His Secret Heroine (5 page)

Reggie forced himself to breathe. "Correspondence, sir."

"Not that damnable poetry again."

"No, sir. Not in quite some time."

"Well, there's that. You have been inattentive to your cousin, Reginald."

Reggie wanted to groan, but stifled it. "Yes, sir."

"She has complained to me. No doubt you have been playing with that bedamned
ship."

"
Boat, sir. A ketch is a boat. Not full-rigged, only two masts—"

With a wave of his hand, the duke dismissed Reggie's objection. He picked up the half of lemon and sniffed it. "What is this obsession you have with lemons, Reginald?"

"Freshens the air, sir. And I am fond of the flavor."

The Duke's nostrils wrinkled. "Reginald, I do not care how much you sail the bedamned boat once you have married. But until then you will pay court to your cousin Portia. Have I not made myself clear about this?"

"You have, sir," Reggie replied through barred teeth.

"A married man need not be concerned with his wife's sensibilities. A single man, however
— But there is no need for that discussion. We have had it before."

"Indeed, sir." Numerous times. Reggie also had his father's perfect example on that subject.

The duke ran a gloved finger over a marquetry table and inspected the imaginary mark it left in dust that wasn't there. His nostrils flared the tiniest bit. "I cannot conceive why you wish to live like this. Featherstone could be yours, and the trust as well."

It already was, and they both knew it. Reggie's inheritance from his grandfather should have come to him on his twenty-fifth birthday, four months past. But the duke had called upon a technicality
in the will, claiming Reggie to be too immature to manage his affairs, and Reggie would be hard put to dislodge the duke's hold over the trustee.

"It's time you come up to scratch, Reginald. I'll not brook any more delays. Do you understand me?"

Reggie nodded, knowing that would not satisfy his father, who continued his fixed stare from steel blue eyes, waiting to hear the actual words. Reggie gave in. "I do, sir."

Just the slightest folding of the man's lips acknowledged the response, but Reggie knew how to read it.

"You will call upon your cousin and make your addresses. I had not wished to say this, but if you do not, you will receive nothing on quarter day. You do understand me."

Reggie returned the icy glare with his face carefully schooled. "Yes sir." He had not said he would comply, but knew his father's great conceit equated understanding with obedience.

His father's visits were something to be endured. Hostility might merely crackle in the air, but the slightest hint of rebellion would bring the duke's wrath descending with the vindictiveness of Olympic gods. Reggie followed his father from room to room, tolerating the criticism which trod the thin line between fact and insult, because he knew the inevitable next step.

After precisely fifteen minutes, the duke stood at the door. Puckett deposited the rolled rim beaver hat in the duke's hand. Without so much as a curt nod, the duke pivoted, and if Puckett had not had sufficient familiarity with the duke
's habits to anticipate him with an open door, the duke would have walked right into it.

The moment the door closed behind his father, Reggie and Puckett let out deep sighs together.

"That was a close one, sir," said Puckett.

Reggie nodded at the obvious. He could manage fifteen minutes, for it was always precisely that, but he could never tolerate living in his father's household again. If he married Portia, it would be all of the same, for Portia would be completely biddable, not to her husband, but to the duke. And Reggie would never write another word.

Reggie's argument, that he was not his father's heir, and would not ever be, was futile. From the day Robert had slipped away to fight a war rather than deal with his domineering parent, the Duke of Marmount had persuaded himself his heir would die in battle. All the duke's attention had turned on Reggie, rage boiling beneath the rim of the duke's emotional cup, always at the point of spilling over. But in the end, Robert would inherit. It was the only thing the duke could not control. Reggie hadn't cared about that. He had only wanted to please his father. But after more than six years of trying, he had finally accepted that the duke would never be pleased.

Reggie had nothing to gain, not even his father's elusive love, by marrying his obnoxious cousin. He certainly would not accept the misery of eternal domination for the sake of an inheritance he didn't want and would never receive.

A shudder shook him all the way down his spine. He had to sell
The Adventuress
soon. And if he wanted Chloe, he'd have to move fast. Before the duke discovered her.

* * *

"Are you quite sure this is what you want, my dear?" asked Aunt Daphne as she descended the stairs with Chloe.

In the entry below, Chloe heard an unfashionably early caller with Cargill. She touched her aunt's arm. Her spirits dropped quickly as she recognized Lord Vilheurs's
oily-smooth voice that fit so well with his nearly black hair and eyes. Chloe set a passable smile on her face, stifled a sigh and descended to the entry as Cargill passed a bouquet of white and red roses to a maid.

"My dear Miss
Englefield," Vilheurs said after addressing her aunt. "So pleasing to see you are well after that dreadful boat ride."

Chloe blinked, but then recalled Lady
Lavington's discomfort. Perhaps he assumed such was the fate of all females. She led the gentleman toward the salon. "I am surprised, Lord Vilheurs. We found it pleasant."

"Do forgive my early hour, my dear, but my impatience is born of concern. Dare I say, I feared for your health in such a chill wind?"

Chloe repressed a snicker. "I am not of a fragile nature, sir. Such fresh air cannot be bad for one. Did you not see the pall hanging over town? I should fear that more."

He gave an odd smile that seemed to have no meaning. "But of course, you are not accustomed to
Town. It must seem so to you." The man paused, choosing his words. "Miss Englefield, might I hope to drive out with you this afternoon?"

Chloe gritted her teeth. She could not turn him down, then accept Lord Reginald if he came to call. She opened her mouth, searching for a saving reply.

"Oh, but my dear," said Aunt Daphne. "Don't you recall—" Aunt Daphne let her words trail off.

