Defiant Angel (43 page)

Brent, a disarming smile etched from ear to ear, sat at the club across from Percy.

"You've the smile of a cat that caught the proverbial canary. Give over, chap."

"Another Barencourte is expected at the turn of the year," he explained, his face beaming as if he had something to do with it.

"You don't say." Percy turned and called out, "Here, here, chaps, Clinton's expecting an heir come January. Pull out the wagering book and let's make our wagers, chaps!"

For once, Brent dismissed the odds and probabilities; instead he wagered purely on desire--fifty thousand pounds on a girl!

"Austin, my love, what a surprise. Do come in, darling."

"Put on your finery, Jezel." He picked her up, twirling her around and around. "Come now, Jezel, get dressed and hurry along." He patted her bottom as she rushed to do his bidding.

Austin threw himself into a nearby chair, a satisfied smirk etched on his face.

"Darling, what's this about?" Jezel called from her room.

"We are celebrating in style, love. The theater, dinner, drinking, and loving. Now, hurry along, Jezel."

"What are we celebrating?"

"Procreation," he shouted.

"What?" she asked as she appeared, a look of confusion crossing her delicate features.

"Another Barencourte's expected!"

"Bring out the oldest brandy, two bottles, man. Have one delivered to the duke of Wentworth and bring me the other."

William, as he waited for Godfrey's return, looked out over the property of his Cornwall estate, thinking he might return to Courtland Manor for the holidays.

Godfrey returned with the open bottle of brandy, pouring out a glass, handing it to his master.

"Have a drink with me, Godfrey."

Godfrey looked with startled eyes and poured a draft.

The earl raised his hand in toast.

"What is it we're drinking to, sir?"

Misty eyes regarded the servant. "To my daughter, you fool; she's going to have my grandchild."

England, Summer 1819

T
he bursting blossoms of the wild roses of June in no way compared to Tiffany's radiant bloom: all blushing, pinks and reds.

Tiny fruits began to appear out of the blossoms, the bees were plump with nectar, and the birds brooded over their eggs while their mates brought them food. Tiffany, the fourth month of her pregnancy ending, shone with the sunny beginnings of life, growing in harmony with nature.

Sitting on the garden wall, she found that the sweet fragrances that hung heavy in the air threatened her queasy stomach.

God, she hated this accursed morning illness, she hated the lethargy, her moodiness. God, she hated it all!

A flock of birds flew overhead and she shaded her eyes and longingly watched them, envying their freedom. She muttered to herself, "Can't go without an escort,

must ride Sugar Plum, must use a sidesaddle--and on and
on."

Everyone hovered over her, Clarissa, Germane, Mortimer. She couldn't move without someone asking where she was headed. She felt as if she were a child, not carrying one!

Even Clinton had turned into an overbearing monster,

placing more restrictions upon her freedom every day. Why, he even set Rory and Keegan as "guards" who no doubt reported her every action to him. Well, no more!

She heard the tread of footsteps and her lips tightened in rebellion, knowing for certain the "guards" had been set upon her. Lifting her skirts, she turned, fleeing from the garden, in pursuit of her freedom.

By noon the alarm was set off, for Tiffany was nowhere to be found. No one wished to be the bearer of bad news, especially since the duke had been extremely short-tempered today, demanding no interruption.

Standing outside the study door with fist poised to strike, Mortimer turned once again to Germane, who timidly nodded. He knocked.

"Enter," Clinton called out in annoyance. Looking up over the contract in hand, he glanced at Mortimer, asking more harshly than intended, "Well, what is it?"

"Her Grace is missing."

"Exactly what do you mean by 'missing'?"

"As in gone, without a trace, sir."

Standing abruptly, throwing down the contract, Clinton strode from the room.

Reaching the stables, his mood little improved, Clinton asked Rory, who just emerged from the stable, "Any mounts missing?"

A negative shake of his head was Rory's response, noticing the anger in his brother's face.

