A Heart for the Taking Page 3

  Grimly determined to make no mistakes with the young life placed so precipitously in his hands, Morely brooded through the remainder of the night, speculating, wondering, and worrying a great deal about the conclusions and decisions he had made. He fed the baby twice during that time, feeling something stirring deep within his heart each moment he held that tiny, dependent life in his big hands.

  When dawn came, the worst of the storm had passed, although there were still showers and a persistent drizzle to make Morely view the coming journey with a jaundiced eye. He’d been busy for the past hour or so; his horse was saddled, food for the trip and various items that he hoped would take care of the baby’s needs were packed safely in the saddlebags, and he was garbed in his greatcoat, ready to leave for Petersburg. Shrugging his broad shoulders, he finally turned away from the window where he had been contemplating the weather and crossed the room to pick up the baby, which he had wrapped up securely. Lifting the flap that covered the baby’s face, he stared down into the wide blue eyes that foggily met his.

  A smile twisted Morely’s lips. “Well, little fellow, I think you have the devil’s own luck! If I hadn’t chanced along when I did, you’d have had a mighty short life.”

  The baby gurgled and stuck a fist in his mouth. Morely laughed and, walking from the cabin, muttered, “There is no doubt in my mind that chance has played a large part in your life so far. When you think about it, it was pure, simple, God-given chance that I decided even to come home last night. Most nights I don’t! But for some reason, I did last night—to your good fortune, I might add. And, just as important—it was plain old chance that I even heard you squalling when I did. Even that big bolt of lightning that struck just then was chance—a few minutes earlier or later and I might not have seen you at all!”

  Approaching his horse, a nice, sturdy bay, Morely prepared for the tricky part: mounting while holding the baby in one arm. There were no mishaps, and once in the saddle, he settled the baby more comfortably in the crook of his arm and gently urged his mount forward.

  They rode several moments in silence, then Morely murmured, “You know, you do owe a damn lot to chance, young man. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who owes more. When you think of everything that could have gone wrong . . .” Morely shook his head. “Doesn’t bear thinking about. But I have been thinking—you need a name. Since there ain’t anybody else about, and since you might say that I’m the nearest thing to a pa that you have right now, I get to name you.”

  Morely took a deep breath and eyed the baby uncertainly. “Now you might not agree, but I’ve decided that since chance did play such an important part in your continuing existence, you couldn’t have a better name than that—Chance!”

  The baby waved his arms exuberantly, and Morely grinned. “Like that notion, do you? Well, then, Chance it is! Chance Walker!”

  Morely’s grin faded. “We’ll just have to hope that chance continues to smile on us, little fellow. We’ve an uncertain journey ahead of us, and I ain’t at all sure that my cousin will be overjoyed to see us.” He glanced down at the baby. “Reckon we’ll just have to leave it to chance!”

  Part One

  Fancy

  Colony of Virginia Summer 1774

  A damsel of high lineage, and a brow

  May-blossom, and cheek of apple-blossom,

  Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose

  Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson,

  Idylls of the King

  Chapter One

  “Oh, Fancy, do come see! ’Tis the strangest creature I have ever seen in my life!” cried Ellen Merrivale as she leaned dangerously over the rails of the ship.

  “Ellen! Please do be careful, dear—after we have managed to cross the ocean from England to the Colony of Virginia without a mishap, I would hate for us to start off our arrival with a tragedy,” replied Frances “Fancy,” as she strolled up to her younger sister’s side at the railing. “Oh, my! I do see what you mean,” she exclaimed, a sparkle suddenly gleaming in the long-lashed golden brown eyes.

  “Is it an Indian?” Ellen asked, her cheeks rosily flushed with excitement. “A true savage?”

  “Hmm, I think so. I’ve read that they do wear feathers in their hair, and with those long, black braids and that shockingly bright-colored blanket around his shoulders, I would say that he looks very much like what one would expect.”

  Ellen giggled, her blue eyes sparkling. “Oh, Fancy, must you be so stuffy? You sound like a blue-stocking.”

