A Heart for the Taking Page 13

  It was here, Letty had explained, that the family usually assembled prior to the evening meal, the gentlemen to drink some rum punch, the ladies some ratafia. Feeling oddly restless, Fancy had left Ellen still primping at her dressing table and come ahead. Aware, again from her kind hostess, that they usually dined around seven o’clock in the evening, and knowing that it was not yet gone six o’clock, Fancy expected to find the room empty. It was not.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the far end of the room; his back was to her as he stared out of one of the windows at the garden. Catching sight of him, of the fashionable cut of his claret-colored coat and breeches, his dark hair unpowdered and caught at the nape of his neck in a black silk bag that hung partway down his back, Fancy first thought he was Jonathan, and her heart sank. After his extremely forward greeting to her upon her arrival, and her promise to Ellen uppermost in her mind, the last thing Fancy wanted was a private tête-à-tête with Jonathan. Her initial instinct was to slip from the room, hoping that he had not noticed her entrance, but even as she started to back away, he turned and her heart began to thump madly. The gentleman was Chance Walker. But a Chance Walker she had never seen before.

  He was garbed and groomed as fine as any lord she had met in England. His black hair was swept back from his hard face, the darkness of his skin intensified by the neatly tied white cravat at his neck. His waistcoat of stiff figured cream silk with a small, tasteful design in fawn and claret was as fashionable as the highest stickler in English Society could have wished. Silver buckles decorated his shoes, his stockings were of silk, and there was a profusion of lace at his wrists and down the front of his white linen shirt. He was, she thought breathlessly, magnificent, looking every inch a gentleman. But even as she acknowledged that thought, she was aware of a longing for the Chance she had grown used to, the teasing blue-eyed devil in the worn buckskins, his unruly mane of thick black hair falling over his shoulders and framing his lean, half-bearded features.

  They stared wordlessly at each other for a long moment, then Chance shook his head as if coming from a trance. A derisive smile suddenly tugging at his lips, he bowed low and murmured, “Duchess.”

  Fancy’s grip on her fan nearly broke the fragile thing, but, keeping her voice cool, she returned, “I see that fine clothes do not fine manners make.”

  A genuine grin crossed his face. “No, Duchess, I fear they do not. Buckskins or satin, you will find me just as obnoxious and objectionable as ever.”

  Something in his expression invited her to share the amusement she saw dancing in his eyes. To her astonishment, she laughed and walked farther into the room. Stopping a few feet from him, she said lightly, “Perhaps, if you did not try so hard to be so very provoking, I might not find you so obnoxious.”

  Chance’s brow lifted. “I think you are confused about which one of us is provoking, Duchess.”

  Fancy looked startled. “Me?” she demanded. “Are you implying that I am provoking?”

  Chance’s amusement faded, some undefinable emotion glittering in his eyes. He stepped nearer to her and, running a caressing finger down her cheek, said huskily, “Oh, yes, you, Duchess. So very, very provoking.”

  The present faded away, and their eyes locked as they stared mesmerized at each other. It was quiet in the room, the faint scent of a spicy potpourri drifting on the air, a few dust motes floating lazily in the rays of the fading sunlight that pierced the interior. But Fancy wasn’t really aware of anything but the tall man in front of her and her heart beating as if it would jump from her chest as Chance bent nearer, his mouth mere inches away from hers.

  The sound of the door opening broke the spell between them. “Ah, here you are, my dear baroness,” exclaimed Constance as she bustled into the room. Catching sight of Chance, who had swiftly swung away from Fancy, she faltered and said in a far less pleased voice, “Oh. Chance. I did not realize that there was anyone else here. I thought you had left with Hugh for Fairview.”

  Chance shrugged. “No. I decided to stay for the night.” He glanced obliquely in Fancy’s direction. “I have some unfinished business to take care of before I follow Hugh to Devil’s Own.”

  Constance wrinkled her nose. “I still think that is the oddest name to call one’s own home. One would have thought that you could have chosen something far more appropriate.”

