Once Upon a Moonlit Night: A Maiden Lane novella (5 page)

Her eyes were fathomless pools and if he let himself he might fall in and drown in their mysterious depths.

On the whole it wouldn’t be a bad death.

Tommy leaped into her lap with a trill and she broke eye contact with him and glanced down.

Matthew glared at the mongoose, but she smiled secretly at the animal, stroking him under the chin. “You’ve never told me where you got him. Did you buy him from a snake charmer?”

He snorted. “Nothing so prosaic.”

She looked up, eyebrows raised. “Well, now you must tell me.”

He sighed, crossing his arms and angling his legs across the carriage. “My party was deep in the interior, near the Himalayan mountains. We’d stopped for the night in a small native village where we’d paid the local headman for the privilege of sleeping on his earthen floor and eating his wife’s stew. As it happened, a party of Dutchmen was there as well—a rival group of scientists also mapping the mountains. As the night wore on the Dutchmen brought out some dice and we got to gambling.”

“Oh, Mr. Mortimer.” Princess shook her head.

He felt his lips twitch at her pretend shock, but firmly brought his expression under control. “In my own defense there really wasn’t anything else to do. Anyway, the hour grew late, the biggest Dutchman—the leader of their expedition—was drinking deeply of the wine they carried, and losing very badly to me. But—and this is important—he refused to concede the night. Instead he put up the only thing he had remaining in his possession that he had left to lose.”

Her eyes widened and she glanced down at the mongoose, now curled around her hand, contentedly dozing. “You mean Tommy?”

“I mean Tommy,” he replied. “The next morning the Dutchmen were all gone and I was the proud owner of a brass compass, which I had no need of since I already had two; a ruby, which later turned out to be paste; a broken silver watch; and a mongoose, who enjoys eating vermin in my bed—and leaving behind the bones.”

For a moment she stared at him and then she threw back her head and laughed, full-throated and wonderful, the sound like an arrow through his heart, and he had the sudden urge to make her laugh again and again.

“Oh, poor Mr. Mortimer,” she said when she regained control. “Fooled into accepting ownership of a mongoose by a shady Dutchman.”

“It wasn’t one of my more shining moments,” he agreed, reaching in the basket for a bottle.

“No wonder you’re so suspicious of people you meet on the road.”

“Mmm.”

She hesitated and then asked shyly, “Do you believe me now, though?”

He paused in uncorking the bottle. She was looking at him, her small chin tilted proudly up.

He uncorked the bottle and drank, all the while watching her. “Does it matter, Princess?”

She blinked and then suddenly smiled, mischievous and carefree, and something in his heart seemed to squeeze and not let go. “Perhaps not.”

It was late afternoon when Hippolyta was woken from a doze by the jolt of the carriage.

She opened her eyes dazedly and realized that she was leaning against a warm male form. “What—?”

The arm holding her tightened briefly and then Mr. Mortimer drawled in a deep voice, “You looked ready to tumble onto the carriage floor.”

“Oh.” She yawned and peered out the carriage window. They seemed to be coming to a city. “Where are we?”

“Leeds,” he said. “I think we’ll stop for the night.”

She nodded, not bothering to move, though she knew she should. It was completely inappropriate for her to be lying here in Mr. Mortimer’s arms. But then it was completely inappropriate for her to’ve shared a room with him, to’ve shared a
bed
with him, to’ve done almost all the things she’d done in the last three days.

She found she simply didn’t care.

No one knew who she was here. There was no need to worry about her posture, to parse her words. No one cared who she was or where she came from. It was wonderfully freeing.

And besides. She liked feeling Mr. Mortimer’s hard hot body next to hers.
That
admission was completely inappropriate as well. Would she even have made it a fortnight ago? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps all that had happened since had changed her in a profound and permanent way.

Or perhaps it was simply Mr. Mortimer.

The thought was disconcerting and Hippolyta pushed herself upright just as the carriage rolled to a stop.

“Wait here,” he said, getting up. “I’ll see if there’s room.”

Mr. Mortimer stepped from the carriage and shut the door behind him.

Hippolyta stared down at her hands. Leeds was nearly halfway to London—or so she thought. Eventually they would arrive home. And then? Perhaps she’d never see him again.

No.