  Fancy laughed ruefully. “Mayhap I am a blue-stocking. Just like old Lady Wells in the village.”

  “Not you! Lady Wells would never have consented to coming to the Colonies—even just for a visit as we have done.” Ellen shot her sister a sideways glance. “I still cannot believe that we are actually here. I was certain right up until the ship sailed that you would change your mind.”

  Fancy slipped an arm around her sister’s slim waist. “Hmm, I almost did, poppet. A dozen times I have asked myself if I was doing the right thing, leaving England and coming for an extended stay at Walker Ridge. Jonathan Walker appears to be a proper sort of man and I’m sure he’ll make you a fine husband, but . . .”

  Her cheeks flushed a deeper hue, Ellen asked softly, “He has not actually offered for me, has he?”

  “No,” Fancy replied slowly, “but there is no use for us to pretend not to know why we are here—he has, without taking the final step, committed himself as far as an honorable man could.” She sighed. “I just wish . . .”

  Ellen leaned nearer her sister, her sweet features full of understanding. “What?” she asked softly. “Wish that he were not so much older? Or that I was not so young? Or that he lived in England and not in the New World?”

  Fancy grimaced. “All of those things, I expect.”

  The sisters made a pretty pair as they stood there together at the side of the ship, Ellen as fair as Fancy was dark, both young women a bit above average height, both smallboned and slim, but nicely rounded in all the appropriate places. There was a facial resemblance between them, but it was not strong; Fancy’s chocolate brown hair complemented her peach-kissed complexion and cat-shaped golden brown eyes, while Ellen’s wheat-fair hair and bright blue eyes blended attractively with her creamy skin. Both possessed a delicate tip-tilted little nose, a rosy mouth just made for kissing, and a delightfully rounded chin with an unmistakably stubborn cast to it. Ellen’s expression was open and sunny, Fancy’s more reserved, her slightly slanted topaz eyes and slim, dark, almost haughtily arched brows giving her a faintly exotic air. Fancy, more properly called Lady Merrivale, was the widow of a baron and was ten years Ellen’s senior, although anyone looking at them this fine, sunny morning in late June would have been hard-pressed to decide which one of the sisters was the eighteen-year-old and which one had just recently enjoyed her twenty-eighth birthday.

  As Ellen said frequently, Fancy didn’t look like a dowager baroness. And Fancy would be the first one to admit that she certainly didn’t feel like one. But she had always been the more pragmatic of the two, having taken over the care of Ellen upon their mother’s death, when Ellen had been six and she had been only sixteen.

  Their father, Edward Merrivale, had been a charmingly careless rogue who had infrequently remembered that he was married and the father of two young daughters. He was content to leave his wife and children immured on his small estate in Surrey while he enjoyed himself in London, gaming and wenching as if there were no tomorrow. His wife’s death had merely caused a faint ripple of dismay in his carefree existence. His reaction upon learning of his wife’s demise had been only to comment how very inconvenient it had been for Sally to die and leave him the care of their daughters. Sally knew that he didn’t have the least idea how to go on with children.

  Edward had been thrilled when he had discovered that Fancy was extremely capable of stepping into her mother’s position as chatelaine of Limewood, as his estate was k
nown. Since Sally Merrivale had been an invalid for a number of years before her death, Fancy had been running the household for quite some time and she didn’t think it the least bit strange that, after the funeral, her father had departed immediately for London. Of course, he had not been totally irresponsible; he had somewhat hastily installed an old aunt of his for appearances. But he had mainly left the true reins of control in Fancy’s young hands.

  Fancy didn’t mind. The life she led was the only one she had ever known, and while she might have wished that her father were different, she and Ellen were quite happy in their home and old Aunt Mary had been both amiable and kind. As she grew older, Fancy sometimes longed for a more interesting life, something other than making the frugal amount of money her father sent (when he remembered) cover all their expenses or dealing with the recalcitrant Meg, the cook, or convincing the butcher that they truly would pay their bill next quarter, or figuring out how she could save enough money for Ellen to get a new gown. There were some compensations to be had, for sure, such as riding her fat old mare down the winding country lanes and sneaking into Lord Wells’s prized and jealously guarded orchard to steal an apple or a pear.

