The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (28 page)

Meg had just meant to enjoy one little quiet kiss. "I didn't mean to be alone with you. I know Aunt Felicity says I am rich enough to buy myself a husband, but I really didn't mean to...to...to..."

"Miss Fielding."

Meg was shaking with fury at herself and with frustrated passion.

"Oh, please say you'll never speak a word. I don't know what came over me." A wanton insanity, her mother's sluttish predispositions—likely the only legacy her mother had left her.

"Miss Fielding, I beg your forgiveness. It was all my fault."

No, it wasn't. She gave a huffy laugh. He had been gentle, tentative. He hadn't been likely to get carried away kissing an innocent miss. Without her encouragement, he would have indulged in a light dalliance and nothing more. But oh, she had encouraged him, enticed him, practically entreated him to take her right here on the ballroom floor.

"I should not have taken such liberties with your person."

She would never, ever allow herself to be alone with a man again, not until she was respectably married—assuming that could even happen now. "Please, go away."

"Shall I...shall I...shall I fetch your aunt to you?"

Oh, lud, it was worse than she thought. "I think it better she doesn't know. She might think you should have to marry me."

Meg watched Mr. Bedford turn white as a sheet. He backed toward the door. "Of course. Will you be all right? I'll...I'll send your maid to you."

Meg clapped a hand over her mouth.

He swiveled and practically ran toward the door, barely sliding to a stop in his stocking feet.

She doubled over in mirth the minute he left. Oh, poor Mr. Bedford was terrified he might have to marry her, and at the moment that struck her as hysterically funny.

* * *

Tony rapped on the connecting door between his and Bedford's rooms.

Bedford swung open the door, looking a bit wild-eyed.

"If you have compromised Felicity's niece, you shall have to marry her."

"I know."

Tony wasn't expecting Bedford's easy compliance. He looked over Bedford's shoulder, making sure that the girl wasn't stashed in his room. "Have you compromised her?"

"No, she came to her senses before things went that far."

Tony crossed his arms. "How far, exactly, did things go?"

"Well, not as far as things went between you and Mrs. Merriwether."

"Touché." All right, so it was a bit of the kettle calling the pot black. "However, I had already had my suit accepted, and always was fully prepared to marry her. The war, and my removal to the Continent, became the problem."

Bedford ran his fingers into his hair and grabbed fistfuls of it and pulled. "I might have to marry her anyway. I don't think I've ever wanted a woman so much."

Tony leaned against the doorjamb. "I thought you wanted to marry Felicity."

"I want to marry her fortune—although she'd have been a pleasant boon to her money. But, I'm about to be thrown in debtor's prison. I have to marry a woman with some blunt. I can't even keep a horse."

"Felicity's niece is penniless?"

Bedford paced across the room and back. "My sources tell me that her father ran through his wife's share of the Merriwether fortune long ago."

Tony watched Bedford's stockinged feet with interest.

"It wasn't much compared to Mrs. Merriwether's current share. I mean, as I take it, Layton Merriwether had doubled his money twice over in the last couple of years."

While Felicity had been at the helm of her husband's enterprises.

"I can't marry a penniless chit. We'd have nothing to live on. I have no prospects, and my luck at gambling doesn't always hold steady. Lungren was teaching me some of his tricks, but that avenue is gone."

"Did he have tricks, then?"

"Oh, not like you're thinking. He didn't cheat. He just could persuade people to bet more than they ought—and I don't really like that. I always feel sorry for the poor sods who lose their money when they can't afford it, even though I need it as much or more than they do."

Bedford continued pacing. "I'm a younger son with no prospects. I can marry an heiress or become a vicar. Can you see me as a vicar?"

Tony was a younger son, too. So was Randy, for that matter. "There's always the military."

"Yes, I'm sure they can always use men who faint when they're fired upon."

"You didn't faint last time. In fact, you're getting rather handy at being fired upon."

"No, I just hid under my bed until my man pulled me out."

