Some Like It Wild (10 page)

Tilting her chin to a defiant angle, she swept past the footman and into the dining room. If she embarrassed Connor in front of his new
family
, he had only himself to blame. In truth, it would serve him right if she made him the laughingstock of all London!

She had time for only a fleeting impression of a long linen-draped table with the duke seated at its head and Lady Astrid at its foot before Connor rose to greet her, his imposing figure filling her vision. He was still wearing the stolen shirt, kilt and plaid he had donned that morning in the seedy inn where they’d passed the night. It galled her that he could travel most of the day, suffer any number of insults and indignities, and still look so deliciously fresh.

The burnished maple of his hair was neatly bound at the nape by a velvet queue and his jaw was perfectly smooth, which meant he’d already shaved a second time that day. Perhaps he’d ordered a footman to do it for him, she thought unkindly, already missing the surly ruffian with the wild hair and beard-stubbled jaw.

“Good evening, darling,” he murmured, taking her hand. The tender smile that tilted his lips was belied by the wary glitter of his eyes. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be too weary from our journey to join us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,
pumpkin
,” she replied, her own adoring smile and the voluminous folds of the tablecloth hiding the fact that she was grinding the heel of her slipper into his instep. “You know that every moment we’re apart is sheer torture for me.”

Connor hid his grimace of pain with equal skill, leaning forward to brush her cheek with a chaste kiss. She turned her head at the last moment, hoping to force his mouth into her hair. But he anticipated the move, adjusting the angle of his descent so that the very corner of his mouth brushed hers with a possessive tenderness that made her toes curl.

The duke cleared his throat with a harsh bark. “I’d stand if I could, girl. But since I can’t, you may as well sit.”

He watched from his wheeled chair—his skin sallow but his eyes unnaturally bright in the glow of the candlelight—as Connor escorted her to a chair midway down the table, then returned to the
place directly opposite hers. Given the size of the table it was fortunate the room had good acoustics, Pamela thought. If not, they would have all had to bellow at each other.

Lady Astrid dredged up a wan smile. “You should both be honored. It’s been months since my brother has felt well enough to join us for supper.”

Pamela stole a puzzled glance at the long rows of empty chairs that lined either side of the table. Since there was no one else there, she could only assume that Astrid’s “us” was equivalent to the royal “we.”

She felt a twinge of dismay. Although she wasn’t exactly looking forward to coming face to face with her mother’s murderer, she had hoped to be presented with a more promising list of suspects. Lady Astrid certainly didn’t look the sort to dirty her lily-white hands by burning someone to death.

Before she had time to pursue that grim thought, a quartet of footmen appeared, each one bearing a steaming china bowl of haddock soup.

They had barely finished delivering them when Connor picked up his bowl and brought the rim to his lips. Oblivious to the horrified stares of the footmen and Lady Astrid, he took a deep sip of the broth, then sighed with satisfaction.

The duke pounded on the table like an overgrown baby, his lips curving in a doting smile. “Just look at that, Astrid! He has a healthy appetite. I’ve always admired that in a lad! Heaven knows I had a host of healthy
appetites
when I was his age.”

Connor slowly lowered the bowl, suddenly realizing he was the object of every eye in the room.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be in keen demand at every soiree and supper party,” Lady Astrid replied, her thin lips pursed in a moue of distaste.

Unable to bear the woman’s smug condemnation or the flush slowly creeping up Connor’s throat, Pamela defiantly picked up her own bowl and took a loud slurp of the soup. Lowering the bowl, she beamed at the duke. “My compliments to the cook, your grace. ’Tis a delicious broth.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” the duke agreed. He reached for his spoon, then waved it away with an impatient gesture and scooped up his bowl in both hands. They were trembling so violently that one of the footmen had to rush forward to help him steady the bowl before he spilled its contents in his lap. He did not stop drinking until he’d drained it dry.

