Chapter Eleven
“Gallant of you,” she said with a wry tone, “carrying me all the way to the carriage by yourself.”
“You should
be impressed.” He raised his chin to look down his nose. “I usually leave the hauling of damsels-in-distress to the servants.”
She gave a soft gasp that turned into a giggle.
“You’re as bad as Uncle Red.”
He narrowed his eyes, indignant. “You dare to class me with that mendacious old codger?”
“He’s also a generous, loveable, entertaining old codger. Are you sure you don’t want to join him in my hard-won esteem?”
“Alas, I am neither generous nor loveable, though on occasion I have been credited with being entertaining. I do have in my repertoire the juiciest stories in the kingdom.” On impulse, he raised one eyebrow and she laughed. The sound contained a drenching warmth that melted his tension and made him far too aware of the curvaceous form leaning across his lap. His sensitive and susceptible lap. He needed to get her off him and set her back—distance—he needed some damned distance!
But he couldn’t make himself disturb her.
“What were you really doing there?” She shifted, seeking a more comfortable position for herself and creating an intensely uncomfortable one for him. God, she was lying right across—
“Out for my morning constitutional. Always been an early riser.”
“That’s a whopper if I’ve ever heard one. I seem to recall that you never appeared before noon when you were at Betancourt for the wedding. I can’t imagine your habits have changed that much.” She gave his chest a poke with a finger. “And you condemn Uncle Red for spinning yarns.”
He studied her for a moment, then wagged his head in wonder. “The things that come out of your mouth. ‘Whoppers and spinnin’ yarns and square-dealin’ and cattle wranglin’ . . .”
“Don’t think you’re going to distract me.” She lowered her lashes, studying him. “You came to see me
.”
He gave a huff that sounded far too much like surrender to him.
“Red came to see me at my club last night, and between demonstrating the difference between a ‘hondo knot’ and a ‘hangin’ noose’ he damn near cleared out the bar’s supply of Irish whiskey. Before his head hit the table, however, he mentioned something about you wanting to see me. And he wanted to know why you would think I owed you a favor.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’re a hysterical female given to all manner of crazy notions and debilitating humors, and that he shouldn’t listen to a word you say.”
“So you lied.”
“I did.” He attempted an air of righteous justification, but couldn’t tell if it was working. There was a captivating twinkle in her eyes. “It was pure self-preservation,” he continued. “If he learned the truth about what happened at Tutty’s and that you attended the duel dressed in men’s clothes, I would be blamed for the whole of it.” He sniffed. “I don’t much fancy the idea of walking around on crutches for months.”
“Uncle Red does have a temper,” she said, nodding.
“And he seems to think his nieces are flawless flowers in life’s grand garden.” He shifted slightly, his voice lowering in a way that made him redden. “Your turn. What possessed you to go riding with Rottenberg?”
“Ottenberg,” she corrected.
“I know how he pronounces it. Rottenberg is more accurate. I believe I warned you about the Prussian tendency to take
whatever they take a fancy to. Today being a case in point.”
She pursed a corner of her mouth and seemed to be measuring the truth of that statement against recent experience. “He called on us yesterday and my mother decided I should be deliriously happy to accept his attentions.”
“Grievously poor parenting. But let’s get back to this favor you’re extorting from me.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath, preparing herself. “I want you to skulk around or whatever it is you do to learn about people, and find out about someone for me. I need to know whatever you can learn about him.”
“Him? Ottenberg?” His expression darkened along with his thoughts. She was asking him to investigate the Prussian for her?
“Heavens, no. The Frenchman, Julian Fontaine. The musician whose orchestra played at the Tutty girl’s ball.”
He felt like he’d just been smacked.
“For a woman dead set on avoiding matrimony, you have a remarkably robust interest in men.” He took her by the waist and shoved the rest of her off his lap and fully onto the seat. She righted herself and turned to face his now irritable expression. “Prussians. Frenchmen. You really should make an effort to meet an Italian or two to round out your—”
“I need to know where Fontaine studied; if he’s married or otherwise attached; if he’s a pauper or has resources; if he’s a man of honor. I already know he’s a gifted musician, but I need more.”
