Lord & Master (4 page)

He groaned into my racing pulse as if he were in the severest pain.

“Mia,” he growled. “Holy God.”

The sound of my Christian name, which was quite improper for him to use, shocked me near enough to my senses to call a halt to our debauchery.

“Let me down,” I demanded, shoving at his shoulders.

He stopped the movements of his hips but didn’t lift his head. “Are you sure?”

“Very,” I said, overruling the decidedly different preference of my body.

He allowed my weight to slide down his front until my boots touched the floor. I was shaking but managed to balance.

“Step back,” I insisted, still held too close to him.

He stepped back, gathering my hands in his on the way.

“No,” he said when I attempted to tug them back. “I wish to hold onto these.”

“They’re
my
hands.”

I sounded childish, so perhaps it was no wonder that he smiled. “They’ll be my hands when we’re married.”

“
When
—!”

“When, Miss Beck. Don’t lose your mettle one stride before the jump. You and I are well suited. After that kiss, no one could doubt it.”

“I don’t deny a certain spark.”

“That was a bonfire, Miss Beck, which the present heat and melting in your person should inform you.”

I frowned at him and his grin widened. “Come, Miss Beck. You’ll like being mistress here. Diogenes House has all the latest conveniences. Indoor plumbing. Electricity. Central heating and telephone. If you fear you’ll be homesick, I can always buy your father’s home in Marchton.”

“No,” I said so sharply it startled both of us.

“No?” Mr. Call repeated, his golden head tilted.

I smoothed the front of my rumpled gown. “I am . . . not attached to the place. I should be delighted never to see it more.”

I’d spoken too emphatically. Mr. Call’s gilded brows drew together, forming a perplexed furrow above his nose. I thought he’d press me for an explanation; dreaded it, actually. Evidently, he was too perceptive to blunder in that fashion. His face cleared and grew canny.

“You
do
know the best way to ensure never returning there.”

The reality of my circumstances descended back on me like a thundercloud. As matters stood, Marchton couldn’t shelter me much longer.

I met his eyes, attempting to read the truth of who he was in them. Could I marry a stranger to save myself? Would life with Mr. Call be better than the fate that awaited me? He wanted me as his bride, but—sense-stealing kiss aside—I couldn’t fathom the reason why. A man like him, with looks and money (and charm, if I were truthful) needn’t find a wife so eccentrically. Whatever he’d claimed this evening, more motives . . . more
needs
must lurk beneath. Could I meet them? Would we both regret me trying?

“I will not hurt you,” he said, seeming to recognize my answer trembled in the balance.

Perhaps he meant it. Mr. Poole had called him honest. There were, however, different sorts of hurt in the world. I was certain Mr. Call wasn’t referring to all of them.

Chapter Four

OUR
standoff was settled more by Mr. Call than myself. My maid and I motored back to Marchton to “sleep on it,” as he put it. Mr. Poole would visit me upon the morrow, with a written offer for me to consider.

“You may negotiate with him,” my would-be betrothed said, seeming irritated I had not agreed on the spot. “I shall want your answer by this hour tomorrow.”

As the Packard rumbled off, the last glimpse I caught through its window was of Mr. Call standing in the great front doorway, his frustration evident as he raked both sets of fingers back through his sun-streaked hair. He appeared quite the Atlas, his upraised elbows broadening his chest, his legs planted akimbo. I couldn’t help wondering what his vigorous body looked like under those stylish clothes.

My irrational urge to fling out the door and run to him was difficult to subdue.

“Goodness, he seems keen on you,” Regina commented.

He did, and it was a reaction I had scant experience with.

As much as anything else, my awareness of his attraction to me caused me to toss and turn into the wee hours. When I awoke the final time at sunup, I rung for Regina to help me dress. Hoping it would aid my decision, I quizzed her on her treatment by Mr. Call’s servants.

“They were nice, miss,” she said. “No bad apples that I could tell. And the food there is very good.”

Regina’s blush told me at least one of those “nice” servants had caught her eye. I sighed to myself, hoping this hadn’t compromised her judgment. She wasn’t a bad lady’s maid—or lacking in moral sense. She was simply young and prone to the usual admiration for footmen’s calves.

