Betina Krahn Page 4

  Her gaze dropped to his bare chest and fixed on smooth, hard mounds of flesh tipped with dark flat nipples and supported by smoothly defined ribs. Stunned, she slid her gaze still lower. His midsection was a tautly sculptured rectangle and as he shifted some of his weight from one leg to another, the thick, ropelike muscle over his stomach contracted sinuously. She swallowed hard. It was as if she were seeing beneath that sun-bronzed skin … witnessing a body working within a body. Then it registered that his chest and stomach were just as tanned as his face. He must have gone shirtless. Outside. Frequently.

  She couldn’t move or look away. Awareness of him seeped through her every pore. His eyes narrowed slightly. His lips parted. His chest—that mesmerizing expanse of flesh—seemed to be rising and falling faster.

  Say something, she thought, anything!

  “I believe”—she swallowed hard—“an apology is in order.”

  “Very well. I accept.” His voice was so low and resonant that it caused sundry unmentionable parts of her body to hum.

  Her physical response temporarily eclipsed the meaning framed within those vibrations. His words registered only when his provocative smile appeared. He seemed to know what was happening inside her and he—he accepted?

  “I didn’t mean—” She saw the glint in his eyes deepen. “Ohhhh!”

  She managed to turn on her heel and made it to the door without colliding with either Monsieur Martene or his insulting customer. The little tailor followed, showering her with apologies until she turned to him at the street door.

  “If you would be so good as to deliver the rest of Robbie’s riding clothes, Monsieur Martene …” She shot a withering glance at the curtained rear door. “And be certain to include the cost of that awful man’s garments on my bill.”

  In the coach she found Robbie perched on the edge of the seat, braced as if he might make a dash for the door at any minute, with Hardwell scowling fiercely at him over tightly crossed arms.

  “What did he do this time?” Hardwell demanded as she slid onto the seat beside Robbie. She looked at her young cousin, and under their combined regard, Robbie reddened and pushed his damp hair up off his forehead.

  “What?” he said, looking alarmed. “I didn’t do nothin’—”

  “Anything,” Diamond corrected.

  “—on purpose.”

  “It wasn’t the danged ‘telephone’ again, was it?” Hardwell sat abruptly forward. “If he’s rung up the mayor again, or the clerks down at the bank—”

  “It wasn’t the telephone,” Diamond said, watching Robbie squirm and seeing in his clear blue eyes, beneath his boyish bravado and mischievous energy, unmistakable traces of anxiety. Why was she the only one who seemed to see that in him … who understood how desperately he needed security and love? “It was just a little matter of some screens in the fitting rooms toppling.”

  “I—I didn’t mean to.” Robbie peered defensively up at her. “I just give one a bump and it fell over an’ hit another one … and that one hit another one …”

  Hardwell shut his eyes and groaned. “Ye gods. I won’t be able to show my face at Martene and Savoy for months. First the bank, then the mayor’s office, then the mercantile, and now my tailor’s. Soon I’ll be a pariah in every blessed precinct of Baltimore.”

  “It was a mess, Robbie,” she said, ignoring Hardwell’s lamentations. “That man was hit on the head and could have been badly hurt.”

  “I didn’t mean ta,” Robbie said, huddling back. “Anyway … ye should have heard th’ son of a gun cuss—”

  “This isn’t about his behavior, it’s about yours.” She leaned closer to him. “When we get home, you’re to go straight to your room and think about what happened. I believe you’ll have a few things to say to me before dinner.”

  Robbie glanced at Hardwell, who looked as if he had a torrent of opinion dammed up behind tightly pursed lips. Then his gaze wound its way reluctantly back to Diamond. After a moment, he gave a huff of surrender and nodded.

  She watched him draw his feet up on the tufted velvet seat and cross them Indian style, then looked up to find Hardwell regarding her with a combination of worry and frustration.

  “You’ve got too soft a heart, Diamond girl,” he said. “Mark my words. One of these days it’s goin’ to get you into real trouble.”