"Keegan, get my mount!" Clinton shouted.

"The chicken escape the coop again?" Rory asked lightly.

Impatiently slapping his gloves against his thigh, Clinton retorted, sharply, "It would appear so." Then he mounted and was off.

Rory and Keegan shook their heads, thankful they were not Tiffany.

"What a fine pair we make, Duchess; soon we'll be rounded and cumbersome." She patted the pregnant mare's head, which was lowered, munching the sweet green grass.

Walking barefoot through the meadow grass, holding the lead rope to Duchess's halter, Tiffany stooped to pick a flower, laying it in the basket hanging from her arm. She knew she had wandered outside her newly imposed boundaries, but didn't care. She was free again!

The pounding of hooves caused her to turn. Galloping up the crest on Mercury was Clinton, who reached her, pulling the stallion to a halt.

Duchess, scenting the stallion, began to prance and fuss. Tiffany tried to calm the mare. Duchess would have none of it, backing, thus pulling forcibly on the rope.

"Leave her. Let go of the rope," Clinton shouted at her, his voice edged in fear. Mercury began prancing, catching the mare's scent, and it took all of Clinton's control to hold him.

"I said let go of the rope, Tiffany."

Before she could, Duchess reared up, pulling the rope through Tiffany's hands, burning the soft skin. The mare's front hooves came down inches from Tiffany. Clinton reacted, moving Mercury forward, cutting the thrashing hooves from their target--Tiffany.

Tiffany cried out, "Clinton, she's running away, do something!"

When he didn't respond, she turned to find him glaring down at her. Leaning forward and in a stern voice with no vestige of sympathy in its hardness, he spoke, spacing the words evenly. "Madame, you have exceeded your bounds today. If you were not with child, I'd toss you over my knee and spank you as you deserve. You have been told, repeatedly, not to leave without an escort, not to go wandering about, to inform someone of your whereabouts. What you have done today is place yourself and my child in danger. You will not, I repeat, will not leave the confines of our home without
me!''

"How dare you! I am not some errant child and will not allow you to treat me as such!'' she screamed back.

"Don't push me, madame. You behave as a child and should be treated as one. I will, if necessary, lock you in our room, thereby assuring myself of your safety and gaining some peace of mind, knowing that where I put you, I will find you.

Tiffany stood her ground when Clinton moved his mount forward, refusing to let him intimidate her. A not-so-nice smile crossed his face and he lifted her onto the saddle. He nudged his horse forward. Tiffany sat ramrod-straight to avoid touching him.

Tiffany's chair remained conspicuously empty at dinnertime. Clarissa had announced that Tiffany would not be down for dinner.

Rory finished his meal and, laying down his fork and knife, picked up his wine and regarded his brother.

"Well, brother," he began, breaking the silence, "what are the new rules pertaining to Tiffany?" Without allowing for comment, he continued, "Are we to shackle her with ball and chain or perhaps just lock her in her room?" Rory smiled at Clinton's narrowed eyes and proceeded. "I'd suggest if you intend to lock her up, you consider barring the windows as well." Rory sipped his wine, gauging the effect of his words, and added, "She is resourceful. Of course, I don't have to tell you that, do I?"

Refusing to be drawn, Clinton replied, "She is not to leave the confines of the house without me."

"Well, that certainly makes all our jobs easier since you're leaving tomorrow."

"Don't cross me on this, Rory. I've listened to you plead her case all afternoon. Nothing has changed. You were not there when the mare nearly struck her down. As it is, her hands are badly burnt and cut."

"I told you, Clinton, she's like a mare in season, skittish, restive, variable. Locking her in will not help."

"Believe me, Rory, I am aware of it. I am only pulling back on her bit; she'll have her head soon. A clearer one, I hope." He lifted his glass and finished the remnants of his wine.

"I hardly think she'll see it that way."

"No, I'm sure she considers me quite arbitrary."

"More likely tyrannical, I'd say."

