Come the Dawn (18 page)

Smiling grimly, Thorne reached down and began to roll his cuffs over his muscled forearms. “No matter. We’ll have plenty of time to talk while I take you back to your carriage.”

India’s face filled with color. “You wouldn’t
dare.”
She took a step backward, her body rigid.

The next moment, Dev’s hard hands were at her shoulders.

“I’ll not stand here and see the lady harmed, do you hear me? Let her go this minute.”

But Smithson might as well have been talking to one of the Elgin marbles. Thorne’s fingers tightened on India’s shoulders as he saw the anger in her face, the rigid line of her body, the high color in her cheeks. Her hair was blown in a wild red cascade about her shoulders. Suddenly Thorne remembered how she looked, slanting over the edge of the basket. The little fool might have been tossed out and even now been lying with her neck crushed.

Her breast pressed soft and warm at the inside of his elbow and he felt the curve of her hips beneath her soft muslin gown. His body tightened with a storm of angry need. Sweet heaven, how did she manage to strip him of sanity again and again?

In Brussels he had thought her charming, adventurous, with great joy and wit, but now Devlin saw that she was far more than that.

India Delamere was a woman who would never be broken to his bit or any other man’s. And that very recklessness of hers stirred some answering sense of adventure in him, something Devlyn had thought long buried beneath the cold facade that long months of war had given him.

And now, with one brush of India’s soft hips, with one glimpse at her full satin curves, he came perilously close to forgetting duty and honor and country.

He tried to hate her for that. He worked hard at summoning up that anger. But Thorne was too honest for the strategy to work for long.

No, his real anger was for
himself
for failing to realize his danger while it was still early enough to extract himself. Now he could no longer ignore his feelings. When she was away from him, he found himself dreaming of her honesty and vibrancy, counting the minutes until he would see her next.

All his duties went unattended, and his mind performed in the most perfunctory fashion. He was acting, in short, as green as a lovesick boy up to London for his very first season on the town.

He had heard all kinds of wild stories about the Delameres, of course. The family was spoken of in awe and hushed whispers. Their wealth was beyond measuring and their eccentricities beyond numbering. Dev had soon seen the jealousy and envy in the cold little tales circulated through the ton. The eldest Delamere son had vanished for five years, only to reappear without a word of explanation. The duke and his wife were just as bad, spending more time digging in foreign ruins than seeing to the proper education of their unruly children.

And India?

Thorne had heard about the wild heiress and the legions of suitors whose hearts had been ensnared by her red-haired beauty. He hadn’t believed the stories. Not at first. But he was starting to believe them now. No matter how his own feelings were involved, he had a duty to his three wards, who had known too much pain already.

His face was hard as he caught India up over one shoulder and spun about.

“Put me down this minute, Devlyn Carlisle!” India’s fists hammered against his back, but he did not stop. Smiling grimly, he vaulted up into the saddle with India before him, cradled tightly against his chest.

~ ~ ~

India did not utter a single word as they rode back to Hampstead Heath. Thorne was careful to take back roads to avoid scrutiny, his face closed and unreadable.

Every stride of the horse threw India against his hard chest. Every jump and gallop made his hard thighs press intimately against hers. She tried to ignore him, tried to tell herself her heart was cold and empty and he was nothing but a stranger.

But it was a vain effort.

He could never be a stranger to her, no matter how hard she tried to make it so. Brussels had happened. The war had happened. Like it or not, their love had bloomed against that dark stain of chaos. And bloomed again in the darkness of a carriage on a quiet London street. Now India feared she would never be able to let go of her dream, though it would only make them both wretched.

As the black trees slid past and the scattered cottages grew to tiny villages and finally to the town that huddled on the edge of the heath, India felt a hot ache gather in her throat. She closed her eyes, tasting a fierce sense of loss, more bitter than any she had ever known. She had lost this man once and grieved for him for months, feeling her life had ended. Then she had found him again, only to lose him a second time with her discovery that his memory had been taken from him.

Now it seemed that India would lose him for a third time, and this time the loss would be final. He was not the man she had known in Brussels, clever, generous, and with a restless wit. That man was gone. His cold profile rose before her, rigid and stern, everything the man she loved was
not.

