The Unofficial Suitor (29 page)

She spoke so vehemently, Richard began to wonder if the root of his problem was such a simple thing—that he had not made it clear to her that he loved her. Studying her reflection in the mirror, he could not tell what she was thinking.

“Indeed, he told me that he fell in love with her when she stabbed him with her knife,” Richard said, still debating with himself whether he should risk pursuing the subject. Finally, reminding himself that faint heart never won fair lady, he continued, “A strange way for love to begin, and yet when I think back, I would have to say that I began falling in love with you when you bargained with me so bravely in that little tavern in Cornwall. I did not realize it was love, however, until we were at the opera, and you again turned to me for help.”

She did not respond immediately, but sat with her eyes downcast, letting him brush her hair. Finally she asked in a suspiciously calm voice, “When we were at supper that night of the Craigmonts’ ball, did you deliberately bait Lord Fauxbridge by bringing up the subject of the slave trade bill?”

“Quite deliberately,” he replied, and was relieved when she looked up and smiled tentatively at him in the mirror. “And you may also have heard that I gambled with Lord Rowcliff and won half his fortune. That was also deliberate.”

“And then you outbid Lord Atherston,” she added, her eyes sliding away from his, “so Geoffrey sold me to you.”

His heart stopped beating for a moment. “Where did you get such a notion?” he asked.

“It was never a secret. When he came to Cornwall in February, Geoffrey told me outright that he was going to take me to London and sell me to the highest bidder,” she said, her voice trembling and her head bowed.

Laying down the hairbrush, Richard pulled her into his arms. With her face pressed against his chest, she continued. “At first I refused to go along with his plans, but then he said he would sell my little sister to white slavers if I did not cooperate.”

“Oh, my love, my love, I had no idea—”

“I know it is quite customary to arrange marriage settlements, but ever since you asked me to marry you—” She hiccuped, but then rushed on, as if she had to get it out before her courage failed her. “Ever since then, I have been tormented by the same question ...”

Despite her obvious resolve to control her emotions, she was now trembling too hard to continue, so he finished for her. “You want to know how much I paid your brother for you.”

She nodded her head.

“Not a penny. I did not buy you from your brother.”

She became very quiet in his arms. “You did not? Then how...?”

“I am ashamed to admit that I employed much the same method of coercion that he used with you. I told Geoffrey that if he did not give his permission, I would have him kidnapped and sold to the Barbary pirates. In my defense, I can only say I was bluffing; I would never actually have done it.”

Throwing her arms around his neck, Cassie began to kiss him. “Oh,” she said, tears running down her cheeks, “you cannot begin to know how happy you have made me. I have been feeling so horrible, thinking you had bought me from my brother. You cannot imagine how bad that made me feel inside—as if I were a thing instead of a person.”

But he did know exactly how degraded it could make someone feel.

“Oh, Richard, Annie told me I would regret every one of the nights I have been wasting, and she was right—I do regret them, and I have been wanting to be your wife for so long. Please make love to me tonight.”

It would have been so easy ... and so dishonest ...

“I cannot do that yet,” he said softly. “Not until you know what kind of a man your husband is.”

She smiled up at him. “I know what kind of a man you are—you are honorable and kind and patient and resourceful and—”

“But there is much you do not know about my past. And I would be less than honorable if I took advantage of your ignorance.”

For a moment he thought she was going to continue her protests, but then she relaxed. “Very well, I shall be happy to listen to the story of your life. But I suggest our bed will be a much warmer place to talk.”

A few minutes later she was snuggled up against him under the covers, and the moment he was dreading could not be postponed any longer. Would she still accept him when she knew he was not truly a gentleman? Would she be horrified to discover who was sharing her bed? Would she reject him when she discovered he had married her under false pretenses?

There was nothing to do but start with the worst and hope for the best. “My earliest memories are of fighting for scraps of food in the streets of London. I do not remember either of my parents, nor do I have any idea who they were.” He paused, but she did not shriek and push him away, so he continued with growing hope that all was not lost.

“People called me Dickie, but why they gave me that name, I do not know. Then one day, when I was about ten or so, I saw a bird flying high in the sky—a different, much larger and more powerful bird than the sparrows and gulls I was used to. An old lady told me it was a hawk, and I wanted so much to fly free like that bird, that I decided thenceforth my name would be Richard Hawke.”

“I think you chose wisely. The name suits you. But before you go on with your tale, I must warn you that if you think it matters one whit to me that you were not born a gentleman, then it is you who is being foolish beyond permission, and I should not wish to have a fool for a husband.”