"No doubt, brother, but my orders stand until I return."

As Clinton entered the sitting room, Clarissa walked out of the bedchamber carrying the dinner tray.

Eyeing the untouched plate, he questioned the wisdom of his actions. Clarissa put him at ease. "She'll not starve, Your Grace. What ye did was fer her own good. She's a bit headstrong, but she'll come around."

Clinton smiled down at the wrinkled face. "I suspect you're right, Clarissa."

He entered the bedchamber and stood at the foot of the bed, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. He gazed down at Tiffany, who was sound asleep from the laudanum he had laced her wine with. His eyes were drawn to the white bandages on her hands. He was thankful that was her only injury.

He slipped into bed, pulling Tiffany into his arms. He smelled the fresh fragrance of violets, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent and feel of her in his arms.

He planned to be gone for a while and hadn't told her yet. He needed to clear up some business problems so he could be with her now as well as when the baby came.

Two weeks seemed an eternity without her, for he would miss her greatly. He wanted very much a memory to take with him to warm him through the long, lonely nights ahead. His manhood rose. His chest rumbled in silent laughter as he mused, If she thinks me highhanded, what would she think if I took her tonight, defensive and vulnerable as she is? He rationalized, If she protests, I will cease.

He lowered his mouth and captured soft lips in repose, which responded; gently moving the soft, pliant body, he slid into her. Tiffany moaned gently, wrapping her legs about him in a passion-induced dream. Her breathing grew ragged and soft mews escaped her throat. He brought them to a climax, flooding her with his seed. They lay entwined about each other.

"I've left your crackers and milk on the table, lamb," crooned Clarissa, who fluffed pillows about a drowsy Tiffany. "Now, don't forget to take them before ye rise. Won't be much longer, lamb, the sickness will be gone for good."

Tiffany had difficulty sitting up. She felt dazed. Everything was hazy. Giving up, she lay back against the pillows.

"What's the matter, lamb?"

"I'm so groggy. I can't seem to get my legs and arms to work together."

The concerned look vanished from the wrinkled face. "Oh, not to worry, lamb, 'tis only the laudanum."

"Laudanum? Whatever are you talking about?"

"His Grace put some in your wine."

"And you let him?" Tiffany asked, incredulously.

"Of course, lamb, 'twas for the pain in your hands."

Managing to sit up, Tiffany was instantly confronted with another realization--she was sticky! Her eyes widened. Why, that arrogant beast. Not only drugged her but taken her as well.

She tossed the covers off, stood on wobbly legs, and shrugged into her robe. Tiffany left the room with one purpose--to find Clinton and tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Upon learning Clinton was gone and noticing a servant posted at each door, Tiffany stormed up to her room. She remained closeted for four days, unaware Alan Thurston had come to call. As she refused to speak to anyone or open her door, Alan's message was never received. However, by the fifth day, feeling her solitude sharply, Tiffany emerged to wander silently through the manor. She moved listlessly from room to room, feeling the void of Clinton's presence. The anger she felt for Clinton turned toward herself when she admitted how very close she had come to injuring herself and the baby. The anger quickly turned to sadness, knowing they had parted with harshness between them. She yearned for the time to pass and waited anxiously for Clinton's return. In the meantime she sought the study, knowing she'd feel closer to him there.

Sitting behind his desk, her chin in hand, she smiled, content with the thought Clinton loved her and, more astonishingly, she loved him. A gleam lit her blue eyes; thinking of images of a quiet, moonlit supper and a night of passion quieted her mind, and for the first time in five days, tomorrow couldn't arrive too soon.

Deciding to play solitaire, Tiffany opened the desk drawer, looking for a deck of cards. Shuffling the papers within, she removed a stack of them.

"Ah, there you are." She snatched the cards, knocking the pile of papers to the floor, "Bloody great!"

Bending to retrieve the loose papers, she paused noticing a large folder marked "THURSTON PROPERTIES."