India was honest enough to know they would never suit. She came from a long line of adventurers who had delighted in dangerous independence ever since the very first Delamere won a title for flouting William the Conqueror’s orders and slipping away from the main line of fighting at the Battle of Hastings. He had then made his own attack from the rear, a piece of insubordination that would have cost him his head had his foresight not carried the day. In the end her ancestor had been knighted the first Earl of Devonham. In succeeding centuries the earldom had been replaced by a dukedom, won for a similar stroke of reckless bravery at the Battle of Agincourt.

No, India knew that she would never be content with a man so different. The past was finally closed for her. She must put Devlyn Carlisle out of her mind forever.

But her face held no emotion when Thorne reined in his horse among the straggling remnants of the spectators on the heath. Without a word he handed her down to Viscount Monkton, while the children watched anxiously. She spoke tersely, trying to produce a smile and not really succeeding, as Monkton shot thoughtful glances between the two.

And then with a flutter of satin and a cloying onslaught of rose perfume, Lady Marchmont advanced upon the scene, enormously elegant in a damask mantua and a feathered bonnet. “So there you are, my lord.” But the countess was studying India as she spoke. Her eyes filled with malice beneath half-lowered lids. “I’d feared that you had disappeared on some adventure and had quite forgotten about me and these brave little wards of yours.”

Thornwood gave her the merest nod, turning instead to hand over his horse to a waiting groom.

“But my carriage is just down the hill. I’d be more than delighted to escort you and these delightful children back to London.” Her face took on a totally false smile as she stared at India. “Of course, I include you in the invitation too, my lady.” She managed to slant a cutting look at India’s dusty gown and the wild curls flowing about her shoulders. “No doubt you will wish to rest after the rigors of your adventure,” she murmured.

India’s chin rose. Delamere pride raged hotly through her veins. “I would not
dream
of inconveniencing you, Lady Marchmont. Especially as I’m certain you and the earl have so very
much
to discuss. I shall take my own carriage.” The two woman moved apart stiffly.

“I’d better go with her,” Connor MacKinnon muttered. “She’s a look of wildness about her, and I know that look all too well from Luc.”

“Who in hell are you?” Thorne shot an angry glance at the exotic stranger seated beside Monkton.

“I am a friend.” MacKinnon’s eyes glinted. “A friend who does not care to see the lady hurt. You would be well advised to remember that, Thornwood.”

“Hurt? She does a brilliant job of that all by herself,” Thorne snapped.

Monkton shook his head as Thornwood took his wards firmly by the hands and headed for Lady Marchmont’s coach. “What in the name of heaven have those two managed to do now?”

MacKinnon smiled slowly. “I rather think they’ve managed to fall in love, Monkton. Only it’s not all bells and fireworks the way they thought it should be.” He looked thoughtfully at India, moving stiffly up the hill. “She’ll lead him a merry dance, that’s for certain. Meanwhile, I’d better keep an eye on her. Luc will have my hide if anything happens to his baby sister.”

Monkton ran a hand through his hair, for once unmindful of the fashionable disorder that he had worked so hard to create that morning. “Not going to end well, mark my words. Both of them are too stubborn by half.” He shook his head as Thornwood handed up the last of the children and then climbed up after them into Lady Marchmont’s coach. “I’ll have to talk to Penn about it. Must be
something
we can do.”

~ ~ ~

India did not cry once on the way back to London. Tears stung her eyes and heat bit at her throat, but she angrily forced them away. The man was not worth a
single
tear, she told herself fiercely.

All her juvenile mooning for Devlyn Carlisle was at an end. She saw him now for exactly what he was — selfish, coldhearted and arrogant.

She had months of unhappiness to make up for, India vowed as the London streets rushed past.

She would begin this very night at Vauxhall.

“No, not that way. If you crimp the girl’s hair any tighter she’ll look like a complete quiz.” The Duchess of Cranford stood before a cluttered dressing table issuing orders to a harassed lady’s maid struggling to comply with an utterly contradictory stream of demands.

India sat impassively in the midst of the turmoil. She felt completely detached, as if watching a total stranger be dressed, adorned, poked, and discussed. She bit back a sigh and smoothed the beautiful embroidery of her white chemise. The cut work was fine and delicate, cool against her skin.