He was not a fool. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tell her about his years as a slave. It was strange, but looking back he felt as if his life had not truly begun until the day he had met her; everything else seemed only preparation for that moment.

“I love the man you have been and the man you are and the man you will become,” she whispered in the darkness. “But I want to be your true wife. Make love to me, Richard,” she again requested.

She did not need to ask him a third time.

“I think I shall be leaving in the morning,” Digory remarked to Lady Letitia. They were taking tea on the terrace, the other members of the house party being otherwise engaged. “Watching three pairs of lovers gaze adoringly into each other’s eyes is not quite as much excitement as I have been accustomed to.”

“Yes, I must agree. As satisfying as it is to view the results of our labors, there is little left for either of us to do here,” Lady Letitia replied, setting down her teacup. “But before we take leave of each other, will you not tell me some stories of your adventures as a smuggler?”

“No,” Digory replied baldly.

“No?” Lady Letitia glared at him, but he refused to meet her eyes, staring instead at the cloud formations.

“No,” he repeated, “you have listened to far too many tales of other people’s travels already. The time has come for you to see something of the world yourself.” He looked over at her, and she was white as a sheet, but he did not think it was anger that was making the blood drain from her face, so he continued.

“Retired though I am, I can still on occasion be persuaded to go on a smuggling run. So if you are game, we shall send your maid and your luggage back to London, and then we shall drive down to Cornwall, where Jem can doubtless find you some sailor’s clothes that will fit.”

Lady Letitia was crying now, but smiling through her tears at the same time, so it appeared he had guessed correctly.

“Then we shall sail to France on my boat, The Wayward Gull, to Bordeaux perhaps, or if you want more danger and excitement, to Marseilles. We shall take rooms in a flea-infested hotel on the waterfront and sit around drinking in smoky taverns, surrounded by the most disreputable types. Unless you would prefer traveling to Paris to view the latest fashions?”

She shook her head violently.

“Since Bonaparte is safely locked up, we shall not have any legal difficulties in France, but I must point out that if the preventatives catch us when we are landing our cargo in England, you will have to take your chances like any other smuggler.” He studied her face, but she did not seem the least put off by knowledge that she would be breaking English law.

“Well, what do you say, then?” he asked. “Do you wish to sign on as one of my crew?”

* * * *

“The oddest thing, Perry.”

“What’s that, my love?”

“Your grandmother is on the terrace—”

“Nothing odd about that.”

“But she is kissing Digory Rendel.”

Perry moved to stand beside his wife at the window. “By Jove, you are right. Well, she always was a lusty old girl.”

Annie jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Don’t be disrespectful. Your grandmother is a sweet old lady.”

Perry caught her around the waist and hugged her. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew her better. In her heart she’s as wild about adventure as I am. Pity she’s been stuck here in England all her life—she would love Kentucky. If she were younger, I’d take her back with us, but unfortunately, she’s far too old to withstand the rigors of a sea voyage.”

* * * *

Her legs slightly apart for balance, Lady Letitia stood on the pitching deck of the boat and stared at the dark smudge on the horizon. France! They would be landing soon in Marseilles, where she would rub shoulders with the—how had Digory put it?—with the scum from all the countries of the world.

She was so excited, she could hardly wait to try out the patois Jem had been teaching her, which was not at all like the drawing room French she had been speaking all her life.

To be sure, this little trip was not precisely the same as sailing up the Amazon or searching for the origin of the Nile, but still, it was an adventure, and best of all, it was her adventure.

And besides, who was to say where she might be able to persuade Digory to sail next?

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

This book is dedicated to my great-great-grandfather, Nicholas Richards, who was a tin miner in Cornwall. He brought his family to America so that his daughter, Mary Ann, my great-grandmother, would not have to work in the mines as so many young girls were forced by poverty to do. And I also wish to dedicate this book to my grandfather, William Nicholas Baker, who first told me the stories about his mother and grandfather and their journey from Cornwall to Wisconsin.

I wish to thank Peggy Summers and Charlotte Baker for reading my manuscript and making suggestions for improvements.

Charlotte Louise Dolan attended Eastern Illinois University and earned a masters degree in German from Middlebury College. She has lived throughout the United States and in Canada, Taiwan, Germany and the Soviet Union. She is the mother of three children.

Copyright © 1992 by Charlou Dolan

Originally published by Signet [ISBN 0451173007]

Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.