Her Prodigal Passion (24 page)

And, hell, it might be worth the effort just to see Uriah Sparkler eat humble pie.

"Well, better you than me." Jameson blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. "Running this place is a young man's job, and I'm not as spry as I look."

Paul eyed the heap of boxes. He had to begin somewhere, and it was time to take matters into his own hands—literally.

He slung his jacket over a counter and rolled up his sleeves. With a sigh, he said, "Let's do something about this mess, shall we?"

TWENTY-SIX

As much as Charity loved her father, she had to admit that he was a difficult patient. She spent the next week in a state of frenzy—trying to keep him in bed, convince him to take his medicines, and coax him into eating more than a few bites of food, all his favorites that she'd had specially prepared. He complained about everything and demanded incessantly, "Take me to the shop." A few days ago, when he attempted to get up on his own, he grew faint and almost fell to the ground before she rushed over and caught him.

By week's end, she was exhausted from worry and lack of sleep.

As she fluffed his pillows to make them more comfortable, Father grumbled, "I'm going back to the shop tomorrow. I'm fit as a fiddle."

"Let's see how you feel tomorrow," Charity said.

"I'm telling you I'm
fine
. Which I won't be if that fribble has destroyed my life's work." His grey brows lowered in a glower. "By now, he could have frittered away the entire store. Or razed it to the ground on some drunken lark. That's what these feckless young bloods do, you know."

Her jaw clenched. She didn't like the way her father put Paul down. How he did so constantly. He seemed oblivious to all the efforts her husband was making, and his behavior was unappreciative to say the least.

Her patience fraying, she said, "That fribble happens to be your son-in-law and my husband. I'll thank you to speak of him more kindly. He's had to compromise his plans in order to oversee the shop during your illness."

"Plans, hah. Boxing isn't a plan—it's a waste of time," her father groused.

She knew that he was wrong. Paul was making such a sacrifice for her, for Sparkler's. Every morning for the past week, he'd been up and out of the house before she even awakened. He'd arranged for pre-dawn practices at Gentleman Jackson's Saloon, boxing for several hours before he went to tend to the shop. After working all day, he went to practice again. He didn't arrive home until late at night; he fell straight into bed, exhausted. And the next day it began all over again.

Her papa's gaze thinned. "And I'll thank you not to take such a tone with me, missy. What happened to the obedient girl I raised? Am I nothing to you now? Nothing but an old cripple not worthy of the simplest courtesy and respect?"

Charity's cheeks burned. "Of course I respect you, Father. I just wish you would give Paul a chance. If you did, you'd come to love him as I do. Or at least like him. He's a good, honorable man and—"

"
Love?
Did you just say you believe yourself in love with this
n'er-do-well
?"

She swallowed as a wild light came into her father's eyes. She hadn't meant to admit her love aloud; she hadn't told anybody yet, not even Paul. She'd wanted to wait until the right moment to confess her true feelings to him … the right moment being when he might return the sentiment. After their magical week at the cottage in Chudleigh Crest, it had seemed possible that he might come to love her, at least a little. And now he'd selflessly placed her welfare and that of the shop before his own.

Since their return to London, however, they hadn't had much time to spend together, what with her nursing Father and Paul busy with his schedule. For the first time in their marriage, they'd also had to take separate rooms for the beds were too narrow to fit more than one occupant comfortably. It never rained but poured, and her monthly flux had arrived as well, putting an additional damper on their lovemaking.

Well, her courses were over now, and she planned to spend an evening alone with Paul when he returned home. Hopefully, the intimacy of their wedding trip would rekindle, giving her the courage to tell him the truth of her feelings.

Lifting her chin, she said, "Yes, Father, I love him."

She braced herself for her father's anger. His scorn, perhaps. So she wasn't prepared for the quiet resignation in his voice when he said, "I pity you, my daughter. That I do."

"Pity?" Her brow furrowed. "But why? I'm happy to love my husband."

"Aye. But does he love you?"

Her fingers pleated the edge of the sheet. "We're newly wedded. These things take time. And I … I have kept my feelings to myself until now."