Lady Astrid was gaping at them as if they’d all lost their wits. But when her brother lowered his empty bowl to glower at her, she put down her spoon with a defeated sigh and picked up her bowl. After a delicate sip or two, she set the bowl aside and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I don’t wish to spoil my appetite. I do believe I’ve had quite enough for one evening.”

Judging by her pained expression, she was talking about more than just the soup. They sat in awkward silence while the footmen whisked away their bowls and returned with the main course.

While one of the footmen filled their wineglasses, another servant circled the table with a silver tray,
carefully placing a plump slab of braised trout on each plate. Pamela licked her lips, terrified the delectable aroma was going to make her stomach growl.

Judging by the voracious glint in Connor’s eye, he was probably even more famished than she was. His brow furrowed as he surveyed the bewildering array of forks, knives and spoons grouped around his plate. He finally selected the most threatening-looking knife in the bunch and prepared to stab the piece of fish with it.

Pamela delicately cleared her throat. As he glanced up at her, she chose the small fork nearest her plate and used it to tuck a bite of the succulent fish between her lips. Connor hesitated for a moment, then laid aside the knife and followed suit.

“My son has already told me about the kindly couple who took him in after”—the duke hesitated, his face clouding—“after he lost his mother. But he thought you might want to explain how you happened upon him.”

Pamela wondered what Connor would do if she blurted out, “Oh, he was robbing my carriage at gunpoint.”

Instead, she smiled brightly and said, “Well, as he might have already told you, I’d followed up every lead and exhausted nearly every avenue in my search for him. It never occurred to me that I would find him studying for the clergy.”

“The clergy?” both the duke and his sister exclaimed in amazement.

“The clergy?” Connor echoed, choking on a piece of fish.

“That’s right.” Pamela clasped her hands together beneath her chin as if in devout prayer. “I finally found him at the abbey in St. Andrew’s, studying the commandments of God and living like a monk.”

The dangerous set of Connor’s jaw warned her he was currently contemplating breaking several of those commandments, starting with
Thou shalt not kill
.

“A monk, eh? Well, he certainly didn’t inherit those tendencies from his father.” The duke took a thoughtful sip of his wine. “I never thought we might have an archbishop in the family.”

“Then your hopes won’t be dashed, your grace,” Connor assured him, “because I’ve decided to set aside my studies so I can devote my full attention to learning the duties expected of your heir. And to pleasing my darling bride, of course.”

He lifted his wineglass to Pamela, the smoldering look he gave her over its beveled rim leaving little doubt as to just how
full
and
pleasing
his attention could be.

She inclined her head, hoping the flickering candlelight would hide the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Just how soon do the two of you hope to wed?” the duke asked.

“June,” Connor said at the exact same moment Pamela blurted out, “Late December. Of next year.”

Connor chuckled. “You’ll find my bride-to-be has
a rather droll sense of humor. Since our courtship was so hasty, the lass believes we should take some time to get to know each other before we wed.”

“It sounds like a very practical notion to me,” Lady Astrid remarked with her first hint of approval.

“Ah, but since when have practicality and passion ever gone hand in hand?” Connor gave Pamela another one of those scorching looks. “She knows very well that I’ve no intention of waiting that long before making her mine.”

No longer able to hide her blush, Pamela crossed her feet at the ankles, wishing her legs were longer so she could kick him in the shin.

“Can we expect your family at the wedding, Miss Darby?” Lady Astrid inquired.

“I’m afraid not, my lady. I’m an orphan,” she confessed, watching Astrid’s face for any visible flicker of guilt.

“How tragic,” the woman replied, washing down a dainty bite of the fish with a sip of wine.

Pamela sighed and finished off her own wine. At this rate it would be December of next year before she exposed her mother’s killer.

But at the sound of a loud commotion outside the dining room door, Lady Astrid’s indifference vanished. She rose halfway out of her chair, her spine ramrod stiff but her lips trembling.

“Sit down, Astrid,” her brother snapped. “The servants will handle it. That’s why we pay them so handsomely.”

