Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (2 page)

As she reached for the teapot, the letter she had forgotten slipped from her lap. She picked it up and slid a nail beneath the seal to break it. Annoyance puckered her mouth as she recognized the handwriting. “ ‘My dearest Heloise,’ indeed!” she remarked as she skimmed the salutation and read quickly on. Midway into the second paragraph she gasped, and then her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe it!” she muttered. As she continued to read, she punctuated her perusal with “Of all things … I should have known … to think that
she …
well!”

When she was done she lifted blazing eyes to the portrait once more and cried, “Quentin, this is your fault! Letticia Throckmorton has been made a patroness of Almack’s! Had your absence not forced me into retirement, that position would have been mine. Did you consider my feelings when you got yourself sautéed by cannibals or nibbled by a lion, or whatever inconvenience it is that detains you? Of course not! How I do detest your thoughtless ways. Mama said I should rue the day we wed!”

Defeated in her temper by the threat of new tears, she poured herself a cup of tea and drank it to calm her nerves.

Only then did she remember the note she had begun composing earlier in the day. The remembrance brought a mischievous twinkle to her eyes, giving her handsome face the radiance of a lady half her forty-four years. Childless herself, she had reared her motherless niece, Clarissa, from shortly after she was born until the girl was old enough to travel to her father, a major general posted on the Spanish Peninsula. That was six years ago, and she had not seen the girl since. Yet she had expected that Clarissa would come back to England and her after the deaths of her father and her new husband during Wellington’s victorious battle at Vitoria the previous summer. The fact that Clarissa had not had wounded her deeply.

Yet she suspected that some outsized sense of duty had led Clarissa to choose to spend her mourning year with her husband’s parents, and so had not tried to dissuade her from her decision. But now the matter was as clear as glass. She needed to be cajoled from her present distemper. Who better to do it than Clarissa?

Of course, there would be the girl’s formidable conscience to be dealt with. There were still two months left in her mourning year.

Heloise went to her desk and picked up her pen. After consigning the first note to the wastebasket, she began scribbling another. When she was done, she dipped her fingers into the porcelain vase of flowers at the corner of her desk and flicked a few drops of water onto the letter. The words spotted and ran as though tears had been shed upon them. She did not stint at the deception. Extreme times called for extreme measures. Clarissa must come home to England.

Isle of Jersey, April 1814

The brass bells of milch cows clanged melodiously in the bright spring air as a boy herded his father’s prized Guernseys single file across the verdant island meadow. Soft breezes rising from southern currents ruffled his hair, reminding him of the warm, drowsy summer days soon to follow. In the distance the granite cliffs fell steeply away toward the mist-blue surface of the sea. At the cliffs edge stood the familiar sight of a lady known to all as Lieutenant Evelyn Willoughby’s “English widow.”

The boy paused a moment in admiration. The morning breeze tugged at her silk bonnet and the elegant black frock she wore, begging an observation of her slender figure and graceful carriage. In this rustic setting, she looked as out of place as a thoroughbred set in harness to plow.

Unaware of her admirer, Clarissa suppressed a sigh as she stared northward over the silver-backed Channel waters toward the unseen coast of England. She had chosen to live on this isolated island for the past ten months, and she was now ready to admit that she had made a mistake.

Clarissa bit her lip. She had been fond of Evelyn, but the news of his death had brought her not only sadness but also guilt. She had obediently wed her father’s choice of husband, expecting to become a proper and dutiful wife. If only her unusual looks had not set up false hopes in Evelyn, they might have had a better marriage, brief though it was. Like her father and uncle, she had inherited the Holton dark exotic attractiveness. But unlike them, she had wanted no part of the family heritage that long before her birth had made the name Holton synonymous with all that was spirited, gifted, reckless, and debauched.

Until her marriage, she had dreaded love, sensing that would unleash in her the very thing she had always feared: the Holton strain of “wildness.” Yet marriage with Evelyn had not done that. Now with his death, she was left with less than before: the aftermath of needless anxiety and a nagging sense of failure.

Clarissa lifted her chin suddenly, meeting the chill sea breeze defiantly. She could face the truth. The truth was she had been unable to adjust to marriage or to Evelyn’s expectations. Nor was she better suited to the sober life of her Jerseyman in-laws. Her father-in-law, a simple country vicar, had assured her that it wasn’t her fault. She was of a different breed, the daughter of one of Wellington’s generals and the niece of a viscount, while Evelyn had been the grandson of a country squire. No doubt those distinctions made it difficult for her to appreciate simple joys.