  Diamond tucked her chin defensively and transferred her attention out the window. The city landmarks of Baltimore had receded, replaced by lush emerald fields of young wheat and maturing oats. As she watched the familiar countryside approaching her home, Gracemont, dark, aromatic fields of crops alternated with orchards of blossoming apple, plum, and pear trees. It was her favorite time of year, filled with promise and with … approaching hoofbeats.

  Someone on horseback was hailing their driver, and from the way Old Ned slowed the horses, it had to be an acquaintance. Hardwell and Robbie leaned immediately to the windows.

  “Hello!” A top hat tipped in greeting soon became visible through the window and a moment later a man in formal riding clothes appeared at the coach window. “I’ve had a devil of a time tracking you down this afternoon.”

  “Morgan Kenwood!” Hardwell’s face lighted. “You’re back.”

  “Mr. Humphreys.” The tall, handsome figure tipped his hat. “Diamond.”

  “Morgan!” Diamond forced a smile and slid her purse and the three letters it contained beneath her skirt. “I didn’t expect you back for weeks.”

  “How was Ireland? Did you get some good breeding stock?” Hardwell demanded eagerly, flinging the door open in invitation.

  “I surely did.” Without hesitation, Morgan Kenwood dismounted, tied his horse to the coach, and climbed aboard. Halfway inside, he encountered an unexpected obstacle. Robbie sat with his arms and legs crossed, glowering at him, asserting a tenacious claim on the seat beside Diamond.

  “Well, well. Who is this?” Morgan said with a frown.

  “Diamond’s cousin,” Hardwell answered, waving a wordless order at Robbie to vacate the seat and come sit by him. “He came to live with us just after you left.” When the boy didn’t move, Morgan aimed past him, for the space beside Diamond.

  She abruptly seized her cousin’s arm and dragged him to her side, placing him between her and Morgan. “Remember your manners, Robbie. Mr. Kenwood has just returned from a long journey.” She looked up at Morgan, thinking that he looked oddly colorless … from his impeccable charcoal riding coat to his cool gray eyes and determined smile. “When did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday evening.” He turned to her. “And my very first thoughts upon arriving were of Gracemont. And you.”

  “About Ireland …” Hardwell fidgeted. “Find any prizes over there?”

  Morgan smiled. “Ireland is full of prize Thoroughbreds, to hear the Irish tell it. The problem is, they price the beasts accordingly. Even so, I managed to acquire a half-dozen animals that together will make quite a contribution to our bloodlines.”

  “When will they arrive?” Hardwell rubbed his hands together eagerly.

  “I brought them back with me,” Morgan declared. “A crossing is always difficult this time of year and I decided to take no chances with these beauties. And, of course, I was eager to get back”—he sat back and looked intently at her—“for Diamond’s birthday.”

  The way his voice softened around those words caused her stomach to contract and she lowered her gaze, hoping the feeling didn’t show in her face.

  Her birthday. In four short weeks, she would reach the age of twenty-three and would receive the final installment of the inheritance left to her by her father. Unfortunately, Morgan and everyone else in Baltimore knew what the arrival of her twenty-third birthday meant. She would have an even more fantastic fortune at her fingertips. Massive sums. Huge, vulgar piles of money. It meant the maneuvering for favor and funding which already plagued her would intensify. And, of course, there was the little matter of a few promises that would come due … including one she had made
to Morgan.

  As she looked at Morgan’s elegant frame and read his intention to redeem her promise in his eyes, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the “real trouble” Hardwell had just predicted was on its way.

  The Tinkle of the bell on the shop door was soft, but somehow managed to penetrate the swirl of emotion that had kept Bear McQuaid immobile since the boy’s mother frosted him with a look as frigid as a Montana stream in January. He blinked, looked down at his dusty, half-finished evening coat, and blinked again, having trouble focusing on it. Burned into his vision was the image of a pair of lightning-blue eyes set in a flushed oval face. He had just stood there, staring at her … feeling reason and will abandoning him … caught hard in the grip of …

  He shook his head to clear it and was alarmed by the way the woman’s striking figure and fiery blue eyes lingered in his starved senses. He felt the lump on his head again, took a purging breath, and told himself the blow must have addled him more than he realized. He was probably lucky he wasn’t out cold. Rotten kid. A flash of lightning-blue streaked through his awareness one last time before settling into memory. Infernal female.