“You
ought
to accept him,” Regina said earnestly as she pinned up my long dark hair. “I like working for you. If you’re in the poorhouse, I’ll have to find a new mistress.”

With this hard fact of life to ponder, I ate a simple breakfast, then met Mr. Poole in the drawing room.

He handed me a contract.

“This is very generous,” I said once I’d finished examining it.

Surprise colored my response. Mr. Call proposed to settle a considerable sum on me, such that I would not starve even if we divorced. In addition, I was to have a good allowance and could bring what servants I liked to Diogenes House—so that I might feel at home. All he asked in return was that I remain beneath his roof for the next six months and that I try in good faith to come to care for him.

This request rather astonished me. Mr. Call struck me as too proud to ask anyone to
try
to care for him. It made me feel peculiar to read the words, as if a fist were pressing on my breastbone.

I’d have thought he’d assume caring for him were inevitable.

“It is generous,” Mr. Poole agreed.

The comment didn’t enlighten me.

“Why is he doing this?” I asked, hoping to elicit a smidge more intelligence.

“I don’t know, Miss Beck.”

“Is he mad?”

“I don’t believe so,” he replied.

“What
do
you know about him?” I demanded.

My father’s taste in furniture had been heavy, overstuffed, and Victorian—a marked contrast to Mr. Call’s chic abode. The lawyer and I sat beside a dark round table cluttered with snuffboxes. At my question, Mr. Poole shifted in his chair. “Mr. Call’s main business is railroads: building and investing. He likes automobiles, modern gadgets, and fast horses. From what I hear, he’s had success racing his stable. He also owns an airplane, though I’m not certain if he pilots it himself.”

“That tells me something of the man,” I said, “but hardly enough to marry him.”

Mr. Poole rubbed his bony jaw. “I’m not sure I should tell you this . . .”

My interest immediately piqued. “Yes?” I prompted.

“Only this morning, he asked me to look into buying him a title.”

“A title.” I felt my brows draw together in confusion.

“I believe he doesn’t want you to regret losing your chance to marry an aristocrat.”

I wasn’t sure I’d ever had a chance of that.

“Well,” I said, falling back in my chair.

“Some would say his action shows consideration.”

Mr. Poole sounded as hopeful as Regina that I’d sign on the dotted line. Cynically, I wondered if Mr. Call had promised the lawyer a bonus upon my delivery.

“When would he wish to marry?”

Mr. Poole grimaced. “Tonight. In the chapel on his estate. He’s obtained a special license.”

Tonight! I couldn’t possibly. Except . . . what did I care about a fancy ceremony? I tried to imagine drawing up a guest list. People would come, but they wouldn’t be people I knew well, and they’d only attend out of curiosity. Better to do the deed quietly. Better to have it done, if it came to that. My situation wasn’t going to change except for the worse—sooner rather than later, I expected.

I touched my lips, abruptly remembering the feel of Mr. Call plundering them. His tongue had been sleek and had tasted faintly of cinnamon. Was saying
yes
truly a sacrifice?

Decide with your head
, I ordered.
Not your animal nature
.

Mr. Poole watched me cogitate.

“I’ll do it,” I said, secretly praying this wasn’t a colossal mistake. “Please inform Mr. Call I shall bring my lady’s maid and the more necessary of my personal belongings. If his kindness extends so far, I’d appreciate keeping the driver and the Packard. Mr. Call will have to arrange for the transfer with Marchton’s creditors, but it’s a beautiful motor and Goddard takes excellent care of it.”

“You wish to bring no other staff?” Mr. Poole inquired.

“Our cook is awful. No one else in particular stands out.”

I enjoyed saying that. In the main, I’d never liked my father’s servants. They weren’t better than passable, and they’d showed little respect for me: his much-overlooked daughter. Let them find new places as they were able. I washed my hands of them.

“As you wish,” said Mr. Poole. Sensing we were done, he rose and retrieved his hat. “If I may say so, Miss Beck, I don’t think you’ll be sorry.”

I couldn’t imagine how he knew. He was a man, a bachelor, and nearly as ignorant concerning my future spouse as I was. Still, his optimism wasn’t unwelcome.

“Thank you,” I said. “I pray this new partnership benefits us both.”

Chapter Five

NOW that I’d accepted, Mr. Call seemed bent on denying me an instant to change my mind.