Clarissa smiled ruefully. Simple joys, indeed. If only her in-laws expressed joy of any kind, things might have been easier. But they were in deep unrelieved mourning over the loss of their only child. Any spark of joy or natural high spirits seemed the height of ingratitude in the face of their stunned grief. That was why she had taken to walking the cliffs each morning, to be alone with her growing restlessness.

Almost impatiently she reached into her reticule and withdrew the gilt-edged envelope that had come in the morning’s post. The letter was from her aunt Heloise, for whom Clarissa held a fondness which she would have bestowed upon her own mother had the lady lived long enough to register in her daughter’s memory.

A frown of concern marred her brow as she read the scant blurred lines. It was a request that she come visit her aunt, “before it is too late.”

Though they had exchanged dozens of emotional letters these last six years, Aunt Heloise had never before resorted to such foreboding language—not even when she related her husband’s disappearance three years earlier. For her aunt to even hint at affliction, she must be at death’s door. Were those teardrops marring the words?

The marshal light of battle which her deceased father would have recognized shone vividly in her dark eyes when she again raised them from the paper. Her aunt would not succumb to illness if she could help it.

As she stared out across the glossy expanse of Channel water, a frisson of delight sped through her. She was going home, to England.

England, April 1814

Once the sloop from Jersey came to dock at Portsmouth, Clarissa was annoyed and then indignant to find herself suffering the interrogation of customs officers who swarmed over the ship. The apologetic captain informed his passengers that because the ship had come from the enemy French-influenced isles of Guernsey and Jersey, the English government felt it necessary to check for contraband and spies. From Clarissa’s observation, it appeared that the customs men were bent on seizing all the liquor, tobacco, and silks they found, regardless of whether or not they were legally held. Only after they had ransacked every cabin, opening trunks and barrels, spilling what they did not want willy-nilly over the floors and decks, did they allow the passengers to disembark.

The disagreeable interlude left Clarissa impatient and angry. The crossing had been difficult, with a sudden squall causing delay. As each and every hour passed she had grown more anxious. By the time the port of Plymouth came into view, she was half convinced that her aunt must already be dead.

As she stepped off the gangway, she was engulfed in the teeming life of the pier. Crates, bales, and barrels of every size and description formed an intricate maze through which she and the other passengers were forced to negotiate a path. Hundreds of boisterous soldiers and sailors, disembarking or waiting to board the many military vessels choking the harbor, stood about openly ogling the female passengers. As the daughter of a major general, Clarissa had long ago become accustomed to their high-spirited braggadocio. But now their scarlet coats and blue jackets were reminders of both her father and her husband and, with their deaths, all that she had left behind. Life on the Peninsula seemed a world away, as did the role of daughter of the regiment.

When she raised her head to scan the wharf for a sign that might direct her to a coaching inn, she noticed that a couple ahead of her had paused to stare at the adjoining pier where another ship was unloading. As she reached them the woman pointed a finger as she said, “Would ye look a’ that, Henry!”

Curious to know what had caught their attention, Clarissa turned to look toward the large square-rigged ship, letting her gaze slip in envy over the details of the ship that was so much grander than the tiny cramped craft aboard which she had sailed.

And then she saw him.

He stood at the head of the gangway, legs apart and fists on hips. He wore a full-sleeved shirt, unfastened nearly to the waist to reveal a mat of fine black hair on a golden chest. The hems of his baggy trousers were stuffed into gleaming black boots. A wide leather belt embroidered with colorful designs spanned his narrow waist. Tucked behind it was the curved blade of a scimitar. As he surveyed the port city, a sudden breeze caught and billowed out his burnoose, making him seem as majestic as a ship’s mast under full sail.

From her perspective, and through the dimming effect of her widow’s veil, Clarissa could not distinguish his features. Yet as he made his way down the gangway, his stride confident—
no, masterful,
she thought in admiration—she was reminded of the only man she had ever known who possessed this combination of swaggering authority and icy disdain.

“Uncle Quentin?” she whispered incredulously.

Was it possible? But of course! It would be like him to turn up in England long after everyone had given up hope of seeing him again.

Flooded with giddy joy and relief that Aunt Heloise would not now have to face her last days without the comfort of her long-lost husband, Clarissa rushed toward the adjacent gangway with a hand lifted in greeting. “Uncle Quentin!”

She gave no thought to the spectacle she was making of herself as the crowd on the pier parted to allow her passage. Uncle Quentin enjoyed spectacles, preferred them, Aunt Heloise would say.