She inhaled. No. Even if he was simply a cartographer, she would…would ask him to call on her. There. Papa had started life as the son of a vicar. He might’ve made his fortune since and been knighted, but Papa would understand coming from a humble beginning. She was
nearly
certain.

The carriage door opened again and Mr. Mortimer stuck his head back in. A lock of sun-streaked hair had escaped from his tie and she had an urge to push it back from his forehead. “We have a room.”

She firmly clasped her hands and beamed at him. “Oh, good. Let me just find Tommy.”

He shook his head. “Leave him for now. I’ll take you in and then come back for him.”

She stood and held out her hand.

He frowned at it and then glanced back at the inn yard. “It’s full of shit out here.”

“Then you’d best carry me.”

He eyed her, his face going blank for a moment. In a sudden swift movement, he gathered her into his arms and against his chest.

Hippolyta felt her heart trip over. She looped her arms about his neck as he turned to the inn, watching his profile. He had the beginnings of stubble on his jaw. “Will you order a bath tonight?”

He glanced at her, his green eyes dark. “D’you take a bath every night, Princess?”

“No,” she murmured, leaning close to the corner of his jaw. She rather wanted to put her lips there. “But
you
might want one. And I think it only fair that I have the chance to ogle you in your bath.”

He stopped in the middle of the crowded inn yard and growled, “Princess, are you flirting with me?”

Her heart was beating so fast it was like a moth fluttering against a window in her chest. She leaned up and brushed her mouth against his.

The kiss was meant to be sweet—a mere touch of the lips. A tentative first volley. She’d not kissed many men in her lifetime, frankly.

But he made a sound deep in his throat and opened his mouth over hers, angling his head, probing with his tongue against her lips…and when hers fell open, he took full advantage. Storming her defenses, overrunning her walls, laying waste to everything she’d thought she knew about men and their passions.

Everything she’d thought she knew about herself.

His mouth was hard and ruthless, taking possession of her lips, her tongue, her
soul
, it seemed. She gasped, arching closer, her fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his neck. He was so hot, so strong. She wanted to press her breasts into his chest. Wanted to feel his heat, his bare chest, the pulse of his heart.

She moaned, the sound shockingly loud.

“Hippolyta!”

Her head jerked back at the shout and for a moment only his face, hard and impassioned, staring down at her, filled her vision.

Then Hippolyta glanced around and her eyes widened. “
Papa?
”

Her father was striding toward them, his face flushed an unhealthy red. “Unhand my daughter, sirrah!”

If anything, Mr. Mortimer gripped her more firmly to his chest. “This is your father?”

“I…oh, my God,
yes
.” Behind Papa was the tall, elegant form of Viscount d’Arque and her father’s oldest friend, Mr. Richard Hartshorn, whom he’d known since their days in India. Both of them were her father’s business partners, but why they should be here…

Hippolyta couldn’t think. Her mind was a blank.

Everyone in the yard had turned to look at the scene.

Lord d’Arque had placed a hand on Papa’s arm. “Not here, sir.”

“He has my Hippolyta!” Papa was struggling with the viscount.

“Is that Sir George Royle?” a female voice fluted.

Standing in the doorway to the inn were a group of ladies, among them Mrs. Jellett…who was widely considered the biggest gossip in London.

Dear
God
. This
had
to be some sort of nightmare.

“Oh, and there’s Miss Hippolyta Royle,” Mrs. Jellett continued, sounding very excited. “And who is that holding her so very scandalously? My goodness, I’m sure I’ve seen that face before. Now let me see…”

But Papa had reached them now, despite Lord d’Arque’s attempts at restraining him. He was a head shorter than Mr. Mortimer, but he glared fiercely up at the man still holding her. “Who are you, sirrah?”

Hippolyta felt his big hands flex on her shoulders and bottom. “Matthew Mortimer, the Earl of Paxton.” Her head snapped around and she gaped at him, the
Earl
of…? but his proud glare was all for her father. “Your future son-in-law, sir.”

“How did you come to be traveling with my daughter?” Sir George asked some twenty minutes later.

The man’s color was a little better, though he still scowled and Matthew had felt it a good idea to stand for this meeting.

