When We Touch (3 page)

She smiled. “So . . . I meet him tomorrow.”

“I don't like this. I don't like this one bit.”

“Yes, well, I don't think either of us would like Newgate, either,” she said a little sharply. Again, for a moment, she felt the temptation to throttle him. Except that she knew that, whatever trouble he might have gotten into, Justin truly rued anything that might now hurt her. He was telling the truth. If she exhibited one bit of distress, he'd offer himself to the authorities.

“Look, Maggie, you must listen to me—”

“Justin, a few possibilities here are beginning to appeal to me. Do you know just how powerful I could become—with the right backing?”

“But there is no agreement, unless you truly wish it.”

She didn't tell him that she would wish it if he produced the devil himself—as long as it kept him from marrying a dowager with one foot in the grave and not a prayer of producing an heir.

“Naturally,” she murmured, and started to leave the parlor. She was shaking too hard to stay.

But at the arch to the entry, she paused, swinging back on him. “If you get into this kind of debt again, Justin, you won't need to worry about Newgate. I'll swing you from a yardarm myself, do you understand?”

She didn't want an answer. She fled.

* * *

“Nine-fifty-five,” Mireau said, giving her the exact time before she could ask. She had voiced the question every few minutes for the last twenty.

Like Justin, he had tried to dissuade her. He had come up with every other possible solution, none of which was actually possible. He had wanted to wage some kind of battle himself, but they both knew, even if he suddenly managed to make himself a respected literary name, it would be eons before he actually made money in any appreciable sum.

Then they had talked about the pros and cons, because he was Mireau, and he always made her see herself and a situation clearly.

“Justin has seen the man?” Mireau asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“And his description?” Mireau asked.

“Tall and dignified.”

Mireau was looking out the upstairs window above the entry. She realized that their visitors had come, and she rushed up behind him, carefully taking a position where she might be covered by the draperies.

A carriage had arrived. Far grander than her uncle's. Big, drawn by a pair of matched black stallions that were truly magnificent. A third horse was tethered to the rear. Three men stood at the open doorway to the coach, where velvet covered steps had been lowered to allow the riders to step down.

One of the arrivals looked up.

Maggie stared down at him, stunned.

He wasn't old. He was tall, and certainly, dignified. He had a head of sweeping, almost ebony dark hair. His features were hewn lean and clean, his jaw had a definite square and rugged angle to it. His eyes were large, color indiscernible from here, but his brows were sharply defined, and his mouth had a cynical sensuality. In a fitted waistcoat, cravat, and sharply tailored jacket, he appeared ruggedly well built, the elegance of his attire almost a sham over the magnitude of his physique.

“Why . . . he's . . . gorgeous. Extraordinary!” Mireau breathed.

“Nonsense,” she murmured. But she felt a faint shiver along her spine and something more. Something she had thought dead and buried. The slightest stirring of excitement.

Excitement . . .
desire?

Lord, no! She quickly chastised herself for such a wretchedly disloyal thought.

And yet . . .

“Can that be him? The Viscount?” Mireau marveled.

Then, just as she realized that she had forgotten all about the draperies and that she was staring down at the man just as he was staring up at her, he smiled. And there was some kind of amusement and mockery in that smile. He made a slight bow to her, and stepped back.

Another man appeared from behind him.

Tall, and dignified. With strong features, and intelligent eyes.

Ah, yes, he was tall. And certainly, dignified. Very elegantly dressed, yet he wore the cut of his clothes extremely well for his . . . maturity.

His hair was as white as snow.

But he did have a full head of it.

His face, though one time fine, was deeply lined. Once broad shoulders were far more skeletal now. He was dignified, yes . . .

And he was also older than God himself, so it appeared.

“That must be the Viscount,” she whispered hollowly.

She was marrying a man who was all but a corpse.

Chapter 2

Jamie Langdon noted every little detail about the house, his aggravation rising.