As he reached the dockside, she stepped into his path and impulsively threw her arms about him, hugging his hard-muscled body. For a moment she rested her head on his chest, struggling to master strong emotions of gratitude and relief. Then she lifted her head and said in the Arabic language he had taught her many years earlier, “Welcome home,
burra sahib.
We feared you were dead!”

One moment she was enveloped in the thick folds of his linen robes, which held the commingled aromas of ambergris, tobacco, and the unique scent of the man. The next she was being propelled backward to arm’s length by hands on her shoulders.

For several seconds she stood blinking up at the dark figure whose features were eclipsed by the brilliance of the sun directly behind him. Then she thought she understood the reason for his surprise. He did not recognize her in her widow’s weeds.

She reached up to draw back her veil and said in the elaborately formal speech of the East, “Has it been so long, great master, that you do not recognize your humble handmaiden?”

Stepping out of his shadow to allow the sun to fall fully upon her face, she saw his features clearly for the first time.

An arresting face gazed down at her. The jutting nose, black brows, and long mouth nestled in a silky black goatee marked him as a man of uncompromising temperament. A faint scythe-shaped scar over his left brow marked him as a man of action. Eyes, green and hard as jade, stared out at her from a face burned brown by the sun. It was a handsome and dangerous face … but it was not her uncle’s.

“Bismillah!”
Clarissa whispered, echoing Uncle Quentin’s favorite phrase. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured and tried to back away.

He did not release her. As his cool green gaze passed deliberately over her, she felt a distinct chill though the day was warm. Then her face seemed to catch fire with embarrassment. Yet she could not look away. She saw his pupils expand until the irises became brilliant coronas, marking the depth of his interest.

When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly warm, the tone shockingly intimate. “Do you know me now,
Bahia?”
he inquired in Arabic.

“Of course not! There’s been a mistake,” Clarissa replied in English. Belatedly realizing she had been released and feeling even more foolish, she turned abruptly away. But she had not thought to look where she was going and stumbled against a barrel, hissing in pain as the rough slats bit into her shin.

A hand grasped her upper arm, exerting enough pressure to steady her, and then dropped away. “You are impetuous, are you not?”

Clarissa glanced up in amazement. “You speak English!”

“I’m not aware that it’s a crime,” he replied, revealing that he not only possessed a command of the English language but that he spoke it as well as any noble. “You’ve injured yourself. Let me see.”

He took a step toward her, and she hastily retreated, fearing that he would try to examine her. “That won’t be necessary.”

“As you wish.” He smiled now, and in that wicked gleam of teeth she discovered a further reason to make a quick escape. Like some black-pelted panther he was exciting—and disturbing. Even so, she had a sudden irrational desire to touch him again.

As it was wont to do in moments of extreme agitation, a portion of her mind stood apart to survey the scene. Here she was, a widow swathed in mourning black, while a man dressed as an Arab corsair looked down at her as though if she even leaned in toward him, he would heave her over his shoulder and make off with her through the streets of Plymouth. Not that she would ever have done such a thing. The urge to move closer to him arose from the same primitive impulse one had to stroke any sleek and beautiful predator—and she knew it would prove to be just as dangerous.

The idea that she, a lady, was actually thinking such thoughts struck her as absurd, and she lifted a hand to still the laughter that threatened her. If she laughed in his face surely he would think her mad.

At that moment a man approached them. “Ye’ll be the one hired the coach, guv’nor?” he asked the man beside her in a respectful manner and tipped his hat. The stranger answered with the merest nod of his head. “ ’Twill be that ’un.” The man, whom she guessed to be a coaching clerk, pointed to a place a few yards away where a post chaise stood.

The “Arab” pulled a purse from his thick belt and fished out a few coins. “That should cover the expense,” he said and handed the money to the clerk who, grinning, doffed his hat and then left.

When he again turned to Clarissa, the “Arab’s” fierce gaze was tempered by amusement. “Have you looked your fill, madam? Or would you care to continue your perusal on the way to London?” He held up a coin so that the sunlight struck sparks off the gold. “Perhaps the privacy of my coach will stimulate you to further demonstrations of enthusiasm over my return.”

As there was nothing to say in the face of such impropriety, Clarissa simply turned her back on him and walked away. She tugged her veil back into place, but her hands shook with the effort. Obviously he considered her to be no better than the dozens of slatterns who were parading along the quay in the hope of attracting the attention of any man with a coin in his pocket. She had made a dreadful mistake that was best forgotten.

