Yankee Earl (22 page)

      
“He liked me well enough in them before,” she snapped. He had practically undressed her with his eyes on both occasions. Then there was the time when she had undressed herself before his eyes—unknowingly, she hastened to remind herself.

      
“But that was before you were to became his countess,” Harry replied primly.

      
I'm already his countess.
How ironic that he had chosen to taunt her with that title. Angry with the direction of the conversation, and Jason's lack of response to her note, she wanted nothing so much as to yank off the gown. “Let us be quit of this place before I go mad.”

      
“Not before you try on the night rails,” Harry replied with a note of finality.

      
Madame Louvois came bustling in, a measuring tape in her hands and the gleam of avarice in her eyes. “
Mais oui, ma petite
, you must see how beauteous they are,” the gnarled old woman gushed.

      
Rachel was anything but petite, towering over the emaciated little Frenchwoman. However, one look from Harry convinced her to give in. With a sigh of resignation, she seized an armload of the filmy creations, quite a bit different from the plain cool muslin she normally slept in, and headed for the fitting room.

      
All the regular fitting rooms had been filled when she and Harry had arrived fashionably late for their appointment. That was Harry's fault, but since Rachel had not wished to come in the first place, she had not complained about her sister's habitual tardiness.

      
She had been assigned a small sewing room at the end of the hall. Madame had wanted to evict a Cit's daughter from a fitting room, but Rachel's sense of fairness would not tolerate such rudeness. The sewing room was crowded with pincushions and dressmaking forms, for which the Frenchwoman's assistant had apologized profusely. That made no difference to Rachel. If it would help get this ordeal over with more quickly, she would have been content to use a broom closet.

      
The assistant, a mousy little thing with a pinched face and tiny, deft hands, helped her out of the elaborate maroon ball gown. Rachel basked in a shaft of sunlight streaming in from a high window, trying to forget the purpose of the lacy confection she was donning.

      
His mouth suddenly went dry as dust.

      
Jason stood rooted in the doorway, the curtain in his hand pulled halfway back as he expected to enter the gentlemen's waiting room. Obviously, he had chosen the wrong door at the end of the hallway…or was it the soft sound of Rachel's voice that had lured him, seductive as a siren's song? He had thought he heard her, but since the witch had been invading his dreams, waking as well as sleeping, he had convinced himself that it was merely his imagination.

      
He had delayed responding to her note, not trusting himself alone with her. But, as Drum had pointed out before dropping him in front of the Burlington Arcade, if he wished to avoid the very thing he feared, he had to meet with her in response to her request. When they had arrived at the Fairchild city house that morning, he was irritated to learn that his fiancée was at Madame Louvois's shop for a fitting…of the trousseau for their wedding.

      
It was as if he had conjured her up dressed in silk and lace so sheer it matched his fantasies of yesterday. What was happening to him? Damn and damn again, but he had to get out of here before she caught him spying on her a second time! Yet his feet seemed incapable of obeying the commands his brain cried out. He watched, mesmerized, as the silk slid over her skin. Every lush curve of her body was bathed in soft sunlight, enriching the chocolate hue of her hair, unbound and falling down her back. The loosely draped night rail plunged to a deep vee, showing the hollow between her high breasts to fine advantage. Yards of pale bronze lace dripped from the neckline, wrists and hemline.

      
All he could think of was stalking into the room and tearing it off her, then laying her over the long, narrow sewing bench in the comer and making fierce, desperate love to her.
Think, dammit, think!
He certainly could not act on the base urging of his stone-hard body, no matter the ache in his loins. That would give Grandfather exactly what he wanted. He dropped the curtain as if it were a sheet of flame and stepped back into the hall, dazed. Sweet heaven, what had he almost done?

      
His first impulse after he recovered his wits was to leave immediately, forget about waiting for Drum to return and simply hire a hackney, all the assassins in England be damned! He felt like kidnapping Fox and riding to Bristol right now, taking his chances on finding a ship bound for anywhere outside England. The woman was making him a candidate for Bedlam! Then he remembered that he had given his card to Madame Louvois's assistant, who had instructed him to wait in the gentlemen's room until his betrothed had completed her fitting. It would be remarked upon if he vanished.

      
Somehow he intuited that Rachel would know the reason why. He would be damned if he'd give her the satisfaction. When she had sat at his bedside after the poisoning, he'd sensed that her feelings for him had changed.

      
That frightened him far more than bullets or foxglove. What if she had decided to go through with the marriage? This whole charade could be a ploy on her part to lure him into her oh-so-silken snare. After all, he was certainly a more desirable candidate than Forrestal or any of his ilk. Her unusual beauty combined with her outspokenness obviously drove conventional suitors away. He had introduced her to physical desire, and now he would pay the ultimate price: leg-shackling.

      
He cursed silently, then stalked down the hall in search of the gentlemen's waiting room, determined to face her and discuss their situation honestly. He had been bullied, blackmailed and badgered enough. He was damned if he would be deceived one more time.

      
He did not see the small blonde standing at the other end of the long hallway, observing him silently, a tiny smile wreathing the Cupid's bow of her lips. The Baroness Widmere was well pleased with how matters were progressing. Now if only Rachel could steel her nerve to do what she must…

* * * *

      
Rachel wiped her damp palms against the soft muslin of her gown, an old one she had worn during her Season five years ago. A bit tight in the bodice now, but it fit well enough—or did it? She had been in such pique at having to endure a morning at the modiste's that she had grabbed the first thing that came to hand. Only now did she pause to realize that compared to the finery for which she had just been fitted, this gown was frayed and the yellow color faded. Why was she thinking about her gown, for pity's sake?