Quelled by his icy stare, Astrid sank back down
in her chair, gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.

As the harsh cacophony of masculine voices swelled, Pamela shot Connor an alarmed glance. His hand was already inching beneath the table, probably to reach for a pistol he was no longer wearing. Or worse yet, she thought with a flare of panic, to reach for a pistol he was still wearing.

“Take your paws off me, Phillip!” someone shouted, the voice faintly slurred. “You’ve no right to keep me away from them!”

At that moment the dining room door came flying open and a man came staggering into the room. He yanked his arm free from the footman who had been struggling to restrain him.

The stranger glanced around the table, his contemptuous gaze finally coming to rest on Connor. “So, what they’re saying in town is true, is it? After all these years, my uncle’s long lost heir has finally returned to the adoring bosom of his family to claim his inheritance.” He swept out one arm and sketched Connor an unsteady bow, his voice dripping with scorn. “I came as soon as I heard the news. I couldn’t be more delighted to make your acquaintance,
Cousin Percy
.”

P
amela winced in alarm as Connor rose to his full height to face the stranger. She had not forgotten his threat to shoot anyone who dared to call him Percy.

“Forgive me, your grace,” the footman said, his gloved hands trembling as he faced the duke and tugged his rumpled coat straight. The poor servant’s face was scarlet and his wig askew. “I did everything I could to discourage him.”

The duke dismissed the man with a curt flick of his hand. “It’s all right, Phillip. I know just how impossible my nephew can be.”

No wonder Lady Astrid looked so pale and miserable. This drunken interloper was no stranger, but her son—the “whelp” the duke had spoken of during their interview. The whelp who would have inherited the duke’s title and fortune if not for her
mother’s letter and the unexpected return of his
cousin
.

Both his eyes and hair were as dark as midnight. His unruly curls tumbled over his brow in fashionable disarray. Although Pamela judged him only a year or two older than Sophie, his air of dissipation and the cynical twist of his lips made him appear far older. He was dressed in clothes that would have been the envy of any young buck strolling down Bond Street on a Saturday night, but his cutaway tail coat was missing a button and his cravat hung loose around his throat. The aroma of brandy wafted off of him like French cologne.

Now here was someone who looked capable of murder, Pamela thought, her lips tightening.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and whipcord-lean, but still had to cock back his head to look Connor in the eye. Which he did, with equal measures of boldness and insolence. “So I hear you’ve been living in Scotland all these years. And to think, my uncle has always said the Scots never produced anything of value but decent whisky and target practice for our English soldiers.”

Pamela sucked in an audible breath, knowing perfectly well that Connor didn’t need a pistol to defend himself. He could simply clout the young man into next week with one blow from his massive fist.

“And I was told the English never produced anything of value at all.” Connor looked the man up and down. “Apparently, it’s true.”

The man’s dark eyes narrowed in an expression eerily similar to Connor’s. “Why, you—”

“May I introduce you to your charming cousin Crispin, son,” the duke said dryly, polishing off his wine. “It’s fortunate you returned before he could gamble, drink and whore away my entire fortune.”

“Archibald!”

His sister’s scandalized tones appeared to have little effect on the duke. He simply held out his wineglass so a footman could refill it. “No need for histrionics, Astrid. It’s not as if the lad was going to live long enough to inherit anyway. Given his delightful disposition and his penchant for cheating at cards and dallying with married women, someone is bound to kill him before I croak my last. He may be one of the finest swordsmen in all of London, but that’s not going to stop some jealous husband from shooting him in the back.”

Lady Astrid shrank back into her seat, two spots of color burning high on her cheekbones.

Crispin gave his uncle a sullen look before shifting his attention to Pamela.

He prowled around the table, his gait none too steady, and dropped to one knee beside her chair. He brought her hand to his lips, a sunny grin infusing the lean planes of his face with charm. “And just who is this captivating creature?”