"At least I know some of the sense I ingrained in you remains." Her papa gripped her hand with sudden strength. "Heed me: if you're wise, you'll never let him know of your love."

"Why do you say that, Father?"

"Because it can only lead to pain." His grey eyes flickered with shadows. "Sparklers do not lie to themselves: they see their true reflections in the looking glass. Haven't I taught you that? Look at yourself, my daughter—and look at your husband. You must see the difference."

Her heart beat faster. An image materialized of herself, covered in spots, watching Paul as he was surrounded by pretty debutantes. As he cast longing glances at the only one he'd wanted: raven-haired, violet-eyed Rosalind—the night to his sun. The one for whom he'd admitted that "sentiment lingered."

Just then, the gleam of her opal ring caught her eye, its fire renewing her strength.

"He thinks I'm beautiful," she said.

"Pretty words don't cost much, especially not to a silver-tongued rascal like him. Charity, my poor deluded child," her father said with such misery that her throat cinched, "all my life I've sought to protect you. To arm you with good sense and modesty so that you would know your place in the world."

"My place is with my husband. We made a vow to each other before God."

"Are you such an innocent that you don't realize that such vows are broken more oft than not? Your husband is a known philanderer. Do you actually think he'll change ... because of you?"

"He promised me." Her voice wavered.

Father shook his head. "He may have made promises now, but they shan't last. With his sort, they never do. Mark my words: he will tire of you and toss you aside as carelessly as he does last season's fashion."

No. Paul wouldn't. He couldn't.

"It pains me to say this, Charity, but,"—her father let out a wheezing breath—"the truth is that whilst we Sparklers remain steadfast in everything we do, the same cannot be said of others. That is why we get left behind. Haven't you learned from my own suffering?"

"But Mama died. She didn't choose to leave." A voice, new and defiant, rose within her.
Your suffering doesn't have to be mine.

"What does it matter? She's gone, isn't she?" His voice turned harsh. "She left me to raise you, an infant girl, on my own and with no one to count on but myself. It wasn't easy, and others in my shoes might have given you up to an orphanage or the workhouse. But I didn't abandon you—do you know why?"

Her breaths rapid, she shook her head.

"Because Sparklers stick together. We do our duty to each other. Hasn't it always been this way, you and me against the rest of them?"

Her defiant spark extinguished as memories crowded her: walking to and from the shop with her papa, taking hasty suppers together in the back room of Sparkler's. The hours they'd spent poring over the merchandise—and the triumph she'd felt when he had complimented her on the neatness of the displays. All her life, she'd yearned for his approval.

"I
am
trying to do what's right," she said, swallowing, "and so is Paul. He's worked tirelessly at the shop while you've been ill—doesn't that count for something?"

"He can't save Sparkler's." The starkness of his tone released a trickle of fear in her. The anger seemed to leave him, deflating him, and he slumped back against the pillows, his eyes closing. "We had one chance, and that was with Garrity. Well, that's gone now, and the only thing left to save is you. Your ... heart." His voice cracked as he said, "Protect it, child, for I may not be long in this world to do it for you."

"You'll recover fully," she said, squeezing his hand, "and then you'll see that everything will turn out fine."

He didn't open his eyes. "I'm tired. Leave me to rest."

Blinking back sudden moisture, she tucked the coverlet over him and said, "Yes, Father."

She closed the door behind her, leaving it slightly ajar. From the thin crack, she kept watch over him. And worried … about everything.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Paul didn't return until after ten that evening. Charity rushed from the front parlor to greet him. He looked as handsome as always, though a bit worse for wear. Dirt smudged his left cheekbone, and dust dulled the shine of his boots.

"Hard day?" she asked.

Taking off his hat, he ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Sparkler's makes working the coal mines seem like child's play. Between that and a grueling session at Jackson's, I'm starved and in need of a bath." Removing his jacket, he sniffed at himself and grimaced. "And not necessarily in that order."

"You don't have to choose," she told him. "I had the tub readied, and supper's on a tray."

"Always said you were an angel." He leaned in to kiss her.

