An hour later Chelsea woke to the sound of a key turning in her lock. Groggy from a nap, she sat up and watched the door, curious to see who would come in to talk sense to her next.
The door opened. Her brother peeked his head in. “Don’t throw anything. It’s only me.”
She rose from the bed and smoothed out her hair, tucking the loose strands back into place. “Did Mother talk to you? Am I to be shipped off to Lord Jerome in the morning?”
He entered the room and reached into his pocket. “She said to give you this.”
“What is it?”
He handed her a tiny bottle.
“It’s her favorite perfume,” Chelsea said.
“She wanted me to tell you that you had to wear it tonight. Clearly, it’s her way of letting you know that she is consenting to your idea—by delivering a command of her own.”
Slow to comprehend what he was saying because she was having a hard time believing it, Chelsea opened the bottle and sniffed it. “You’re telling me she liked the plan. Was she intoxicated?”
He let out a melancholy sigh. “No, but I think it was just underhanded enough to appeal to her controlling side, which we both know so well.” He strolled to the bed and sat down. “After she got over the initial shock, I believe she wished she’d thought of it herself. Although she did suggest that it would have been simpler to send Melissa to him, instead of you, just in case it is my fault there is no heir.”
Chelsea smothered a gasp. “What did you say?”
“I told her hell would freeze over first. I love my wife, Chel, and no other man will ever put his hands on her—ever—not as long as I have breath in my body. It’s difficult enough as it is for me to let you go through with this. My own sister. I must tell you that there have been moments when I wanted to bash down his door and throw him out on his ear. I have not been sleeping well.”
Chelsea touched his arm. “I’m sorry it’s been difficult for you, but perhaps it will give you some comfort to know that he has been very good to me. It has not been unpleasant. Not at all. And if this saves me from having to marry Lord Jerome, I will forever be in your debt for allowing me to do this. You will be saving me from a terrible fate.”
He did not look up, and she could see that her words were doing little to console him.
She decided to take a different tack, to try and lighten his mood. “Besides, if we did send Melissa and she conceived, the child would not be of Father’s bloodline, and we do have some scruples.”
“Not many,” he said quietly.
Still hoping to ease his conscience, she crossed the room to her dressing table and began to comb her hair. “So Mother will not write to Lord Jerome today?”
“That’s right.”
Ever hopeful, she turned to face her brother. “Does this mean I will not have to marry him? Ever?”
“Don’t get too excited,” Sebastian replied. “There will have to be a male issue before she lets go of that safety net. I suspect she will write to him and string him along until you give birth.” His eyes were streaked with red as he regarded her. “If things work out, that is, and you find yourself with child.” He paused. “Were you being honest with me, Chelsea? Is he good to you? Does he treat you well, because if not—”
She interrupted him. “He is lovely, Sebastian. Truly. If things were different, I could see myself falling quite head over heels.”
They were the words her brother needed to hear.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat, “I hope you know how grateful we are for what you are doing. Melissa is overjoyed. Truth be told, it wouldn’t matter to her if it was a girl or a boy, or a donkey for that matter. She is just so happy, Chel.”
In some ways, Chelsea was pleased to hear it, yet at the same time, she could not bear to think of it. She did not want to imagine a baby growing in her womb—perhaps a boy, who would grow up to be tall and handsome, with dark, wavy hair, a strong, confident disposition, and creative, like both his parents…
“So where is Jack now?” she asked, thrusting those thoughts from her mind.
“In his guest chamber. He mentioned feeling tired. I don’t think he’s fully recovered yet.”
She looked at herself in the mirror and dabbed some perfume behind each ear.
Her brother watched her for a moment, then glanced uncomfortably toward her desk. “I suppose I should leave you to your letters.”
That was not why he was leaving, and they both knew it.
Chelsea finally met his gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “Thank you, Sebastian, for speaking to Mother,” she said, “and for buying me time.”
He merely nodded at her, then walked out and closed the door.
She picked up her brush and continued to comb out her hair, ignoring the pain from the knots that had tangled while she slept.
“So you’ve forgiven me, then?” Jack asked as he withdrew from the sweet, honeyed depths of Chelsea’s irresistible body and refastened his trousers.
They had made love standing up against the door of his bedchamber, thumping away like rabbits. She had not seemed to mind the base carnality of it, nor suggested they move to a quieter spot on the bed. Perhaps she knew there was no one nearby to hear, for clearly she’d come here with one thing on her mind, and they got down to business without any of the usual genteel preliminaries.