  Still smoldering from her stare, he actually felt for his eyebrows … then growled with disgust when he found them intact.

  Moments later Martene ushered him out of the devastation, into the front room, and anxiously began to wield a brush over his still sleeveless coat.

  “A thousand pardons, monsieur.” The little Frenchman clapped irritably for his apprentices, who had made themselves scarce after two hours of coping with Robbie’s rambunctious behavior. “We finish the clothes for you straightaway … no charge. Mademoiselle Wingate insists upon having ze bill.”

  Bear froze in the middle of drawing a breath.

  “Mad-moi-selle who?”

  “Wingate, monsieur.” The tailor’s brush continued its rhythmic strokes. “Très riche. Très jolie.” There was a sigh and the brush halted. “Très difficile.”

  “Wingate.” Every nerve in Bear’s body suddenly came alive. “Is she related to Diamond Wingate?” When Martene shook his head, Bear felt a brief surge of relief that evaporated a moment later.

  “Not related, monsieur. That is Mademoiselle Diamond Wingate.”

  The wall that had fallen on Bear minutes ago hadn’t stunned him as much as that bit of news. “Her? She’s the one? B-but she’s—she’s—”

  Too damned young, he thought.

  “But what about the boy?”

  Martene shook his head. “Her cousin, monsieur. She ’as taken him to live with her. He will give her the ache in the head, that one.” He looked up and caught Bear’s expression of horror as he stood before the mirror, interpreting it as a comment on the clothes. “Do not be alarmed, monsieur. It is only a little dust. By the time of the party, we will repair all. You will be dashing, indeed.”

  Bear stood stock-still, feeling as if his insides had collapsed and were sliding toward his feet. By the time of the party he wouldn’t be dashing, he would be dead. Halt would lay him out flat when he learned what had happened. And he would damned well deserve it. Diamond Wingate was his best hope for financing his railroad, and he had just dropped her cousin smack on his arse and insulted her six ways from Sunday. There was no way he could go to a society party in two days, face her, and ask her for a few hundred thousand dollars to build their railroad.

  “Well?” Halt was waiting when Bear exited the tailor shop, clad once again in the business suit on which he had already spent most of their traveling money. “Will yer clothes be ready in time?”

  “I have to come around and collect them Saturday morning.” Without so much as a pause, Bear struck off down the street.

  “And?” Halt fell into step beside him, puzzling over his mood. “What about th’ payment? Is he willin’ to take half and let us pay the rest later?”

  A hitch occurred in his stride. “Didn’t mention it. Didn’t have to. A kid was climbing around all over the dressing screens and knocked one over on my head.” He removed his hat and ducked his head, parting his hair in demonstration. Halt issued a low whistle.

  “That’s a beaut.”

  Bear jammed his hat back onto his head. “Yeah, well, the kid’s ‘mother’ seemed to think so. She insisted on paying for my new suit by way of apology.”

  “She what?” Halt stopped at the edge of the pavement and his ruddy face fairly split with a broad grin. “That’s wonderful, lad.” Catching the discrepancy between Bear’s news and mood, he scowled. “You didn’t by any chance do somethin’ stupid, did ye? Like tellin’ her you couldn’t accept?”

  Something stupid? Bear groaned silently. “No.”

  “Excellent!” Halt’s grin reappeared. “That’s the first bit o’ good fortune we’ve had in weeks. To celebrate, we’ll go out an’ have us a steak dinner.”

  Bear scowled. “We can’t afford that.”

  “Who says? Things are finally lookin’ up for us, lad. We got bankers befriendin’ us and women buyin’ us suits o’ clothes.” He clapped Bear on the shoulder with a laugh and pulled him along. “Ye know … I got a good feelin’ about you an’ ol’ Miss Wingate. A real good feelin’.”

  Through the evening, every time Bear started to reveal the true nature of the event that Halt had pronounced their “good fortune,” Halt would say something that showed his faith in Bear and his unflagging optimism about their long-held dream of building a railroad, and Bear would again stop short of telling him the identity of the woman who had insisted on paying for his evening clothes. How could he confess that he had already met, insulted, and infuriated their potential investor such that she would probably spit in his eye the moment they were introduced?