  But while Fancy prosaically took care of her small household, at night, as she had stared out at the starlit black sky she had frequently longed for something more—a social life, for instance, one that included balls and routs and had a great deal more to offer for amusement than having tea and cakes with Aunt Mary’s friends or joining a family dinner party at the vicar’s on Sundays. Sometimes she wondered what her future would hold. Not even in her wildest dreams would she have guessed that one day she would be married to a handsome, wealthy peer of the realm.

  It wasn’t a love-match, and if she’d had time to consider the situation, if her father hadn’t pleaded so abjectly with her, Fancy didn’t know, even today, if she would have married her father’s cousin, Spencer, Baron Merrivale. But everything had happened so swiftly. Just turned eighteen, she had been stunned when her father had returned home unexpectedly . . . returned home to die. He had been wounded in a duel over a married woman, and his days on earth were few.

  As Edward lay dying, he had considered for the first time what his daughters’ fates might be without him. Creditors would swallow up his meager funds and estate, and his children would be thrown penniless upon the world. In desperation, he had written to the head of the family, Lord Merrivale, begging for help.

  Lord Merrivale, of an age and much the same ilk as his dying cousin, moved by a whim that he never quite understood, came to call at Limewood. At the time, having parted from his latest mistress and bored with the sophisticated, fashionable ladies of London, Fancy’s fresh young loveliness and exotic beauty aroused his jaded interest.

  His wife, after dutifully presenting him with three sons in rapid succession, had died while attempting to deliver a fourth, and Spencer had been a widower for nearly two decades. He had his heirs, his eldest son already the proud father of a child of his own, and since he was a wealthy man able to indulge his every whim, there had been no need to cast about for another wife. Until Fancy. Seducing his own cousin’s daughter was out of the question, although he did consider it briefly before deciding that not even he was that much of a cad.

  It can’t be said that Lord Merrivale fell in love with Fancy, but he came as close to that emotion as a man of his character was capable. When Edward explained his dilemma, Spencer astounded his cousin and himself as well, by offering for Fancy’s hand in marriage.

  Edward was overcome with gratitude, and since time was of the essence, with hardly two days’ passing between the offer and the marriage, Fancy found herself wed to a man she didn’t know. A handsome man, to be sure, charming and urbane, but also arrogant and spoiled and five years older than her own father!

  Staring down sightlessly at the busy wharf at Richmond where their ship had finally ended its long journey from England, Fancy wondered at the twists and turns of fate that had brought her here. Her marriage to Spencer hadn’t been unhappy; in his way, he had been kind and generous, willingly taking on the care of Ellen and Aunt Mary, sheltering them at his country seat, Merrivale, with never a complaint or question about the money Fancy expended on them.

  Fancy sighed. In many ways her life hadn’t changed upon her marriage. Spencer saw no reason for his young and beautiful wife to follow him to London, and while she no longer had to worry over unpaid bills and could indulge herself with the latest fashions and lived in a grand house with servants at her beck and call, she was still buried in the country. Oh, every now and then the baron would allow Fancy to give a ball or a soiree, but since he followed his own pursuits and was away most of the time, after the first few months of their marriage, Fancy, Ellen, and Aunt Mary were left to their own devices. Sometimes Fancy almost forgot that she was married.

  Even now, having been married for nearly eight years and widowed for over two, a faint flush stained her cheeks when she thought of the intimacies her husband had pressed upon her. Raised in the country, Fancy hadn’t been entirely without knowledge about what would happen when her husband came to her on their wedding night, but there was no denying that the act of lovemaking had come as a distinct shock to her.

  Spencer had been gentle with her that first night, and the loss of her virginity had not been the dreadful event she had feared. Painful and embarrassing, but not dreadful. In the first days of their marriage, Spencer had been a demanding bridegroom, seeking her bed frequently to satisfy his needs, but as time passed, his fascination with her innocence had faded, and to Fancy’s humiliation, he had gone on to seek compensation in the arms of more knowing and sophisticated women.