“A musician.” He crossed his arms to keep from tearing his hair out. She had a gift for mesmerizing him one minute and taking him to the brink of sanity the next. “I can tell you already that he’s dramatic, temperamental, has expensive tastes he cannot afford, romances women for pleasure and profit, and never stays in one place for long.”
She stared at him without blinking.
“I sincerely hope not.” Worry crept into her face. It was the first time he’d seen her look uncertain about anything, and he wasn’t sure he liked being responsible for that. “Cece would be crushed.”
“Cece?” He scowled.
“My sister. You remember Claire—the one with the violin, whose music can make angels weep? It’s Claire who has taken a fancy to him.”
He turned and stared at her for a moment, recalling that there were three Bumgarten girls left at home, and one of them played a brilliant violin. Relief bubbled up in him, turning to chagrin a moment later.
“The violinist.” He tugged down his vest, trying to bolster his self-possession. “You want me to investigate this Fontaine fellow for her.”
“For me
. I feel responsible for her and I can’t abide the thought that she could give her precious heart to a smooth-talking, fast-footed bounder. She’s under his spell, and I want to be prepared in case he tries something shady.”
“She’s meeting him in secret?”
“I go to ‘lessons’ with her as chaperone and alibi. So far, they’ve just exchanged looks and sighs, and played violins so sweetly it would make a hangman cry. But that won’t last forever. And Mama would have a fit to think her precious Claire is having passionate thoughts about any man, much less a musician. Claire has always been the sweetest and best of us. And I admit, I don’t like keeping such a secret.” She looked down at the fingers she was wringing. “Not that I would ever tell Mama. But . . . secrets get so . . . complicated.”
“Yes,” he sobered, watching her come to one of the central lessons of his life and feeling strangely drawn to her in that moment. “Secrets are complicated. And uncovering them . . . airing the truth . . . dealing with the consequences . . . is often quite painful. Give a sober thought to that as you proceed with aiding and abetting your sister’s illicit romance.”
She looked askance at him and he realized she was drawing conclusions about him and his reputation as a gossip hawk.
“So, that is experience speaking?”
“It is.”
He clamped his hands firmly on his knees and leaned forward to see past the side of the carriage hood and gauge their location.
Traffic was terrible; wagons, omnibuses, pushcarts, and heavily laden lorries clogged the streets.
He sat back and gave a huge sigh. “I’m starting to feel a spark of sympathy for your ambitious mum. The two of you conspiring, sneaking behind her back, and plotting a romance that would give any proper parent the shivers . . . she has her hands full.”
“Honestly, she believes her life will be complete if she can see one of her daughters wearing the title of ‘duchess.’”
“I see.” He scrutinized her erect posture, smooth skin, and delicate coloring, and couldn’t help sharing his conclusion. “Daisy chose Ashton over Duke Arthur, so now it falls to you to make good on her life’s desire.”
“And along came Ottenberg.” She rolled her eyes. “She thinks he’s a gift from God.”
He chuckled. “An opinion he no doubt shares.” He watched her from the corner of his eye and a small, vulnerable part of him gave a silent cheer when she laughed.
God, but she was dangerous to be around. He had never felt so eager to see a woman—anyone, really—as he was to see her. She was bright, vibrant, outspoken, daring, and deliciously frank with her feelings and opinions. Frankness . . . from that day forward, he would never think of her as anything but “Frankie.”
When they arrived on her street and spotted the entrance to her house, she surprised him by covering his hand with hers as it lay on the seat.
“Thank you for helping me escape what would surely have been an awkward situation and an even more miserable afternoon.”
“My pleasure.” He sincerely hoped she didn’t know just how much of a pleasure it had been. He turned his hand over and felt her thread her fingers through his.