And yet it might as well have been rough, unbleached linen.

“Very well, Hawkins, that will do,” the duchess said crisply. “It is a good thing the girl has full hair, or you’d leave her looking like she was wearing a straggly wig.”

The very superior upper servant muttered an answer beneath her breath, but she was far too used to the duchess’s fits and starts to take any real offense. If the truth be told the two older women were both intensely uneasy, bothered by India’s strange mood
of abstraction all afternoon since her return from that wretched balloon ascension. Something had happened there, Hawkins was convinced, but there was no getting news from the coachman or anyone else beyond the fact that the Earl of Thornwood had also been in evidence.

Thornwood, the London servant thought. Now
there
was a man who could keep Miss India under tight reins, but she would have to make a push to hold him and right now the girl seemed anything but animated.

The dresser smiled faintly as an outrageous thought began to form in her mind. Yes, it just might work. Certainly the man would not be able to look upon India with indifference afterward. She studied India’s elegant muslin chemise and then looked up to find the duchess’s eyes similarly narrowed. The two nodded at each other, with the same thought in mind.

The duchess rapped on the floor with her silver-handled cane. “Very well. Up with you, gel, and out of that chemise.”

India roused herself from her abstraction and frowned at the duchess. “Take it off? But I just put it on.”

“Then you’ll just have to take it off. Don’t be stubborn with me, miss. And make it sharp. You have but two hours before you leave for Vauxhall.”

“In two hours,” India said mechanically, “I could have saved the lives of twenty men, passed out bread and tea to two hundred, and seen a whole regiment outfitted with clean linens.”

The duchess clucked her tongue. “That was all very well and good, my love, but Waterloo is over. You’re in London now. London at the height of the season.” The old woman’s eyes darkened. “And I’ll tell you this, India Delamere, a more serious and dangerous battle takes place here every night among young ladies hoping to find suitable husbands.”

“I’m not interested in a husband, Grandmama. I think I shall never marry. Luna and I shall return to Norfolk and there I shall dwindle into shameless eccentricity, shunned by all my former acquaintances.”

The duchess snorted. “Not if I can help it,” she snapped. She took India’s shoulders and urged her to her feet. “Hurry, gel. Off with that chemise.”

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later India could only stare at herself in the cheval glass in utter astonishment. Her slender body was now covered by the thinnest sheath of white silk crepe, the single layer of fabric ghosting over her rich curves and soft hollows like a second skin. The bodice was cut low and square, fitted to emphasize the shape of her bosom. With every movement, the fabric coyly revealed then hid the shadows of her nipples.

Scandalized, India turned to the duchess. “But, Grandmama, I couldn’t
possibly
wear this dress. It is utterly—”

“Ravishing,” the old woman finished imperiously. “All the crack,” she added, well pleased with her daring idea. In truth such soft fabrics were quite the rage among the faster females of the ton. Of course it would not have done for a young miss of sixteen during her first season upon the town, but India was a different kettle of fish entirely. She had the breeding and the countenance to carry off any sort of dress. And this, the duchess thought fiercely, was just the thing to make the Earl of Thornwood take a closer look.

She whirled her hand. India turned obediently, the soft silk fluttering about her body.

“But, Grandmama, it feels as if I’m wearing nothing.”

It nearly looks like it too,
the duchess thought. She cleared her throat. “Of course it doesn’t, you silly thing. After lounging about in men’s clothes so long, you naturally find it odd to be dressed as a female again. Within an hour or two you’ll feel perfectly at ease again.”

India fingered the soft fabric, unconvinced.

“Besides,” the duchess added, “some females water their gowns thoroughly so that nothing at all is left to the imagination.”

India, far too busy mourning the loss of the man she loved to spend time among the faster set of London society, raised her eyebrows in shock. “Nothing at all?”

“On my oath.”

Beside her Hawkins nodded firmly. “And there’s them that does more than that, my lady. I heard from my cousin Elizabeth, who is in service at Lady Tillingham’s, that the countess’s daughter puts gold paint on her toenails. And if that weren’t enough…” The woman’s voice rose in outrage. “Why then the terrible creature adds gold paint to other parts of her body in the most immoral way.” As she spoke Hawkins’s eyes fell to India’s low bodice.

