

Simon shook his head in a wry manner, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And you fear Wyldewood will see through that oh-so-proper Lady Stanford image you’ve built.”

“You’re bloody right about that.” Sabrina sighed and sank into a chair. “He’s not stupid. All I need is for him to discover that not only have I directed my own financial affairs, something no respectable woman would do, but I’m a retired smuggler as well, and it’s all over.” She picked up the mug and took another long, deep swallow. Her voice was grim. “He’d surely refuse permission for his son to marry Belinda. The entire story would come out. She would be ruined. I cannot allow that.”

“I think perhaps you’ve misjudged the man.”

An unladylike snort of disbelief was her only response.

“While you’ve been sulking down here these past weeks,” he ignored the scathing glare she aimed at him, “I’ve been getting to know the man a bit. He ain’t half bad, for a high-and-mighty English lord.”

“You hate the English,” she said under her breath, sipping her drink, the brandy now warm ... soothing.

He grinned. “You’re English.”

“That’s different,” she said, her manner lofty and smug.

“All’s I know is, the man’s given up his fancy clothes, dresses more like one of us now. And he’s pitched in to help when needs be.” Simon shrugged. “I’m thinking if you give him half a chance, you might be able to reconcile your differences. Hell, you might like him.”

“Like him? Hah! I’d sooner throw him to the sharks.”

Simon quirked an eyebrow. “I think any time there’s as many sparks b’tween a man and a woman as there are with you and him, feeding him to the fish is the last thing you’d be wanting to do with him.”

Sabrina stared at the mug in her hand and refused to meet Simon’s gaze. He smiled ruefully. Despite her words, she really hadn’t changed. Even after all these years, he could still read her with ease. He’d suspected there was more to her refusal to be near Wyldewood than she’d let on. Suspected it the first time he’d seen the two of them together. Knew it for certain when she avoided the man like the plague and snapped at anyone who even mentioned his name. It took these last weeks of self-imposed solitude, not to mention tonight’s plentiful helping of brandy, to get her to admit, if only to herself, the one problem she hadn’t mentioned might well be her biggest.

“You’re going to be with him on this ship for a long time yet, lass,” he said gently. “You’ve got to be deciding what you really want out of all this.” He stood and ambled toward the door. “And how you aim to get it.”

Simon closed the door softly behind him. He chuckled to himself and wondered what his captain would make of this development. He grinned with anticipation. He could hardly wait till they picked up the captain. Then you’d see sparks, all right, and life aboard this ship would be anything but dull.

Sabrina vaguely noted his departure. Her unfocused gaze at her cup never wavered. What did she want?

She wanted the gold. She wanted to secure her daughter’s future. She wanted to get out of this blasted cabin.

And somewhere, deep inside, she wanted ... Wyldewood.

No! Ruthlessly, she crushed the traitorous thought. This damned attraction she had for the earl was nothing but a momentary inconvenience, a minor distraction, a blasted nuisance.

Sabrina rose, mug in hand, and resumed her pacing. She’d been in this cabin for—what? Weeks? Months? Forever? Time had lost all meaning. She’d already had more than enough time to study and examine and memorize the letter and the maps Wills had thoughtfully tucked into her bag. More than enough time to read every book in the captain’s cabin. And more than enough time for her thoughts to dwell increasingly on Wyldewood.

The memory of their dance together intruded itself at the most inconvenient moments. Just when the monotony of her existence threatened to turn her disdain for him into something more akin to sheer loathing, she’d remember the power of his body against hers, the searing heat of his hand and the bottomless, black eyes that held unspoken promises, untold passion.

Sabrina pondered the strength of his pull for her. It was as if they’d known each other before, in another place perhaps, another time. Almost as if fate had taken a hand. She’d never before experienced this kind of overwhelming compulsion toward a man. Even with Jack, it was all so different. He’d quite swept her off her feet in a mad rush of fun and frolic; Jack’s experienced touch would make any green girl straight out of the schoolroom fall blindly, recklessly in love. Still, as intense as that emotion had been, it could not compare to the immediate, compelling desire that struck Sabrina with her first look in Wyldewood’s eyes.

She wondered what her life might have been like if she’d married someone like Wyldewood. If she’d met him before she met Jack. She never would have had to worry about money, or discovery or rebuilding a
reputation. He’d be a husband you could depend on. It was an intriguing thought. How very different it all would be if she’d married someone like Wyldewood.

She swirled the brandy in her mug, mesmerized by the amber liquid glimmering in the lantern light. Sabrina sighed deeply and faced the truth: The crush of a girl was nothing next to the desires of a woman. It would be increasingly difficult to be near the man without revealing far more of herself than she wished.

And that was the oddest thing of all. Ever since she’d found the letter, the serene, reserved personality she’d wrapped around herself for a decade like a cloak of invulnerability had eroded. Slowly ... inevitably. It somehow no longer suited. It was as if the hands on the clock had turned backwards. More and more, the daring and defiant woman she once was crept upon her, invading her thoughts, stealing her soul. She yearned to say and do exactly what she wanted and damn the consequences. Sabrina resented not permitting herself to do just that. Resented Wyldewood. Only his presence held her back.