"Actually," she said a few breathless moments later, "you called me a mouse."

He grinned. "You're an angelic rodent. An adorable one who scurries about doing acts of kindness for mankind. And, in particular, me."

"I'm not sure I can handle such flattery," she said wryly as she headed for the stairwell. "Let's go upstairs before the water cools."

"See? Always with my best interests at heart—ergo, my angel."

His boots thumped behind her. When his hand clamped on her bottom and squeezed, she squeaked, nearly missing a step.

He steadied her, said with a catch of laughter, "And she makes the most darling sounds and has a very lovely tail, both attributes of our four-legged friend. Therefore, I give you Madam Guardian Mouse."

Her lips twitching, Charity continued up the stairs with him close behind. They entered the snug guest chamber where Paul was staying, and his presence dwarfed the space further. Besides the narrow bed, there was only a tiny desk and cabinet. The tub had to be squeezed in between the foot of the bed and the hearth. At least the fire was built, warming the room and imbuing it with a cozy glow.

Paul snagged a chunk of mutton from the supper tray and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, he loosened his cravat and disrobed with a casual grace that she could never aspire to. He was so comfortable in his own skin—and what a skin it was. The layers fell to the ground as he carelessly shed them.

Oh my.

Her mouth watered a little as the firelight licked the taut ridges of his manly form. His hard-paved chest and torso looked deliciously out of place against the faded floral wallpaper. The sleek muscles of his thighs flexed, his male equipment swaying as he lowered himself into the tub.

With a tingle, she recalled how his rampant instrument had moved inside her, filling her so completely that there'd been no room for thought or worry. No room for anything but him and the glorious pleasure they shared.

She hoped for such intimacy tonight.

"Ah, that's better," he sighed, leaning back. Although he was too big to fit entirely in the tub—he had to bend his knees—he looked like a king in repose.

She smiled and, out of habit, went to pick up the heap of clothes he'd left on the floor. As her father's home was not large enough to accommodate Paul's valet, Mr. Bromley came for daily visits to dress Paul and pick up soiled garments. She folded the dirty clothes into a neat pile … and noticed a stain on the lapel of the waistcoat.

Inspecting the jade jacquard, she rubbed at the spot. "Oh dear. Ink can be terribly difficult to remove from fabric as fine as this."

"Don't worry your head over it," Paul said from the tub. "Just have it tossed in the rag bin."

She looked at him in surprise. "But it's a beautiful waistcoat. Not to mention costly."

"It's last year's fashion." He yawned, stretching his arms. "Bromley was going to dispose of it anyway."

He will tire of you and toss you aside as carelessly as he does last season's fashion.

Her grip tightened on the waistcoat. "There's no need for such wastefulness. I'll get the stain out. If I can't, I'm certain I can reuse the fabric."

"Suit yourself, sweeting." He gave her a lazy smile. "Now would you mind coming over here and helping me bathe?"

Her pulse unsteady, she chided herself for being silly and went over. Perching on the stool next to the tub, she poured a handful of his soap—an aromatic blend of lemon and sandalwood specially formulated by his valet—and lathered it into his hair. Paul moaned as she massaged his scalp with deep strokes. The way, she knew, that he liked it.

"By Jove, you've got the magic touch. Don't know how I got along without you." His eyes were closed, his head resting against the towel she'd placed on the edge of the tub.

She worked at the tight muscles along his neck, the pleasure of his words, of touching him, slowly dispelling some of her anxiety.

It's just an old waistcoat. Don't overreact.

Letting out a breath, she said, "You're stiff."

"I'll say." Though his eyes remained shut, his lips took on a wicked curve. "It's a problem I seem to develop whenever I'm around you."

His flirtatiousness filled her with relief. She
loved
it when he bantered with her in this manner. Especially now that she understood the naughty innuendos. Her fingers dug deeper into his tight muscles and he groaned, water sloshing against the tub's edge. She worked at his neck and shoulders, reveling in her ability to give him pleasure.

"How was your training?" she asked.

"They're toughening me up." He lifted his left hand from the water, and she gasped at his bruised and swollen knuckles.