She hurried after the coaching clerk. “Wait, sir.” When he paused she added, “I wish to hire a post chaise for a journey to Surrey. I assume it is possible to do so.”

The man smiled, his pale-blue eyes speculatively upon her. “ ’Tis like this, ma’am. We’d three post chaises for hire, but two was bespoken for ahead of time.”

“Then I will take the last,” she answered, wondering why he was being deliberately difficult. Or had he heard the insulting exchange between herself and the “Arab” and drawn his own erroneous conclusions?

“The other’s been took, as well.”

“Taken?” she asked suspiciously. “Taken by whom?”

The coaching clerk nodded toward the street. “By him.”

Somehow in the instant before the words were out, an inkling of misfortune warned Clarissa who had hired the coach. Still, she turned to gaze at the robed stranger who was directing the removal of his baggage from the pile on the docks.

She looked again at the clerk. “When will another coach be available?”

“ ’End o’ the week, ma’am.”

“I don’t suppose there is another coaching house nearby?”

“There be a dozen, but what with the military commandeering everything from milk carts to highway coaches on account of the fleet’s return, ye’ll not be finding one with so much as a nag to let.”

“I see.” Clarissa set her jaw. She simply had to reach her aunt Heloise before nightfall. With the greatest reluctance, she cast a glance at the man who had now made his way to the chaise waiting on the lane. Her father always said there was more than one way to skin a cat. She hoped he was right, for her opponent was of a large and very dangerous breed. Gathering her courage, she strode purposefully toward the hired coach.

Unaware that he was being followed, the stranger had stopped to remove his turban while his bags were being placed inside by a hired boy. Once released, his raven-black hair flowed down over his shoulders in wave after satin-smooth inky wave. When he looked up and saw who had come to stand beside him, his frank expression of amusement made Clarissa involuntarily clutch her purse tighter.

She knew what he was thinking, that she had changed her mind about his odious invitation to join him. The very idea made her want to slap his arrogant face. Instead, she noted the small gold earring glinting in his left ear and reminded herself that he was not of her world, nor of her experience. If she struck him, he might very well strike her back.

She drew herself up and favored him with her best lady-of-the-manor tone. “It’s imperative that I reach Surrey at once. My aunt is very ill. I therefore appeal to your better nature and ask that you permit me to hire this coach away from you.”

He grinned at her, and the self-satisfaction in it was a shock to her spine. “You’d do better,
Bahia,
to appeal to my baser instincts. It will reap you better results, and more quickly.”

Having expected him to reply with an insult, Clarissa merely opened her reticule and felt for the coins in the bottom. “Very well, how much do you want for the coach?”

He leaned casually against the coach door and folded his arms across his chest. “What is it worth to you?”

Clarissa’s head snapped up at his tone and she met his sardonic gaze. “What price do you require?”

“Twenty-five pounds,” he answered promptly.

She refused to look at him as she counted her coins. He had asked five times the usual rate, but she was too angry to argue. When she had emptied her purse, she laid the coins on a ledge near his elbow. “That is all I have. Take it and step aside.”

Instead, he reached out and tossed back her heavy veiling. Even as she gasped in protest he caught her by the waist with one hand while the other slipped under her chin to cradle her face as his mouth descended on hers with stunning purpose.

For a few heart-quaking moments, Clarissa felt her lips enclosed in the burning embrace of his. Incredulous surprise held her motionless. His hot mouth seemed to engulf her entire body in flame. Then, just as quickly, she was released.

They stood a moment, both breathing heavily, her eyes wide with astonishment, his narrowed in surprise.

Until this instant, Clarissa had doubted the possibility of what life had never offered her. But the searing green gaze of a stranger forced the shock of recognition upon her, and she felt the impact of her body’s response. For a moment, she looked upon the face of desire.

He recovered first and his eyes turned fierce though his lips parted in a smile. “Let that be a lesson to you. Never offer a man everything you have, or he may feel free to take it, and more. The carriage is yours, with my compliments.”

He lifted his bags from the interior and was gone in an instant, the fine white linen of his burnoose swirling in his wake. Only the stinging power of his kiss remained as a throbbing on her lips.

“A friend of yours?” the coachman inquired from his perch atop the coach.

“Heaven forbid!” Clarissa exclaimed emphatically. She put a hand up to her lips to wipe away his kiss but instead pressed her fingers there to stop the tingling sensation his touch had left. From the corner of her eye, she spied the speculative look on the coachman’s face and snatched her hand away. “I am Mrs. Willoughby. My bags are on the dock. Please fetch them.”