Ah, yes. Genteel poverty. Fine enough in itself. Yet someone was being sold here to rectify the situation. And he couldn't help but feel contempt.

He'd met Justin often enough, in and around the Court, at balls, teas, and social affairs. He'd seen him frequently enough at a number of other establishments, as well. He'd liked Justin; a man of a pleasant enough countenance, he was polite and courteous, usually, but quick to defend a friend by both word and deed. He had been well educated, and in the presence of Eddy, the Duke of Clarence—heir apparent, after his father's time on the throne was done, should Victoria ever depart this world—Justin had the ability to transfer his own knowledge to his royal friend, making it appear as if the man were far brighter than he was in fact. A decent chap.

Except at the gaming tables. There, he went wild.

This, then, was his home.

He'd heard there was a sister. Gossip, of course, ran rife. She had swept the Ton by storm at her coming out, dazzling men and women alike. The former had idolized her, while most often, the latter had chosen to gossip about her. She had disgraced her station in life, ignoring all the noble and genteel young men, and falling into a wretched affair with a commoner—a policeman, no less—and that was a crime to many a man and woman with a title. She'd married the fellow. And then—other than the gossip that surfaced now and then about her strange activities—there had been little else.

He'd been on the Continent, still in Her Majesty's service, during the days when the young Lady Maggie had been the toast of the Ton. Therefore, he'd never seen the alleged beauty. Until now. And he had looked up, and seen her face in the window.

To be fair, she was an outstanding beauty.

But that Charles should have suddenly determined, at this late stage, that he must wed again, and a lass almost a third his own age, well, it just seemed . . .

Well, quite frankly, it seemed revolting.

But he loved his great uncle. Title be damned. If Charles could wed again, and produce a son of his own, God bless him.

However . . .

Should he marry a cuckolding little twit who intended to put a bastard into the line of his own family, Jamie would happily kidnap the woman himself and sell her off in Zanzibar, or some other foreign port. For many years, Charles had consulted him on the important decisions in his life, and on all business affairs. But when he had suddenly decided that he was going to marry, he hadn't mentioned a word of it—not until he had made preliminary arrangements to speak with the lady through Angus Graham. Charles had been set and determined. Jamie had carefully cautioned his uncle, trying not to remind him of his age, but Charles was well aware that he was seeking a very young woman. He didn't care. “Men of my age must often seek alternatives for companionship, my boy,” Charles had told him. “Luckily, I am in a position of title and wealth, and therefore, free to seek my heart's desire.”

So she was his heart's desire. And available, so it seemed, at a price.

Perhaps it bothered him that a man of his uncle's stature had so suddenly determined to do such a thing which lacked the dignity that had thus far ruled the Viscount's life. His uncle deserved respect and admiration. He had fought in the Queen's wars, he had been her confidant. He had helped and advised the now long-deceased Prince Consort on the advancement of technology, and he had argued in the House of Lords.

If this young lady did not show the proper respect for such a man, Jamie thought that he would find himself tempted to throttle her.

“My heart is aflutter, boy!” Charles said suddenly, catching Jamie's arm. “Wait until you meet her!”

“Uncle, do you know the lass at all yourself?” Jamie demanded.

“I saw her, nephew.”

“Seeing is not knowing.”

“Ah, but yes, we did speak, several years ago, and she may not remember. She was the belle of every ball, and every young swain who could come near her, did so. She was ever kind, speaking to those fellows who stuttered, who were not so graceful on the dance floor, nor so highly born, with the same courtesy. A temper has she, for I saw ice in her eyes once, when one highborn fellow would jostle out another. Ah, boy. I know her. And that she has said she will see me . . . as I said, my heart is aflutter.”

“Don't let it flutter too hard, or it will shatter the walls of your chest!” Jamie advised him. His uncle grinned, not resenting the comment. “Let's enter, shall we? We are like college boys here, loitering on a lady's doorstep.”