  “But it is appropriate, do you not think so?” Chance asked, a sardonic gleam in his eyes. “Did you not used to refer to me when I was younger as the devil’s spawn?”

  Constance took in a deep, calming breath. “I may have,” she said stiffly. She forced a laugh. “Heaven knows that you were certainly a handful. I do not know why Sam and Letty put up with your presence as they did.”

  “As you very well know, my dear Constance, we put up with his presence,” said Letty from the doorway, “because we enjoyed his antics and have a great fondness for him.”

  An openly affectionate smile on her face, Letty walked farther into the room, the skirt and petticoat of her elegant pale blue silken gown swaying gently as she moved. Approaching Chance, she put out her hand. In a surprisingly courtly gesture, Chance bowed, a far more sincere bow than he had given her, Fancy thought wryly, and gallantly brought Letty’s hand to his lips. Pressing a kiss to the back of it, he said quietly, “Ever my champion, are you not, Cousin Letty?”

  Letty patted his lean cheek affectionately. “And why not? You are not half as wicked or dangerous as you would lead one to believe.”

  Chance laughed. “Madame, I beg you not to destroy my reputation. I have worked very hard at it.”

  “Too hard, I think, sometimes,” said Sam as he joined his wife, his own affection for Chance apparent in the fond smile he sent his way. He was garbed as fashionably as Chance, his coat of mulberry cloth and gray embroidered waistcoat fitting him superbly. Like Chance, he also wore his dark hair unpowdered and clubbed neatly into a black silk bag, the broad silver streaks at his temples increasing his aristocratic air. After greeting everyone, Sam smiled at Fancy and said, “I trust that you have found your rooms and everything to your satisfaction, Lady Merrivale. ’Tis our urgent desire that you and your sister be comfortable and enjoy your visit—especially so after your unfortunate introduction to the Thackers.”

  Constance gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, those terrible men. I do not know why someone has not done something about them before now. Why, I swear, sometimes I am afraid even to shut my eyes in my very own bed for fear one of those wicked creatures will suddenly appear here at Walker Ridge.”

  Fancy’s eyes widened. “Is that possible?” she asked, glancing around uneasily.

  “Of course not,” Letty replied firmly. She sent her much younger mother-in-law a stern look. “And Constance is very well aware of that.” Turning back to Fancy, she said kindly, “You have nothing to fear while staying here, my dear. Walker Ridge may be remote and we may be surrounded by wilderness, but there are a great many people on our plantation and we are very civilized here. I do not believe that the Thackers would ever be so foolish as to show their faces in our vicinity. Those sorts of cowardly creatures only prey on the weak and defenseless, something we are not.”

  The conversation turned to more general topics, and by the time Ellen, and then Jonathan, joined them, the subject of the Thackers had been left behind. Just before the group adjourned to the dining room, they were joined by another person, an older woman, with worn features and a timid air. Wearing a gray silk gown, long out of fashion, her mousy hair arranged in a haphazard pompadour, she was extremely deferential to Constance. When Jonathan casually introduced her as Anne Clemmons, Constance’s old governesscum-companion, Fancy was not surprised; she looked exactly as one would expect a governess to look.

  “My mother is very fond of her,” Jonathan said in a dismissing tone as he escorted Fancy down the wide passage. “She is actually retired and has a little house here on the plantation, but Mother likes her about, and sometimes she stays here in the main house
to be near Mother. Anne has always adored her.”

  The dining room was long and large, the furnishings of the finest quality and beautifully arranged. The meal, which was served by black servants in dark blue jackets and breeches, was as delicious as any Fancy could ever remember eating, from the terrapin soup, to the haunch of roast beef and loin of veal, to the vast array of vegetables in various sauces. The final course consisted of delicate Shrewsbury cakes and dishes of preserved gooseberries and white heart cherries.