India’s cheeks flushed. “You must be joking.”

Hawkins shook her head. “I had it from my cousin’s own lips.”

The duchess snorted. “One thing I can tell you, it will take a great deal more than a little gold paint on Amelia Tillingham’s scrawny chest to make any decent man offer her a proposal of marriage. The woman is a shrew, besides which I’ve heard that she’s addicted to gaming.”

The duchess’s head cocked as she studied India thoughtfully. “On the other hand, I wonder if maybe a tiny bit of…”

“Grandmama,” India said firmly, her hands crossed protectively at her chest. “You can’t be serious!”

After long consideration the duchess shrugged and waved her hand airily. “Perhaps not. Although in my day, things went on that would make your hair curl.”

Hawkins nodded conspiratorially. In her thirty years of domestic service she too had seen behavior that would have made India’s eyes widen.

But India was not to be allowed to share in these confidential tales, for at that moment there was a light tap at the door and Ian Delamere appeared. His tall frame was exquisitely fitted out in crisp regimentals, and his jacket clung to his broad shoulders with perfect elegance. “Ready to go?”

“I suppose. But you’ll completely eclipse me, Ian.”

For a moment her brother’s handsome face seemed to take on a stain of color and then he shrugged good-naturedly. “I think not, my love.” His eyes narrowed. “Gad, you’ve never dampened that silk, have you? Fast is fast, but that would be rather beyond my powers of fighting off beaux, I believe.”

The duchess snorted. “No, she hasn’t dampened anything. More’s the pity, because if she doesn’t make some sort of a push to be noticed, she’s bound to end an old maid on the shelf.”

India’s eyes took on a mutinous gleam. “And what if I do, Grandmama? I have no need to marry for money. I am perfectly well situated, thanks to Aunt Orelia’s generous bequest. If I choose to dwindle into an eccentric old maid, so I shall.”

For a moment it seemed as if the two of them would launch into an argument which was of long standing. But Ian laughed, caught up India’s shawl of Norwich silk, and tossed it around her shoulders.

“No time for arguing,” he said firmly. “It will be a devilish crush, since everyone who is anyone is expected to be at Vauxhall tonight, now that the prince has announced he’ll be in attendance.”

India slanted a final glance to the cheval glass. Passable, she decided. But what she did not see was that she looked far more than passable. In the candlelight her hair took on fiery sparks and her skin caught a golden glow. When she smiled, her face lit with an animation that would leave any man not yet senile breathless with admiration.

But India noticed none of this.

At the bottom of the staircase Ian turned to fetch his gloves from the impassive Beach. As he did, a small form darted from behind one of the Greek statues and grubby hands were thrown about India’s waist.

“But what is this?” India looked down into Alexis’s anxious face. The little girl’s lower lip was trembling, but there was a look of determination in her eyes.

“I
had
to come. The earl was so very angry after what happened today that I know he said some very bad things to you. And it wasn’t your fault. Andrew, Marianne, and I discussed it in our rooms after we got back from the trip with that nasty countess. We tried to tell him, but he refused to discuss it. Then that nasty creature dragged him off into the study and they were in there the longest time with the door closed.” Alexis frowned. “What do you think they were doing? Marianne says that they probably drank that sparkling wine and acted silly. Andrew told me that I would learn soon enough about things like that.” The little girl looked up at Ian. “Is it something terribly secret, do you think?”

Ian fought to keep a straight face. “Nothing so terrible, I expect. But your brother is probably right. You have a few years before you need to worry yourself about grown-ups’ silly behavior.”

“From all that I can see grown-ups act more like children than
we
do. Just look at the earl,” Alexis explained. “One minute he’s happy, the nicest sort of person, and the next minute he’s cool and distant. I thought at first it was because of his shoulder. He hurt it, you know. And he has a scar there that he doesn’t care to show anyone. But I don’t think it’s his shoulder that causes him to stamp and frown. You don’t think he’s coming down with some terrible disease, do you?” the little girl said anxiously.