“Oh, indeed, let's enter.” He was more than curious himself to meet this paragon of virtue and beauty himself. He was here, of course, to protect Charles, though in what way, he was not certain. Charles could spend his wealth as he chose. And it was hardly likely that he might have found a young
rich
woman willing to marry a man of his age, however fine a lord he might be. Marriages were often made for the sake of convenience, and for the woman involved, this marriage must definitely be convenient. Certainly, after her escapades, she'd never snare a young lord of wealth, position, or promise. She would be accepting this proposal for one purpose only, that of acquiring position and wealth. Certainly, as the wife of Charles, Viscount Langdon, there would be no house in Great Britain or the Continent where she would not be welcome. And if her clothing were as threadbare and antiquated as her surroundings, well, she could then afford all the silks and satins she might desire.

“Darby,” Charles told his footman, “I believe we shall be about an hour. Perhaps you'd care to visit a coffeehouse or newsstand.”

“Ah, Lord Charles, I'll be waitin' right here for ye and Sir Jamie, that I will. And ye take yer time. I've me papers right here.” Darby, like all the servants in Charles's employ, adored the old man. He was gracious and generous, and though born into a society where class was a matter of total acceptance, he was also of the belief that God's behest to man to love one's brother as he loved himself was the greatest of commandments. He practiced what he preached.

As Charles turned, Darby gave Jamie a frown. Jamie gave him an imperceptible nod.
Aye, he'd protect Charles. With his last breath, if need be. Whether against a cutthroat, an enemy in the House of the Lords—or the wiles of a beautiful woman.

Charles's hand fell upon Jamie's shoulder for a moment as they walked up the steps. “Would that you had been my son! My cousin was a blessed man,” he said softly. “First your father, dearly missed, but now you, as well. I am rightfully proud that you are my kin. And in the event of death if a new marriage does not produce a son . . .”

“Sir, I will dance at your wedding with bells on, and pray that your marriage be productive. And you must remember, you are raising a most beautiful young daughter.”

“Ah, but we both know a daughter is not a son in the world in which we live! Glad I am, though, boy, and never forget it, that should this marriage bear no fruit, it's to you that the title and most of my riches will fall. Arianna, though, alas!” Charles frowned, and Jamie knew that young lady had been troubling the old man lately. “I pray to see her duly wed to a good and proper man before my death! Not that she will ever want . . . But I fear for her! I might well have allowed for too much of an education for the girl! She needed a mother so badly. There was so much that I could teach . . . and so much that I could not. If the Lady Maggie only accepts me, she will see to it that Arianna learns the right and wrong of her place in this world. There is far more to wealth than play, Jamie. That you have worked and served is a pleasure to my eyes and my old heart, and yet even a lady, a wife, and a mother, must also learn the gravity of power.”

“Arianna is young, and her mind runs to dreams at the moment,” Jamie said. “Give her time.”

Charles stopped suddenly on the top step. “Pray God that I have the time.” He didn't dwell on his words, but rapped on the front door with his cane. He wasn't asking for pity, and he didn't want any. He had lived his life well, and in his mind, it was simple fact that he had only so many years left to go.

The door was opened by a butler. A living skeleton, decked out in fading, genteel elegance. Clean as a whistle, and courteous, dignified, and erect as such a servant should be. “Good day, Lord Charles, Sir James. May I take your overcoats and escort you to the parlor? Lord Angus and Baron Graham await you with the greatest pleasure and expectation. Lady Maggie . . . will be down shortly.”

“Thank you, my man,” Charles said, hastily shedding coat, hat, gloves, and cane, and entering the parlor on his own while Jamie was still slipping from his greatcoat. The skeletal butler was hiding a small smile. Jamie cracked a grin. “It's all right, young man, smile away,” he told the butler. “Young love, eh?”

“Well, love, sir, so it appears, at any rate.”

Jamie nodded, lowered his head, and followed his uncle into the Mortimer parlor.