From the moment my trunks and I arrived at Diogenes House, I was hustled through wedding preparations. To my relief, I was to have my own bedroom suite. This was a set of beautiful rose and pale gold chambers on the second floor, quite large and overlooking the formal rear gardens. I understood—vaguely, at least—what was expected of a wife. Though determined to hold up my end of the bargain, I knew some privacy would be desirable.

I’d finished bathing in the hot- and cold-tapped clawfoot tub, which Regina and I both found luxurious. In honor of this afternoon’s proceedings, she’d laid out my nicest gown. Before I could don the garment, the head housemaid, an authentic French girl named Imogene, knocked and carried in an astonishing armload of ivory velvet and silk chiffon.

Regina covered her pretty mouth in wonder.

“Goodness!” I burst out. “Where did that come from?”

“It’s for tonight,” the housemaid replied. “The master asks would you please wear it? The other maids and I have been altering it all day to get it right for you.”

Her words suggested he’d had the thing on hand. My mind boggled. What sort of man bought a wedding dress before he had a woman to put in it?

My second shock came when the gown fit me perfectly. With one maid to either side of me, I studied my reflection in the tall cheval mirror. Though the high waist was snug, my corset didn’t require re-lacing.

“What an eye Mr. Call must have,” Regina marveled. “He’s gauged your measurements to a dot.”

He’d gauged them with more than his eyes.

Hopefully unable to guess my thoughts, Imogene tugged the gown’s drop shoulders an inch farther. I’d been provided no fichu for modesty, and more of my bosom’s soft swells appeared.

“There,” the French girl said cheerfully. “Now you look ravishing.”

I suppose I did. My brunette coloring glowed beside the cream velvet. My curves—which were not slight—were draped but not constricted by the dress’s slightly hobbled empire silhouette. Apart from their delicate embroidery, the long sleeves were sheer as smoke, clearly revealing the shape of my upper limbs. An inch or two beneath my breasts, a pearl-swagged band demarked the end of the crossed bodice. From there, artful layers of chiffon and velvet cascaded to pool over my matched slippers. To my dazzled eyes, I looked a fashion plate: uncharacteristically glamorous and romantic.

I bit my lip with sudden nervousness.

“No need to fear, miss,” Imogene assured me. “The master will be wishing he could have you right there in the chapel.”

Regina giggled, but I shot the French girl a sharp look.

“Forgive me,” she said, dropping her head and at least pretending to be abashed. “I didn’t mean to be familiar. I thought you might worry your husband wouldn’t be keen enough.”

This was hardly my fear—and what kind of maid would suggest it was?

Uncertain of my footing with my betrothed’s staff, I refrained from scolding her.

“Apology accepted,” I said instead. “You may go. Regina and I can see to the rest.”

Regina saw to it. My nerves were too strained by then. This was truly happening. By this time tomorrow, I’d be a wife.

Regina was affixing the floor-length veil with an orange blossom headpiece when a light rap sounded on the adjoining door. I’d been ignoring the presence of this discreet entry. I was aware Mr. Call’s sleeping chamber probably connected to my own.

The thought flicked through my mind that if Mr. Call were knocking, him seeing me in this dress was bad luck. I threw off the superstition. What did one more risk matter?

“Come,” I called.

Mr. Call entered.

He’d already dressed, and my breath caught slightly in my throat. His swallowtail coat displayed the breadth of his chest and shoulders, his white waistcoat hugging his trim waist. His dark gray trousers flowed down his powerful legs. My heart thumped faster. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a man this godlike.

When he caught sight of me, his stride faltered. He seemed taken aback for some reason. I hoped he was not displeased. His eyes traveled up and down me from head to hem.

“You are a vision,” he said, taking a moment to find his tongue.

“The dress you sent up is beautiful.”

“
You’re
beautiful.”

I wanted to say he was too but couldn’t get the compliment past my constricted vocal chords.

He shook himself and then held out a brown leather case. It was the size of a large novel. “I brought you a bride gift. I hope you’ll please me by wearing it.”

I immediately felt uneasy. “You’ve given me so much already.”

“Please,” he insisted, pushing it toward me.

I opened the hinged box. I expected pearls. They were traditional. Instead, diamonds lay within the blue velvet interior—quite a lot of them, actually.