Whatever did her aunt expect her to say?

Fingers to her lips, Chloe stumbled about for an escape. "Dear me, what have I done? Have I forgotten my promises again, Aunt Daphne? Oh, what you must think, Lord Vilheurs!"

His black brows furrowed as he cocked his head. Ah. That was it. Say anything. As long as her words said nothing at all. "Oh, do forgive me,
Lord Vilheurs," she rattled, glancing at Aunt Daphne. "I cannot think where my mind has gone. Perhaps you are right. All that fresh air. Can it be that it affects the mind?"

"Oh, no, Miss
Englefield," Vilheurs replied, his brow furrowed with confusion, "I am sure nothing is wrong with your mind."

"Then it must simply be that I am overtaxed. The Season, you know. As you say, I am not at all accustomed to such bustle. Do say you forgive me."

"Of course, my dear, but—"

"I am so very grateful." She took his arm, leading him back out the salon to the corridor. "How vexing it must be for a man to deal with female failings! Do say you will come again. And how very kind of you to bring the flowers."

"Of course. Not vexing at all. Yes. You do understand the language of flowers, do you not, my dear?"

Chloe hoped her smile did not look as weak as it felt. "Of course,
Lord Vilheurs. White for kindness. Red for— what is it, Aunt Daphne? Red for blood, is it not? Oh, yes, courage." She drew the man to the door, where Cargill waited with his tall hat.

"No, Miss
Englefield, it is white for purity, and first love."

"Oh, yes," Chloe said, all but pushing him out the door. "
And too young for love. How right you are, Lord Vilheurs. I shall be glad I listened to you. So very kind of you to come. I fear I must hurry now. Do call again."

Lord Vilheurs stuttered all the way out until the door shut behind him. Chloe rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

Aunt Daphne put her hand to her lips to hide her mischievous smile. "I do believe I have never seen anything quite like that," she said. "However did you think of such a thing?"

"I thought I was merely following your lead,
Aunt. Was that not what you had in mind?"

"I should say not, as I have no notion what it was you did. But I should not try it on the man again, my dear."

Chloe supposed not even he would fall for such blather a second time. But perhaps she presumed too much, to think Lord Reginald would call on her today.

* * *

Reggie sprang down from his curricle just as Lord Vilheurs strode out the door of Miss Englefield's town house. A glower hung on the man's face as heavy as his black eyebrows.

"Good morning, Villy," Reggie said, handing over the reins to the groom. "Up a bit early, aren't you?"

Vilheurs glared back. "Early bird catches the worm, Beauhampton."

"Well, then, I shall hope that for you." Reggie skipped up the steps. Vilheurs swiveled around as Reggie raced past him.

Reggie entered as sedately as he could manage, but the moment his gaze landed on Miss Englefield, the sudden urge to wrap her in an enthusiastic hug hit him. He flexed his hands nervously. "I pray you will forgive my early call, although I see I am not the first. I beg you, Miss Hawarth, tell me you and your niece have not already accepted an invitation for the day."

The two women glanced at each other, and something like a smirk wiggled on each of their mouths.

"We have no commitments for the day," said Miss Englefield.

"Then, might you drive out with me this afternoon?"

Again, the two pairs of light green eyes exchanged glances.

Miss
Englefield drew in a slow breath. "Perhaps you might take us out again on your
Xanthe.
Perhaps a bit farther than yesterday?"

His heart ran away with itself. He had not even dared hope for as much. "I could have no greater pleasure, Miss
Englefield, and the weather is perfect, but we have several hours to the coast from the berth in Tilbury, too far if we are to return before nightfall. But we can sail for awhile if we hurry. I shall return for you in half an hour."

Reggie rode home like a madman and threw on wool trousers and coat. Precisely half an hour later, he brought up a coach to the
Englefield house and took up the two ladies, and by noon, the coach reached the dock.

As they cast off, the stiff breeze snapped the sails
. The
Xanthe
caught the current and sped downstream. Miss Englefield stood beside him on the quarterdeck, her eyes bright with anticipation. The wind in her face tugged golden curls, whipping them about like pennants, giving her the bold look of his Circe. On an impulse, she lifted her golden Kashmir shawl to catch the wind and billow like a sail above her head. His imagination ran wild.

"
Man the yardarm, Scovill!"

"
Aye, Sir!"

Reggie escorted the ladies across the deck, naming and explaining functions from boom to hatch, while MacDevie tacked to starboard for a clear route in the crowded river.

Then MacDevie offered the wheel to Miss Englefield.

A glimmer of excitement played behind Miss
Englefield's solemnity. "If it would not be a bother."

MacDevie stepped aside as if he relinquished the wheel to young ladies every day.

"She'll not go down, sir! Not while she's in my hands!"

He could see her lashing herself to the helm in a raging storm to save her ship. His Circe would never let her ship founder on the rocks, nor capsize in a trough.

The foresail played out, then the mainsail , the staysail and the jibs, and the
Xanthe
glided with wind, current and tide, while Reggie studied the horizon for any signs of weather, feeling a tightness in the air. Something, he thought-something was out there, but he saw no sign of it. Seagulls rose, circled, soared and dove with the wind in their eternal search for food.

"We are going much faster today," Miss
Englefield remarked.

He nodded. "Close to s
ix knots," he guessed. "Yesterday the air was light, and I ran all the sails, yet we made little progress. But the
Xanthe's
rigging and sails are an entirely new idea in boat-building. A fellow I know sketched off the rigging of an American schooner,
Lynx
, that was used as a privateer until she was captured. Sometimes
Xanthe's
speed is frightening to those who are not accustomed to it."