      
Because I want to make a good impression on Jason so he will be agreeable to my bargain.
Harry had been exceedingly certain that he would be. Her sister had smiled behind her fan, rather like a cat genteelly burping canary. Was his unexpected arrival at Madame Louvois's part of some scheme? Rachel had been preparing herself for this interview for several days; but now that it was upon her, she felt her resolve wavering.

      
What if he refused? Then she would simply have to go back to searching for some malleable fool who would be acceptable to her father. The thought did not sit well at all. Could Harry possibly be right about Jason's feelings for her? There was only one way to find out. She stepped into the room where he waited.

Chapter Twelve

      
Jason stood with his back to her, giving her time to study him as he stared glumly out the window. They were alone, and Harry had made certain that none of Madame's employees would interrupt their private conversation. He was splendid, with his broad shoulders and long legs. Rachel could not help admitting that. He had the address of an earl—inbred arrogance and wolfish ruthlessness much akin to that of the grandfather he sought to thwart. That stubborn determination may have been inherited, but it had been honed by his life in America. Harry was right about Yankees. They were a breed apart.

      
And he was the most unique of the lot, Rachel was certain, in spite of never having met any others. Quite simply, he took her breath away. His very height and muscular frame attracted her, she who had always been a “long Meg” in English society. Rachel could never forget the way they had waltzed at their betrothal ball, his large hand pressed so intimately against her back, his steps fitted so perfectly to hers. And that day in the pool, naked flesh to naked flesh, their bodies were an even more perfect fit.

      
Harry was right. I have fallen in love with him.

      
Rachel no longer denied the fact. She felt drawn to every nuance of his person—the way his hair shone blue-black in the light and curled ever so slightly at the nape of his neck; the midnight darkness of those penetrating eyes as they stripped her naked with one sweep; the deadly white smile that revealed the dimple in his cheek.

      
Taking yet another breath for courage, she spoke. “I was surprised to learn you were here.”

      
He whirled and pierced her with what she believed was an accusing look.

      
In fact, Jason was trying desperately not to betray his earlier voyeuristic indiscretion. “I was surprised to receive your note. Indeed, amazed that you would deign to leave Harleigh and come to London to see me.” He knew it sounded petty, almost as if he were angry that she had not come to visit him during his convalescence at Falconridge—which he was, though he would die before admitting it.

      
“We have matters to discuss,” she replied levelly, closing the door for privacy. The heavy brass knob slipped slightly in her damp hand. She took a calming breath and launched into her prepared speech. “I have been giving our dilemma some thought, and now I believe it best to amend our plans somewhat.”

      
His head jerked up, every fiber of his body on full alert now. “Amend them how?”

      
“It all hinges on a conversation reported by my sister,” she replied evasively. This was not going at all well. “It seems your grandfather has mentioned to my father that he is considering adopting Fox.”

      
“Adopting Fox!” Jason echoed incredulously.

      
“Well, it would seem that your mother never did so. The boy is not legally her ward, and she believes it would be greatly to his benefit to receive an education in England. If Cargrave does adopt him, Fox will remain here until his majority…forcing you to perform…er, your duties as his heir.”

      
She looked delectable when she blushed, damn her. “But that will occur only if I do not steal him away and return with him to America.” Was he reminding her—or himself?

      
“In case you have failed to notice, m'lord, since he learned of the attempts on your life, the marquess has assigned a host of men to guard you every moment of the day. He has Fox at his estate, and there is no way on earth we will be able to reach him without alerting your grandfather. And that does not even allow for the fact that you must somehow convince the boy he will be better off in America than here once Cargrave tells him of his intentions.”

      
Jason began to pace, rubbing his forehead. “This tangle grows more untenable every day. There has to be a way to reach Fox and get him out of Grandfather's clutches.” He looked over at her, pinning her with harsh, accusing eyes, as if the dilemma were one of her creation, which he knew it was not. Acute sexual frustration and his own growing emotional attachment to Rachel were proving his undoing. “What new idea have you come up with?”

      
She bit her lip, forcing herself to meet his penetrating gaze as she replied. “That we go through with the marriage ceremony—‘twill make the marquess let down his guard,” she quickly added, noting his shocked, scowling expression.

      
“Pray continue,” he said sardonically, with one eyebrow raised.

      
“The day after the wedding, we will repair to Falconridge for our honeymoon,” Rachel said, certain her cheeks were the color of that accursed taffeta gown she had been fitted for earlier. “No one, not even those men the marquess has set to guard you, will be expecting us to slip away then. We can race to Cargrave Hall the following night, using the fastest horses in your stables. Once there, we must convince Fox to leave with us while the marquess is sleeping. By the time he awakens, we will be well on our way to Bristol, where the ship will be waiting.”

      
“You have arranged everything, I see,” he said suspiciously. Was this not exactly what he'd feared—that she was trying to trap him into marriage?

      
Rachel felt her temper rising. Yankee idiot! Why did he have to make everything so difficult? Harry had been wrong. He wanted no part of marrying her, no part at all. “If you have a better idea, I will most certainly entertain it,” she snapped.