He nuzzled her cheek and stepped back, realizing only then that he had not withdrawn at the proper time—again—and he wondered why he was inclined to take these risks, when he still had no idea what lay in his future. Or his past.
Next time, he promised himself…Next time he would be more careful.
She dropped her skirts and pushed away from the door. “We already agreed that there is nothing to forgive,” she said. “You were right when we spoke outside earlier today. You have not kept anything from me. I knew what I was getting myself into when I came to you the other night, and I have indeed been more than satisfied.”
He watched her for a strange moment, as she walked seductively to the window.
“But there is something different about you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re closed off. You’re not acting like yourself.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? I think you are still angry about what happened in bed this morning.” He hesitated. “Or perhaps…hurt.”
“I am neither,” she quickly asserted as she pulled the curtain aside with one finger and looked out. “I am simply trying to be realistic.”
“How so?”
She faced him. He had the distinct impression she was giving a great deal of consideration to her answer, almost as if she were plotting one of her stories, deciding upon the most effective piece of dialogue for her protagonist.
“I don’t want to become too attached to you,” she said at last.
He studied her eyes and saw a hint of vulnerability there, mixed possibly with some melancholy.
But it was an honest answer—at least he believed it to be so—and it gave him some reassurance that he had not lost her completely. She was still being open with him.
He approached her. “And is there a danger of you becoming too attached?”
“There is a danger of anything. You are very pleasant to be around. Most of the time,” she added playfully.
“When I am not calling you by other women’s names, I suppose.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll try not to do it again.”
“I would appreciate that.”
For a moment more they stood without talking, merely looking at each other while the waves rolled up onto the shoreline outside the window. Here in the room, the clock ticked steadily on the mantel.
Jack noticed the heavy beat of his heart. He felt restless, filled with a yearning that seemed to have no cure—for he could not close the space between them. How could he, when he did not know who he was, or if he was even free to care for her the way he wanted to?
Then, for some unknown reason, he remembered the urgency he’d felt the night before, and felt again that he was letting someone down. The feeling dropped into his stomach like a stone. Someone needed him. Of that, he was certain. There was a duty he was expected to fulfill.
God, was there a wife?
He looked down at the floor.
“So until we know more about you,” Chelsea said, her voice more forceful now, almost as if she had read his thoughts, “I will simply keep my heart out of it, as you should do as well.”
“That’s probably wise,” he heard himself saying, without looking up, because he was not in a position to offer his heart, or any kind of promise that involved the future. As things stood, he could offer Chelsea nothing, and she knew it.
Pembroke House, Mayfair
“He has left us in the lurch,” Vincent said to Devon as he walked into the library at four in the morning. He had just come back from an extensive search of his old stomping grounds—the whore-houses, gambling dens, and all the places where vice and greed were practiced without reserve. “I searched everywhere, and no one has seen him.”
“He wouldn’t desert us like this,” Devon told him. “Not intentionally. I know our brother. He is as dependable as they come.”
Vincent went to pour himself a drink. “Did you hear any mention of him at the club? Has anyone heard from him?”
“Not since that night you referred to, when he came back to the palace talking about a night at the tables with a certain wild young buck with a pretty sister. The gentleman’s father, George Fenton, Baron Ridgeley, is the director of the London Horticultural Society.”
Vincent blinked. “Father’s beneficiary if we don’t all marry by Christmas?”
“The very same,” Devon replied.
“Have you gone to see this man?”
“I went to his house here in London, but there was no one there, except for a butler who informed me that the family was in France, which leads me to suspect—”
“That Blake went off with them without telling us.”
“It’s possible,” Devon said, “though not typical of him, unless a message became lost on its way to us. In fact, I hope that is the case. It would certainly be preferable to our brother lying in an alley somewhere with his pockets emptied, or at the bottom of the Thames because of a disagreement over a card game.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Vincent said. “So tomorrow…”
“Tomorrow we try to discover where the family has traveled to in France, and get word to them.”
“At least now we have something to pin our hopes on,” Vincent said. “Mother will be pleased to hear it.”
“I won’t be pleased until we have him in our sights.”
“Indeed.”
They each downed their brandy.
“Do you think he was courting that girl?” Vincent asked.
“The sister? It is entirely possible, and just like Blake to do his duty without a fuss.”
“Well, if that is the case,” Vincent raised his glass again, “we shall be one step closer to securing our inheritances, with three brothers taken care of, and only one left to tame.”
“To marital bliss,” Devon said, holding up his glass.
Clink. “To marital bliss.”