“That
captivating creature
is my fiancée,” Connor said, “and I’ll thank you to keep your hands off of her.”

The lass belongs to me.

As Connor’s words from the castle ruins echoed through her memory, Pamela felt that same delicious shiver dance across her flesh. Once again, he’d uttered the lie with such conviction she was almost tempted to believe him.

Stealing a glance at Connor from beneath the sinful length of his dark lashes, Crispin lowered his voice to a clearly audible stage whisper. “Be forewarned, my lady. He’ll probably want to get an heir on you as quickly as possible so I’ll still have no chance of inheriting should he meet with an unfortunate accident.”

Neatly extracting her hand from his grip, Pamela offered him a chilly smile. “I’ve always heard that it’s habitual drunkards who should take the most care. They’re the ones most likely to tumble down a flight of stairs and break their necks…or leave their cigars lit and burn to death in their beds.”

She caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Something wounded and wary. And more than a little dangerous.

“I shall take care to heed your warning, Miss…?”

“Darby. Miss Pamela Darby.”

“Darby? I know that name. Where have I heard it before?” He frowned thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. “I know! There was an actress at the Crown Theatre for years by the name of Marianne Darby.”

“Marianne Darby was my mother,” Pamela informed him stiffly.

“Indeed?” A guileless smile broke over his face. If he was toying with her, he was quite an amazing actor himself. “She was a brilliant talent—absolutely luminous on the stage. Her Desdemona was a revelation! It probably won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve always had a fondness for actresses and opera dancers. Enchanting creatures, every last one of them.”

Pamela wasn’t aware that Connor had come striding around the table, until he caught Crispin by the elbow and hefted him to his feet. She supposed Crispin should be grateful he hadn’t hauled him up by the back of his collar.

“It’s not too late for you to catch a play tonight,” Connor said. “I believe your performance here is done.”

Wisely recognizing that Connor was no footman to be shaken off or dismissed with the arrogant flick of a hand, Crispin sighed. “My cousin is right. The night is young and so am I.” Ignoring Connor’s glower, he once again bowed over Pamela’s hand, touching his lips ever so gently to her knuckles. “Until we meet again,
chérie
.”

Then he was gone, leaving her to wonder if she had just come face to face with her mother’s murderer.

Pamela flung herself to her back with a gusty sigh, glaring up at the canopy above her head. Considering that she’d spent the last month fitfully napping on carriage seats or sharing prickly heather-stuffed ticks with Sophie in seedy Scottish inns, the sump
tuous half-tester with its feather mattress and crisp linen sheets should have lulled her to sleep within minutes. But she was so restless the bed might as well have been studded with nails.

Her belly was full. She had servants eager to do her bidding. Sophie was snoring gently in the adjoining dressing room, safe for the moment from any lascivious noblemen who might try to prey upon her. Pamela should have been sleeping with the satisfied contentment of a newborn babe.

But every time she closed her eyes, she saw a kaleidoscope of faces whirling through the darkness: the duke’s expression of helpless wonder when he had gazed upon Connor’s face for the first time; Lady Astrid’s white-faced mortification when her son had come staggering into the dining room; Crispin’s lean, saturnine features twisted in a sneer as he gazed up at Connor.

And the smoldering look Connor had given her when he had pledged to devote his full attention to pleasing his bride.

Biting back a moan, she kicked away the heavy counterpane. Given her wanton response to Connor’s kiss, she feared his full attention was not something she could withstand. At least not without surrendering the last of her tarnished principles and proving she truly was her mother’s daughter.

She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the moonlight streaming through the sash window, longing for the solace of sleep.

Even as a delicious languor began to creep through her limbs, she could still see Connor’s face—his
smoky gray eyes, the crooked bridge of his nose, that incorrigible dimple set deep in his rugged jaw. When her eyes fluttered open, it took her a dazed moment to realize he was actually there, looming over her in the moonlight—no phantom, but flesh and blood.