Poor Bedford, he probably was too honest to make a good Captain Sharp.

Bedford stopped in his tracks. "Oh!"

Tony pushed away from the doorjamb. "Oh, what?"

"She said something about being rich enough to buy a husband. Lord, I was in such a spin—you don't suppose Miss Fielding has money after all?"

"I don't know. Perhaps Felicity's husband bequeathed his niece a share of his fortune." Why wouldn't he have? Miss Fielding was his only flesh-and-blood relative at his death. That is, if he knew that Charles wasn't his son. "Even if he didn't, I should imagine Felicity was rather generous with her niece, if she is as rich as you say."

"She's rich, all right. Even Brumley is considering her as a possible bride."

"Brumley?"

"You have been away a long time, haven't you?"

"Six and a half years. Napoleon just wouldn't stay down."

"The Earl of Brumley. He's married five or six rich widows. Usually picks ones older than himself. Then he gambles away their money. Although, I have to say he never has stooped to marrying a Cit."

"What were you doing dancing with Miss Fielding, anyway?"

"She was worried about the dinner party, and the evening's dancing, and she wanted to...practice her steps. Make sure she was ready."

Tony shook his head. As he shut the door between their connecting rooms, he said, "You're a lousy liar, Will."

Or maybe it was just that Charles had made it too clear how to pick out a falsehood. Trouble was, Tony wasn't sure if the lie originated with Bedford or Felicity's niece. Bedford did have a chivalrous streak deep in his soul.

* * *

Tony stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. He heard the long case clock chime midnight hour, and he wondered if he had missed Felicity's ascent to the floor above—or was the little business woman still downstairs building empires?

He finally picked up his poison book and made his way to her study. The light shining under the bottom of the door let him know she was still within, still working.

He opened the door. "Burning the midnight oil?"

She looked up at him and blinked, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. His breath whooshed out and a warmth invaded his body.

She lowered her head back to her papers. "I had a late start."

He nodded and moved into the room and taking a chair in front of her desk. She was beautiful and stole his breath, but he'd gained nothing but her anger and resentment with a physical pursuit of her. No surprise really. Why would she want a washed up, old, wounded soldier as a husband when she could have her pick of dozens of men?

He had to show her they could be friends, that he could accept her decisions and not countermand her authority. She had a right to refuse him, was probably right in that he didn't listen to her.

She looked up after a few minutes. "Is it that you need help with something?"

He shook his head.

"Could you leave, then? I have much work to do and little time."

"Would it trouble you if I just sat here and read?" He opened his book and looked down at it. He tried to measure if distracting her was good for his cause. Was she thinking he'd lift her skirts again? But he'd respect her need to work. As much as he wanted to come around the desk and kiss her senseless, it would bring him no favor.

She put down her pen and smoothed her hands over her flawless face. "Why do you want to read in here?"

"We need to talk about our son. I thought we might discuss things. No hurry, though, whenever you're done working."

"What about Charles?"

"Do you want to talk now? Or do you want to continue working?"

Felicity rolled her eyes. She also reached over and capped the inkbottle.

He guessed that meant now. "Did you tell him I'm his father?"

"No, but he knows Layton wasn't."

"Then, he has guessed."

"Or overheard it."

"He was bound to find out sooner or later, he looks like me. Randy figured it out."

"Does everyone know?"

"Bedford knows. I don't think it has gone any further than that. I didn't tell them."

She stood with a rustle of her gray silk gown. "Didn't hint, didn't imply, didn't suggest." She waved her hand in the air.

"Other than my leaving you with child—though I would have arranged a marriage by proxy if I had known—what have I done to earn your low opinion?"

"Was that not enough?"

"Felicity, you know that I had not planned our one night together. And I shipped out the next day." She had invited him to her home, her bedroom. No man in his right mind would have refused, but he hadn't expected it, hadn't been able to refuse. Then there'd been the protracted war and nearly losing his leg three months after his departure.

"Well, then, it's more the things you haven't done, haven't thought about."