Both Angus and Justin were there, shaking hands with Charles. Angus greeted Jamie first, and to his credit, Justin wore a look of pleasure upon seeing that Charles was accompanied by him, and it was obvious, certainly, that he had come as his uncle's champion, should there be any doubt or difficulty in the situation.

“Please, sit,” Angus entreated. “My niece shall be along any moment. Women, I'm afraid, seem incapable of being on time. Especially, Lord Charles, since Maggie is, of course, in such anticipation of your first meeting.”

“Ah, but we've met.”

“Ah?” Angus's face held an uncomfortable flush.

“The lady must not remember, but that is hardly a surprise. She was surely overwhelmed by the number of men seeking her acquaintance,” Charles said pleasantly.

Then they were all startled by a soft and feminine voice like silk.

“In all honesty, sir, I did not remember. But now that I see you, I do remember that we met, and it is delightful to see you.”

Jamie swung around. Amazingly, with the width of her skirt, the lady in question had arrived in the archway from entry to parlor in absolute silence, and she stood there, definitely a vision of exquisite beauty. Light filtered in from the stained-glass sections of the slim manor mud room, seeming to set her afire in a heavenly blaze. Eyes a shade of deep and striking cobalt stared out from a face delicately crafted and defined. Her lips were full and rich, curved into a rueful smile; her cheekbones were high, eyebrows finely arched, nose straight and of a perfect size for the porcelain artistry of her features. She was dressed in blue as well, a swirl of silk, a day dress that was proper to the extreme, and which still seemed to emphasize the tiny hand span of her waist and the flare of her breasts and hips.

Jamie had to admit, he was taken aback himself.

She didn't appear to notice him. Her eyes were upon Charles, and there was a sparkle of light within them, and warmth in her smile as well as she came forward, clasping his offered hands, accepting the proper kisses he placed on either cheek.

“My dear, the years have made you an even greater delight!” he said softly.

“And they've added to your charm,” she told him ruefully. “Please, everyone, do sit.” She spun then, staring straight at Jamie. She offered him an elegant hand to kiss. “Sir, we've not met, I'm certain.”

He could play the game, and this one meant everything to his uncle. Jamie inclined his head, taking her hand. Sparks seemed to fly, sizzling against his flesh. He bent low and brushed a kiss against fingers already being rescinded. He straightened, staring into her eyes. She appeared oblivious to any lightning he might have imagined had come between them. “Sir James Langdon, Lady Maggie. Lord Charles is my great uncle.”

“Well, how very lovely that you are here with him,” she said lightly. But those cobalt eyes touched his again, with a canny knowledge, he thought, and she knew that he had come as a protector for Lord Charles.

She turned her back upon him, as if he or his opinion mattered little. And in truth, he and his opinion might well mean nothing. She had apparently decided on this marriage.

He felt a wealth of irritation arising anew within him.
Money-hungry wench.

“Please, please, do have a seat. Lord Charles, would you prefer coffee or tea?”

“Coffee. What a treat. I should love some.”

She lifted a hand, and Clayton appeared. “Lord Charles would prefer coffee.”

“Immediately, my lady.”

Charles looked to Justin, Baron Graham. Jamie knew his uncle's initial discussions had been with Angus, but Justin was, after all, the lady's brother. And the man holding the title. Jamie realized suddenly with a certain amount of amusement that the situation galled Angus tremendously.

“Justin, certainly Angus has informed you as to the purpose of our call.”

“Indeed, sir,” Justin said gravely. “And though you are a fine and noble man, sir, I leave the decision entirely to my sister. She once swore never to marry again.” Justin looked at his sister. With reproach, Jamie thought. There was something in his eyes.
Don't do this thing!

She preferred not to look at her brother in turn. She stared straight at Charles.

“Naturally,” Charles said. “There have been difficulties in the family, and I would intend to address every situation. My dear, you would never want for anything the rest of your life,” he finished earnestly to Maggie.

Jamie gritted his teeth. Charles was like an infatuated schoolboy. And oddly, it was the young woman who appeared to have her wits about her completely.