  Which was just as well, she decided ruefully, unable to say that she had enjoyed her husband’s lovemaking. She hadn’t disliked it, precisely, but . . . If she were honest, she had been just as glad that Spencer had spent so much time away from Merrivale and that she hadn’t had to share her bed with him more than a dozen times in the last six years of their marriage.

  His death two years ago in a hunting accident had saddened her. He had been an affable, generous man, and he had never treated her unkindly—indifferently, perhaps, but not unkindly. In fact, Fancy still felt almost guilty at the sense of release that had washed over her when she had realized some three months after his death that she was truly free for the first time in her life. For the first time ever, there was no man in the background ruling her life, and lack of money was no longer an issue. Spencer had been generous to her—she had jewels, servants, and expensive horses and carriages to call her own, and as his widow, she had the dowager house at Merrivale at her disposal, as well as a handsome jointure left to her by him. Her relationship with his sons, all of them older than herself, had been cool but cordial. Taking Ellen and the ailing Aunt Mary with her, without a backward glance, she had moved from the grand halls of Merrivale to the smaller, but equally elegant dowager house.

  Fancy probably would have been content to spend the rest of her days living happily in the dowager house, enjoying her own small circle of friends and pursuits, if it hadn’t been for Ellen . . . and Aunt Mary’s death. . . . Fancy sighed more deeply. Oh, how she missed Aunt Mary’s gentle guidance and blunt common sense. Aunt Mary had not lived for six months after they had moved into the dowager house, and her death hit both the young women hard. For years she had been a kindly presence in their lives, and they had not known how much they would miss her once she was gone. But grief is not forever, and when their year of mourning was finished, to Fancy’s surprise she discovered that Ellen had grown up and had turned into an exquisitely lovely young woman.

  Suddenly everything that she had been denied Fancy wanted for Ellen. She wanted her to have a grand London season, to go to balls and soirees, the theater and rides in Hyde Park, and to mingle with fashionable and sophisticated people. Fancy’s tidy fortune and a title would ensure that no door would be shut to Lady Merrivale, and as her sister, Ellen would reap and enjoy the b
enefits.

  If Fancy had dreamed of a grand match for Ellen, she had never given voice to it—she only wanted her sister to be happy—but she would have been less than human if her heart hadn’t swelled with pride when, not a fortnight after their arrival in London this past January, the eldest son of the duke of Montrose began to pay marked attention to Ellen. Unfortunately, the duke’s heir had been an unprepossessing young man, and while Ellen had viewed him kindly, her interest had been immediately sparked by a tall and decidedly handsome gentleman visiting from the Colonies, a Mister Jonathan Walker.

  A little frown knitted Fancy’s forehead. She should be overjoyed that Ellen seemed to have fallen in love with a man of Jonathan’s stature. He was in many ways a maiden’s dream: tall, handsome, wealthy, and charming. In fact, Fancy could not think of one thing wrong with him. Not even the fact that he was a colonial—privately, she thought that the most fascinating thing about him, and even more than Ellen she had hung spellbound on his words when he had spoken of the Colonies and the life that he lived there.

  So why, she wondered vexedly, did she have this tiny niggle of discomfort in the back of her mind? Was it because she sometimes caught Jonathan looking at her with an expression in his deep blue eyes that shouldn’t have been there? Did she really suspect that he would have preferred to pay court to her rather than her younger sister? Was it because it was only after she had gently made it known that she was not interested in a second husband that he had shown an interest in Ellen? Mayhap Ellen was right: though there was not nearly the wide gap between Ellen’s eighteen and Jonathan’s thirty-six as there had been between her and Spencer, Jonathan was many years older than Ellen. Fancy flushed guiltily, suddenly admitting to herself that some of her reservation lay in the fact that at times, she also found him just a little too charming. Almost as if he were presenting an attractive facade and hiding his true character.