They’d adjourned to a private room in the inn—he, Sir George, Viscount d’Arque, and Mr. Hartshorn. Sir George, a short man but fit despite his high color, had taken a chair in the middle of the room. He wore a white wig and a well-cut somber brown suit. Seated to his right was Hartshorn, a man of between fifty and sixty, who wore his own graying hair clubbed back. He had a thin face and narrow, clever eyes. D’Arque was younger than the other two men, much closer in age to Matthew. His tall form was propped against a wall, and he watched the proceedings from heavy-lidded gray eyes, a snowy-white wig covering his head. Both men were business partners of Sir George, which, presumably, was why they’d been assisting in the hunt for Hippolyta. Less understandable was why the viscount had brought his grandmother, Lady Whimple, along on the search. Although after having met the elderly lady—even if only briefly—Matthew suspected it was because d’Arque simply hadn’t been able to stop her. In any case, Lady Whimple and Hippolyta were in another of the inn’s rooms.

He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hippolyta in private yet. The last he’d seen of her, Hippolyta’s eyes had been wide and shocked. He didn’t know if her shock was because of the way in which she had been found, his own title, or his declaration of his intent to marry her.

Surely she understood that there was no other way.

Not if she wanted to salvage her family’s name, because, good
God
, she
had
a family name. She’d been telling the truth all along and was exactly who she’d said she was from the very start. He’d begun to believe it this morning, but now the truth had been driven home rather forcefully.

He almost winced when he considered what she would say on the matter to him later on.

Instead Matthew kept his face carefully blank and looked at Sir George. “Your daughter stopped my carriage on the high road in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm. She said she was being pursued. I took her into my carriage and protected her. We were on our way to London when you found us here.”

Hartshorn frowned. “We know you only took one room here.”

Before Matthew could answer, Sir George huffed. “How do I know you weren’t the one who took my poor Hippolyta, sir?”

Matthew’s eyebrows shot up at the second question, but he turned to Hartshorn first. “I vowed to keep Miss Royle safe. Letting her sleep by herself unprotected hardly seemed the best way to do so.” He looked at the fuming Sir George. “And if I’d decided to kidnap a famous heiress I’d like to think I would be intelligent enough
not
to linger on the main highway. Besides. My ship, the
Gallant
, docked in Edinburgh a mere week ago. I would’ve had to have had wings to have flown to London and kidnap Miss Royle there.”

“So you slept in the same room with my daughter,” Sir George growled, sounding not at all appeased.

Matthew looked the older man in the eye. “
Yes.
And on my honor I did not touch her.”

“Why should I believe
anything
you say?” Hippolyta’s father shouted. “You claim to be an earl but your suit is old and you drive a broken-down carriage with but two disreputable servants. You say you haven’t touched my daughter, but half of Leeds saw you embrace her in a public inn yard not half an hour ago. Tell me, sirrah, why I should not call you out this very minute!”

“Because you’d ruin her, you sodding old fool,” Matthew snarled, fear beating at him—not at the old man’s threat of a duel. No. At the very real possibility that Hippolyta’s father would take her away from him.

“She’s an heiress!” Sir George roared, springing up from his chair so quickly that he knocked it over with a crash. “Any man’ll have her!”

Was that why he’d brought d’Arque and Hartshorn? Was the old man meaning to pawn his daughter off on one of them? He balled his hands into fists, ready to fight his way out of here if need be—and take Hippolyta with him.

D’Arque cleared his throat, straightening. “Went to school with a Mortimer.”

Everyone looked at him.

A corner of the viscount’s mouth curled as if he found something amusing in all this. “Ambrose Mortimer. Was the third Earl of Paxton after his elder brother held the title. Always was in ill health, poor fellow, and succumbed to a fever this last spring. But I remember he talked about his cousin, Matthew, who was an explorer out in India. Liked to make maps, I believe.” D’Arque arched an eyebrow.

Matthew nodded curtly.

“Just so.” The viscount strolled forward and offered his hand. “Welcome home, my lord.”

Matthew hesitated only a second before taking the hand. “Thank you.”

D’Arque’s handshake was harder than his indolent drawl would lead one to believe.

The viscount’s gray eyes crinkled in amusement. He turned to the two older men. “Now, there is no reason to heed what I say—I am only a mere bystander, after all—but it seems to me that the match is a fair and good one. An old aristocratic title—impoverished, granted—matched with young blood and money. And, it appears, passion.” D’Arque shrugged, his mouth twisted in a cynical moue. “Such things make marriage better, I’m told.” He sobered, staring at Sir George. “Take Paxton’s offer, my friend.”