They finished the ride in silence, listening to the hum of the wheels and the clop of hooves on brick. When the carriage came to a stop, he rose, ordering the footman to see to the front door as he stepped down and collected Frankie in his arms. With minimal groaning, he carried her up the steps and into the center hall of the stylish townhouse, past the gaping butler.
* * *
Frankie tried to look wan and stricken, but there was too much color in her cheeks as she clung to his shoulders. Those lean, muscular shoulders. She could feel his body moving against her as he carried her up the stairs. He was straining gallantly a bit by the time they reached the second floor and her mother and sisters came running to see what had happened.
Elizabeth took charge, directing him to carry her into her room, then rushing back out to send Claire for the doctor and a footman to look for Red—who was supposed to be chaperoning her.
Reynard gave a terse account of her being thrown from her horse, which included Red and the duke seeing to the horses while Reynard escorted her home. Elizabeth was visibly disappointed that the duke hadn’t been the one to bring Frankie home, and annoyed that Red had thought more of “some blasted horse” than his precious niece’s health. She sailed out of the bedchamber, over Frankie’s feeble protests, to fetch headache powders and rally the household staff to her daughter’s welfare.
When Reynard moved to the bed to say, “I see you’re in good hands,” she grabbed his coat, pulled him down until their noses were almost touching.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and pulled him close enough for their lips to meet. Surprise made him hesitate for a moment, then he propped his arms on either side of her and let her take his mouth in a deepening, soul-shattering kiss. The possibility that her mother could rush in at any moment made that illicit contact so much more delicious. It was all he could do to keep from lowering himself against her and freeing his arms to hold her tight against him.
A sound near the door made him spring up and back away—though not without a last, hungry look at her flushed face and desire-filled eyes. His whole body was trembling. Elizabeth returned to usher him out without a word of gratitude and close the door sharply behind him. He was left to wander down the stairs and out the open front doors in a sensual haze that later would cause him more than a moment’s panic.
* * *
Upstairs, Frankie was interrogated about the calamity, scrutinized head to toe, and diagnosed with signs of an oncoming ague. Elizabeth had her lady’s maid, Bridges, come and help change Frankie into bedclothes, then administered cool cloths and a tincture of something god-awful-tasting and smelly.
The physician came and went, prescribing rest between the administration of more powders and tinctures. Elizabeth drew the drapes and assigned Sarah to sit with her sister in the darkened room, while she went downstairs to send messages to . . . whichever of her friends might be interested in or incensed by this bit of family drama.
Frankie fought the drowsiness from the medicines to go over and over that kiss in her mind. It was so lovely, so surprising. His mouth was by turns soft and hard, and his tongue laved her lips and—
“You kissed him,” Sarah’s voice came from nearby and when Frankie turned her head, she found her little sister leaning over the edge of the bed with wide eyes, biting her lower lip.
“I did not—”
“I saw you,” she charged. “I was there just behind the door and you grabbed his coat and you kissed him. And he kissed you back.”
It was no use trying to deny it.
“Yes, I did. And he did.” She let out a pleasant sigh.
Sarah leaned closer and whispered, “What was it like?”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “You have no business seeing that, much less asking about it.” But the look of expectation, the curiosity, and girlish eagerness made Frankie recall all of her own curiosity and the way she had wrangled Daisy into sharing intimate secrets with her. Surely it couldn’t hurt to tell her—
“It was lovely. His lips were soft one minute, hard the next. He felt warm and tasted oddly sweet. It was amazing.” She grabbed Sarah’s sleeve and pulled her closer. “And if you breathe a word of this to Mama, you’re dead.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sarah said, pulling her arm away. “Staked out on the rocks and all that malarkey.” She grinned. “You really liked it?”
“I did,” Frankie said, snuggling deeper into the covers and feeling her body alive with lovely new sensations. “Already, I want another one.”