  Despite the stiff civility between Jonathan and Chance, their dislike of each other barely contained, the entire meal had been most pleasant, Fancy thought as she pushed away her empty dessert plate. Ellen, looking thoroughly charming in her rich blue gown and cream satin petticoat, had disguised whatever disappointment she might have felt at the news that Hugh was no longer at Walker Ridge and had been her usual sweet self, conversing easily with the others at the table. It would have been one of the most enjoyable evenings Fancy had spent in many a month, had it not been for the fact that Chance had been sitting on the other side of the table, sardonically watching Jonathan hover at her side.

  To give Jonathan his due, he had not neglected Ellen, seated to his left, but as the meal progressed, no one was left in any doubt that he was thoroughly fascinated by Fancy. He hung on her every word; offered her the choicest morsels; and smiled indulgently at her vivacious comments. That Ellen had met his few sallies in her direction with mere politeness didn’t help matters, and Fancy could have stamped her foot in vexation at the entire situation. From the speculative looks and arch manner of Jonathan’s family, it was obvious that they believed she was the lady he was courting, and Jonathan’s actions around her only emphasized that misconception. Clearly he had not told his family that it was Ellen who was to be his bride, and she wondered again precisely what he was up to.

  She frowned. If Ellen had still been in love with Jonathan, his actions would have wounded her deeply. Fancy wondered precisely what game he was playing. In England he had never acted thus. In England she had been positive that he was a fine, honorable gentleman, and it had been clear that his interest was held solely by Ellen, but ever since they had reached the Colonies . . . Fancy bit her lip. Try though she might, she no longer thought as highly of Jonathan as she once had, and she had begun to question her opinion of him. Had she totally misjudged him? Not only his character, but his intentions? Or, like Ellen, had he suffered a change of heart? Her spirits sank. She hoped that his actions toward her were only those of an overly solicitous host. It simply would not do if his affections had alighted upon her.

  Fancy’s frame of mind wasn’t helped by Chance’s unsettling presence across the table from her. He sat between Constance and Anne and, beyond the merest pleasantries, paid little attention to his companions—which was just as well, as poor Anne stared at him as if she fully expected him to turn into a monster. As well she might, Fancy thought uncharitably. Occasionally Chance replied to something Sam or Letty, seated at either end of the long table, sent his way, but primarily his focus seemed to be on Fancy and Jonathan. To her dismay, whenever Fancy glanced in his direction, she found his coolly appraising gaze fixed upon her. She tried to ignore him, but even with her eyes lowered and fixed on her plate, his dark arresting features danced behind her lids.

  It was with relief that she joined the ladies as they rose from the table and returned to the red salon for coffee. Fancy didn’t really want coffee—but anything that took her away from Chance’s unnerving perusal was welcome. Her respite was short-lived. The ladies had barely seated themselves and Letty had just begun to pour from a silver pot when the gentlemen joined them.

  There was a brief flurry of movement as the men sought their various places in the room. Sam joined Letty on one of the settees and Jonathan placed himself strategically between Fancy and Ellen, leaving Chance to rest one long arm on the black marble fireplace mantel and view the entire scene with a faintly cynical smile. Constance and Anne Clemmons shared another of the settees nearby.

  Passing Fancy a cup of the strong dark brew, Letty said apologetically, “I am sorry that we don’t serve tea. Many of us are refusing to buy or drink tea since those horrid taxes were imposed by Parliament.” She looked a bit embarrassed. “Did you hear in London what happened in the Port of Boston this past December? I cannot say that I actually condone what was done, but I must confess to a certain amount of sympathy for the action.”

  “Are you talking about the incident where some of the colonists disguised themselves as Indians and boarded ships in the harbor and threw over the entire shipment of tea and goods?” Fancy asked with interest. In London there had been a good deal of outrage about what had happened, and she was aware of the growing estrangement between the Colonies and the mother country.

  Sam nodded and said dryly, “They are calling it the Boston Tea Party, but it does not sound like any party I would like to attend. And your Lord North has not helped matters by closing the port. Tempers are very high. There are even rumbles of rebellion.”

  “Do you disagree with the notion of most colonists that only we can impose taxes upon ourselves?” Chance inquired quietly, his expression intent and serious as he stared at Sam.