  By the time they settled onto sagging canvas cots in their rooming house that night, Bear realized that he didn’t have a choice. Just a week ago, he had lectured Halt on doing his part and being willing to make sacrifices in the name of their dream. He could do no less himself. He would have to go to Vassar’s party, brazen it out, and hope he could persuade Miss Wingate to overlook their inauspicious beginning … in the interest of profit and the march of “Progress.”

  FOUR

  Saturday evening arrived unseasonably warm and rich with the scents of the maturing spring. The Wingate carriage wound its way through the darkening countryside toward Pennyworth, the Vassars’ estate, carrying only Diamond and Hardwell. Hannah Humphrey had insisted on staying at home with Robbie, who had refused a third dessert at dinner and sent everyone into a state of alarm.

  Weathering the bounce and sway of the coach, Diamond adjusted and readjusted her posture to keep from wrinkling her long, snug-fitting satin bodice and arranged and rearranged her skirts to keep from flattening the ribbons and flounces on her elaborate bustle. When she achieved a suitable arrangement for her skirts, she turned her attention to the lace that rimmed her princess neckline, fluffing, smoothing, and tugging. Hardwell chuckled, and she looked up.

  “You look lovely, Diamond. You’ll charm Morgan’s socks off.”

  Morgan could jolly well keep his socks on, she responded silently, trying not to let her thoughts show in her face. The very last thing she needed was Morgan Kenwood hovering over her all evening. Why couldn’t he have kept to his original schedule and arrived home from Ireland only days before her wretched birthday?

  Her dread of seeing him was compounded by feelings of guilt. She had allowed him to extract a promise from her to announce her marriage plans on her birthday … knowing full well that he interpreted that promise to mean she would be announcing plans to marry him.

  It wasn’t entirely dishonest of her. At the time she made the promise, she had not yet eliminated marriage as a possibility and, if she were to marry, she honestly considered Morgan Kenwood to be one of her leading matrimonial candidates. His family’s home, Kensington, bordered Gracemont; she had known him all of her life; and his breeding and appearance were perfectly—

  A sudden lurch of the carriage caused her to grab
for the strap hanging beside the door, to steady herself. “Why are we speeding up?”

  Hardwell was already heading for the window and squinting out into the gathering darkness to see what was happening. “It’s another vehicle—a wagon.” He pointed out the window, to the rear, and Diamond looked back to glimpse a pair of horses in harness struggling to overtake their landau. The billowing dust made it difficult to see who was trying to pass their carriage on such a narrow and rutted road and in such abysmal light.

  But as they neared Pennyworth, the road widened enough to permit the wagon to draw abreast of them and it became clear that the driver did not intend to pass. In the dissolving daylight, they could see the man driving the wagon begin to yell and wave his hat. His words were obscured by the rumble of the wheels, but he seemed to be calling to them to stop their carriage.

  “Perhaps he’s in trouble,” Diamond said, glancing at Hardwell.

  “No doubt. Lunatics usually are.” He stuck his arm out and waved the driver off. “Drop back, man!” he shouted. “Have you no sense a’tall?”

  He thumped the roof of the coach to signal Ned, and upon a crack from the whip and a snap of the reins, the horses broke into a gallop. The heavy coach lurched again. Diamond braced her feet against the opposite seat, tightened her hold on the hanging strap with one hand, and gripped the opening of her evening wrap with the other. She had never known Ned to push the horses like this … especially with darkness coming on. Her heart began to pound.

  Their pursuer drove his horses with shocking recklessness, trying to keep pace. Then, just as they rounded a curve and the gates of Pennyworth came into view, one of the wagon’s wheels hit a deep rut, broke several spokes, and sent the vehicle bouncing and careening off the road. Diamond and Hardwell strained to see if it overturned and were able to catch a glimpse of the man climbing up on the footboard of the wagon to survey the damage.

  Soon Ned slowed the horses, pulled into the drive leading to the Vassars’ handsome English Tudor house, and settled into the line of carriages inching toward the front doors. Inside, they began to collect themselves.