Page 27 of The Smuggler’s Escape

“Dorothea’s coming here? I’m surprised she consented. You won’t have much fun with her mother about, and neither will she, I’ll be bound.” He swung the undergarment back and forth, back and forth. Sir Frederick Darsington would have mentioned the visit, if he’d known.

Ergo, he didn’t know. He’d been on the verge of leaving for Portsmouth on government business when they had last met a few days earlier. This must be some start of Lady Darsington’s. What a nuisance.

His mother followed him into the dressing room and disposed herself gracefully in a Queen Anne chair by the fire. In a too-casual voice, she asked, “Do you know Miss Darsington well?”

Richard turned his back to her and, using the robe as cover, pulled on the smalls. “Well enough.”

“Is she pretty?”

“She’s beautiful, Mama.” He seated himself at his dressing table and picked up a silver brush. “A diamond of the first water.”

“Why have I never come across her in London?”

“Dot’s quite a bluestocking. She avoids as many parties as she can.”

“In that case, how did you get to know her so well? Well enough,” she added austerely, “to be calling her by a nickname?”

“Oh,” Richard said, gesturing vaguely with the brush, “at concerts, museums, learned societies, and so on.”

“Concerts I might credit, but museums? Learned societies? You must have run mad.” She took a breath. “Your papa told me you were developing a tendre for Miss Darsington.”

“No, that was wishful thinking on his part. We get on nicely because I don’t have a tendre for her. She’s a good sort, but too reserved for my taste. She has Opinions on the State of Society. Somewhat like Noelle’s, now that I come to think of it. They should deal extremely together.”

His mother blinked. “Are you serious?”

“They’ll have great fun abusing me. Which reminds me, I’ll need a quantity of flower bulbs and a couple of chickens this morning. And you, of course, to pay a ceremonial visit to Sir Matthew and Lady Tifton.”

“So it’s true! You did ask Noelle de Vallon to marry you last night.”

“Yes, you may wish me happy.” Richard dragged the hairbrush through his hair.

“If you treated her as disgracefully as I heard this morning, I doubt that very much.”

~ ~ ~

Noelle woke unrefreshed after a night of tossing, turning, and fruitlessly shutting out thoughts of Richard. She couldn’t possibly marry him, and yet she kept remembering that halcyon few weeks when they had fallen in love. Which was utterly stupid of her, for love and lust were not the same thing, and an educated woman should be able to tell the difference. Unfortunately, she kept muddling the two in her mind.

She should be glad Richard was so rude, imperious, and inconsiderate. She couldn’t afford to fall in love with him again. It was horrid enough having to leave England in a rush with the hangman breathing down her neck. She didn’t intend to nurse a broken heart as well.

She lay with the coverlet up to her chin, listening to the muffled sounds of servants already busy downstairs. She opened her eyes, sore and gritty from lack of sleep, saw a pale light through a chink in the bed curtains, and closed her eyes again, longing for a few more minutes of oblivion.

Think of his behavior, she told herself. He’d ruined and abandoned her. He’d debauched himself in Amsterdam. He’d courted another lady in London. What he was doing to her now, he’d done to many other women. You don’t want him anymore.

She took a deep breath and marshaled more arguments, for nothing seemed to be enough.

He’d always been imperious and rude. Remember the arguments you had.

Oh, but how she’d reveled in those arguments. During those few weeks when she’d first known Richard, she’d never had such fun in her life. It was those arguments that had led in the end to passion. She curled under the warm bedclothes, the heat of remembrance washing through her. Words sparking between Richard and herself, smiles, the touch of hands, of lips. Kisses, sweet and searing . . .

Kisses which had resulted in disaster. Even if it were possible to marry him—which it wasn’t—she couldn’t trust him. She must find the strength to forget those kisses. To ignore her lustful thoughts. To concentrate on delivering the goods, getting paid, and sailing away.

She threw off the coverlet, padded barefoot across the cold floor, and splashed frigid water from the ewer onto her face. If it didn’t exactly give her strength, the wet cold stopped her heated thoughts in their tracks.

A soft tap sounded on the door, and Lucretia came in, still in her nightdress with her wrapper flowing about her. “Oh, you’re up already! Dearest, what’s wrong?”

Noelle lowered the towel with which she had hurriedly dried her face. A glance in the mirror told her she looked as ghastly as she felt. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said in what she hoped was a sprightly voice. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Lucretia blushed. “No?”