  “What utter nonsense,” Jonathan interposed impatiently. “We are Englishmen, England is our mother country—of course she can tax us.”

  “Odd,” Chance murmured, “but I consider myself a Virginian first . . . and an Englishman second.”

  “And I suppose you belong to that . . . oh, what the devil is it that those rabble-rousers are calling themselves?” Jonathan demanded with a sneer on his handsome face. “Ah, I have it—the Sons of Liberty. I suppose you are a member of that seditious group.”

  Gently Sam said, “It does not matter, Jonathan, whether he is or not. You have been away in England this past year and much has happened, and not just in Boston. Even here in Virginia there is friction with the officials of the Crown. In May, Governor Dunmore dissolved our House of Burgesses simply because we voted for a day of prayer and fasting on the first of June, the date set for the closing of Boston Harbor. There are many, honest businessmen and planters and troublemakers alike, who are chafing at English rule and feel that Lord North has gone too far.”

  “You?” Jonathan asked, incredulity on his face.

  Sam shrugged but contented himself with saying merely, “Perhaps. But what you have to be aware of is that the Colonies are divided—feelings are running strong and hard. The possibility of a break with England is very real.”

  “Good God! I do not believe what I am hearing,” exclaimed Jonathan. “Are you serious? You would support rebellion?”

  “He did not say that,” Chance interrupted smoothly. “He merely warned you that there is a growing faction, and not made up simply of malcontents and hotheaded miscreants, that is committed to independence from England.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Constance said irritably. “I refuse to listen to any more of this nonsense. The Colonies are English and they will always be so. This latest unpleasantness is just some little family squabble that will be ended in a few months, and everything will go on as before. All Boston has to do is pay for the tea and make obeisance, something even Benjamin Franklin has advised them to do.” She smiled at Fancy. “Do not pay any heed to them, my dear, this is just a fuss about nothing.” She shot Chance an unfriendly glance. “To listen to some people, you would think that you were sitting on a hotbed of rebellion, and nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Fancy had found the discussion invigorating, and she was sorry when the gentlemen, recalled to their surroundings, changed the subject and began to talk of more mundane matters. The remainder of the evening progressed uneventfully, and Fancy was thankful when it ended.

  She and Ellen were both very weary from their long trek and were grateful when Letty, a kind light in her eyes, said firmly, “I think that is quite enough, Constance. Our guests have had a long, distressful journey and I suspect are longing
for their beds. You can continue your interrogation of Lady Merrivale tomorrow when she is more rested and far more capable of dealing with you.”

  Barely concealing the huge yawn that threatened to escape her, Fancy smiled at her hostess and murmured, “I am very tired.” Sending a polite glance over to Constance, who appeared vastly annoyed by Letty’s blunt words, she said, “And I shall enjoy talking to you in the morning about the latest London fashions.”

  A few more pleasantries were exchanged with the group, and in a very few minutes Fancy and Ellen were slowly walking up the stairs toward their rooms. Noting that Ellen seemed in good spirits despite Hugh’s absence, Fancy couldn’t help asking, “Were you very disappointed that Hugh was not here this evening?”

  Ellen nodded. “At first very much so, but then I was able to have a private word with Chance just before we went into the dining room, and he mentioned that Hugh would be returning sometime in the morning with his father. Apparently their plantation, Fairview, adjoins Walker Ridge and is just over ten miles from here.”

  Fancy digested this information, wondering, with a little spurt of temper, why Chance always seemed to be kind to Ellen, whereas with her . . . It didn’t matter, she told herself grimly. He would be gone before long, and she would never have to lay eyes on his mocking face again. For some reason that thought did not give her as much pleasure as it should have, and she frowned. What was the matter with her? Wasn’t he the most provoking, infuriating man she had ever met? The vivid memory of his kiss and the emotions it had aroused unexpectedly floated through her mind. Fancy was conscious of a thrill, but it was a curious thrill, one made up of equal parts excitement and fear.