* * *
Red had always had a way with horses. Despite an inauspicious start with the duke’s failed purchase, he had managed to run the handsome beast down and lead him to safety before he managed to hurt somebody or get hurt himself. Rogue horses on London streets were shown no mercy.
“Here ye are, ye stubborn four-legger. You were damn close to a date with the knacker man.” He led the horse into a box stall at the Trinity Road stables, where the Bumgartens kept their horses. A stable hand brought hay and water and a few oats, eyeing the horse warily as he backed out of the stall. Red waited a while, watching the horse adjust to the calm surroundings, and then approached it to remove the bridle and heavy bit. He scowled at the dried blood on the bit and took a quick look at the horse’s mouth. “Still tender there, are you? Not used to a rough hand. Well, yer Handsome Highness, you are one lucky bag o’ bones.”
When Red arrived home, he found Frankie in bed and the household in turmoil. Elizabeth gave him a verbal thrashing for being such a poor chaperone before he escaped to Frankie’s room and found Sarah napping in a chair by her bed. He paused a moment, scrutinizing Frankie’s face, and then shook her arm gently. Her eyes flew wide before settling into warm recognition.
“What’s up, Frank? You said you were fine, else I wouldn’ta left you.” He settled on the edge of her bed and took her hand in his. “Yer ma has you beatin’ down death’s door.”
“I’m okay, Uncle Red. I just needed to get out of that mess, so I . . . fainted at the sight of blood on Aramis.”
“Blood on Aramis?”
“The fancy boy kicked him, that’s why he went down and dumped me off. We saw the cut later and I . . . fainted.”
“Sorry I missed that.” He chuckled. “Must have been a sight.”
“Is Aramis all right? I heard Reynard ask someone to take him to a veterinary surgeon to get stitched up.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll check with the Fox to get yer boy home.” He paused for a moment. “I caught up with the runaway, but by the time I got ’im back to that Rotten Row, everyone was gone, so I brought him to Trinity for the night. He’s got a tender mouth, and they put a nasty curb bit on him.”
“So, he’s fancy?” Sarah said, sitting up in the chair. She had obviously been listening. “What color is he?”
“A dapple white with black mane and tail. Purtyest thing ye ever did see. High-strung, though.”
“I want to see him,” Sarah said, coming to the edge of her seat.
“Go ahead.” Red waved his hand toward the door. “Just don’t let yer ma see you slip out. And be sure to get back in time for supper.”
* * *
Trinity wasn’t far away and Sarah took one of her dogs with her in the alleys she walked. Nero was a wolfhound mix who was devoted to Sarah and had been known to growl at Elizabeth when she chastised Sarah too vehemently. When she entered the stable, she spotted Marley, the head groom, and waved, asking where they had put the new boy.
“There you are,” she said, climbing up onto the gate of the stall for a look at the stallion. She gave a low whistle. “They were right about you. You are a pretty boy.” After a minute, she made Nero wait in the stable alley while she entered the stall to get a better look at him.
He was glorious. Perfect lines—a bit muscular—not a thoroughbred—something more interesting. She folded her arms and leaned her shoulder against the wall, letting him get used to her presence.
After a bit, he stretched his neck toward her and sniffed. She smiled. He wasn’t beyond redemption, he was just sensitive. She edged closer, maintaining her casual, arms-folded posture. He took a single step toward her, sniffing again.
“You’ve got mats in your mane. And that fancy tail could use a brush.” She kept her voice low and soft. “How long has it been since you had a good grooming?”
He perked up his ears toward her and she laughed softly.
“If I didn’t know better I’d swear you understood what I just said.”
She found a stool and brought it into the stall. Perched and comfortable, she called Nero in and he instinctively gave the stallion a wide berth. He sat down at her feet and watched the horse, even as she did. She began to talk to the horse about her family and their other horses and their home in the States.
By the time she left, she sensed that he would allow her to approach, and she gave his neck and withers an affectionate stroke. Tomorrow, she vowed, she would find out who owned him and make them an offer.