Well, no more. Fueled by the liquor and her own frustrations, she turned and slammed the mug back on the table, burnished gold droplets sloshing over its rim. She’d bloody well had enough. She was the one who belonged here, not him. And she’d be damned if she’d let him keep her an unwilling prisoner for one more minute. Sabrina took a deep breath, resolved to maintain her control no matter what, and headed for the quarterdeck.

It was almost a disappointment to find him nowhere in sight. Gradually, muscles tensed in expectation of a confrontation relaxed, and she leaned on the taff rail. The sea at night was a special, mystical world of its own. The moonlight danced off the midnight waves; the stars glittered in the velvet sky. The breeze lifted her hair and tendrils danced around her face in a soothing welcome. Irritation slipped away. Serenity and peace flowed into her soul. It had been so very long since she’d stood on the deck of a ship. Too long since she’d breathed the heady scent of the sea. There was nothing she loved more than the sea.

Every childhood summer had been spent in the quiet coastal village where her great-aunt retired for the season. She’d grown up playing with the children of fishermen and shopkeepers, free of the restrictions that fettered most children of titled families. Sometimes Sabrina wondered whether her great-aunt meant for the orphaned child thrust upon her to be deliberately exposed to those beyond her own privileged world, or if she simply didn’t care how Sabrina filled her days. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for the carefree, independent years of her youth, which taught her lessons that, eventually, served her well.

The ship rolled beneath her feet. She threw her head back and nearly laughed aloud with the sheer joy of freedom the water always gave her. This was where she belonged. Never was she as alive as when she was near the sea.

“I see you’ve overcome your discomfort with sea voyages.” An amused and all too familiar voice sounded behind her.

“It was a mere trifle, my lord.” She shrugged lightly. She’d spewed that nonsense about not taking well to sea travel in the first place simply to avoid him. And the moment the words were out of her mouth she knew he knew it was a lie. An incredible, overwhelming, earth-stopping lie.

Now, in his presence at last, she was somewhat surprised that her reserves of self-control had not deserted her. Was it experience built up over a decade or merely the brandy? Sabrina kept her gaze turned toward sea and sky merged into endless black, satisfied that she was, as always, the perfect Lady Stanford.

“Nicholas,” he murmured.

“I would think it presumptuous to address you by your Christian name.”

“We are to be family, after all.” A hint of laughter caressed his words. She sensed him behind her, near enough to touch. Sensed his strength, his power. Still, she didn’t turn. It was far easier to play this game without gazing into eyes as dark as night and far more dangerous. This game of verbal cat-and-mouse. She’d played before with any number of men, and she played the game well. He was no different than any other. With every word, her confidence grew.

“Very well.” She sighed, as if acquiescence pained her. “Although I hardly think it proper.”

“Proper?” His laughter echoed on the breeze; rich and mellow, it shivered through her blood. “I daresay it’s too late to worry about that now. We have, after all, abandoned London for parts unknown. Without chaperones, without even servants. I fear it’s far past time to consider propriety, especially when it comes to a point as minor as how we address one another.”

Try as she might, Sabrina could not prevent a laugh from bubbling through her lips. “Touché.” She turned and rested her back against the rail. “Nicholas and Sabrina it shall be, then.”

The pale glow of the moon and the few lanterns on deck cast an indifferent light, but she could well discern his striking face towering above her. Now by his side, she noted that the man was far taller than she’d remembered.

“Still,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice, “I should think a man like you would be very concerned with propriety.”

He lifted a questioning brow. “A man like me?”

“A man well versed in diplomacy. A peer. Now, I gather, becoming involved in Parliament and politics. I should think you of all people would be highly concerned with the appearance of things.”

Nicholas grinned ruefully. “I suspect you’re right; at least public appearances.”

She laughed in thorough enjoyment of the lighthearted banter. “And privately?”

“Privately?”

“You are nearly as well known for your private ... shall we say, intrigues, as your public accomplishments. Is your reputation with the fairer sex well earned?”

A warning note sounded in the back of her mind; she navigated dangerous waters here. But somehow the lure of this duel of words was far too strong to resist.

“Well earned?” He laughed again. “What an intriguing question. I suspect most men would prefer to believe their reputations when it comes to matters of the heart are well earned. But, of course, you of all people should know how easily reputations are made and broken among the ton.”

“And why is that?”

“Well,” he paused, as if weighing the effect of his words, “you and Stanford had quite a reputation yourselves.”

“It’s hardly the same ... Nicholas. Granted, our activities did not strictly adhere to society’s rules, but our minor adventures did not include amorous dalliances.” She tossed him a sly smile. “As I said, it’s not the same at all. And it was a very long time ago.”

“Indeed.” He studied her for a brief moment. “Have you changed so very much?”

“More than I can say,” she said softly. Her words drifted off on the breeze and silence lay between them. Sabrina realized how very close he stood. Too close. Did she only imagine the seductive warmth of his body drawing her near? Was it his heartbeat that thundered in her ears? Was it her own?

His eyes reflected the moonlight and glittered, intense, dangerous ... exciting. She noted vaguely that his hair had grown a bit during the voyage and now curled beneath his ears. Sabrina resisted the impulse to reach up and pull a silky strand through her fingers. Her gaze caught his, and the lightness of the moment vanished, replaced by a tension stretched taut between them.