He shouldn't have started down this lane. Nothing could ever change the past. The important thing to consider was the future. "I want a relationship with my son."

She stood at the fireplace and fiddled with a pewter cup resting on the mantel.

"I want to teach him to ride, to shoot, to train hounds and pick out good horseflesh. I want to be his father."

"You
are
his father."

"I mean in practice. The easiest way would be for us to marry." He held up his hand as she swiveled around. "I've already missed nearly six years of his life.

"You were fighting a war. You couldn't exactly have helped to raise him even if we had been married by proxy."

"But if you are going to deny me the opportunity to be around him for the rest of his growing years, then I should let him know immediately."

"I wouldn't deny you." She set the pewter cup back on the mantel with a bang. "I don't know how you will raise him from India, though. He's not going with you."

"Then I'm not going. I'll sell my commission, but I'll need employment. If you could use me to manage your estate, as a steward, that would be acceptable."

She turned back around and stared at him, her brows drawn together. "You've given up on marriage?"

"You've made it abundantly clear that you will not marry me."

Did she want him to fight for her? He'd pushed her into doing what he wanted—or at least part of the way—and it lost him ground. He was too good of a tactician to keep up the pursuit when it would likely lead to nothing good.

"I don't want to marry anyone."

"I suppose I could be your pretend fiancé in perpetuity, but employment as your steward would be a better arrangement. I'm not good for much. I was raised to be a gentleman, which means I can quote Plato and Socrates at whim, gamble at my leisure, and manage an estate. I'm a good officer, but most opportunities in the military are overseas."

She continued to stare at him.

"I might still consider India, and perhaps with your advice I could make myself rich there. You would allow me to correspond with you, wouldn't you?"

"My advice?"

"Yes, your advice. You're the one who has increased the Merriwether fortune fourfold in the last few years, are you not?"

"Layton taught me everything. The initial investments were his."

"Yet you have a shrewd head for business."

She looked stunned and moved to grasp the back of the chair next to his. "It was the only thing that ever earned me Layton's respect."

"Was that important to you—earning your husband's respect?" His heart sunk. Had she actually loved this man she married?

She sank down in the chair beside his. "Not as much as I thought it would be."

Interesting. If he succeeded in earning her respect again, would he find it not worth the effort? But then he'd never figured someone else's opinion mattered as much as one's own. "It was more important to respect yourself."

She put her thumb against her lips and nodded.

"So what do you say?"

"I already have a steward who manages my estate."

"What other employment might there be in the neighborhood? Your father needs someone to straighten out his affairs. Perhaps you could convince him he needs to employ me."

"You wouldn't need such work. You could just stay with us. It's not as if you'd require money."

"Just self-respect." Felicity gave him a long considering look as he went on. "I won't live off your money, even if you do have more than enough. I'll figure something out."

She looked at him, her dark eyes puzzled. "But if we were to wed, what would be the diff—never mind."

The difference would be that they were married—a permanent arrangement not subject to change at her whim. "What are you thinking?"

"All London would think that you were managing the businesses."

"I wouldn't take the credit. I don't think I fully realized until today that managing the business affairs was something you wanted and liked to do."

Her forehead furrowed. "I told you."

"Yes, well, I can be dense at times."

"Whether or not you are in charge, people will assume that is the case."

He reached out and put his hand on her knee. "Is that your main objection to marriage?"

She looked at him with a wounded and worried expression. "No," she said slowly.

"What is it then? Is it something I can address?"

She popped up and paced to the darkened window. Pulling back the curtains, she stared out at the night. "I feel you've done a turnabout on me. I thought you wanted to have an affair."

"I wanted nothing more."

She turned around and watched him.

He glanced at the desk, thinking of what had happened the last time he was here, and the marked differences from the time when she had wanted to marry him. The comparison would haunt him forever. There was a world of difference between acceptance and eagerness. "So much has changed in six years. You don't trust me any longer." She didn't yearn for him, the way he burned for her.