Her Prodigal Passion (28 page)

"I'm ever so glad. As much as I hate to ask since this involves my brother,"—Percy wrinkled her pert nose—"I am assuming that he lives up to expectations in that regard?"

"He does." Sudden humor bubbled up, and Charity said slyly, "He lives
up
indeed."

Percy's eyes rounded. "Charity Fines, did you just make a warm jest?"

"Well, yes … I suppose I did."

"How very wicked of you! I am impressed," Percy said gleefully.

"Paul's influence, I'm afraid." Her smile fading, Charity said, "And henceforth I shall strive to be more honest with him. About everything."

"In that case, I say we put our heads together and locate my brother so that the two of you can patch things up in the time-honored tradition."

Anticipation fluttered in Charity's breast. "I suppose we should start at your mama's?"

"Capital idea. At this time of day, there's bound to be some of Lisbett's apricot buns and as I'm eating for two"—Percy grinned and patted her belly—"I'll have the excuse to claim twice my share."

THIRTY-ONE

Paul came awake ... and wished he hadn't. Hades' own hammer pounded at his temples. When he tried to sit up, he fell back with a queasy groan.

Bloody fucking hell.

A few seconds later, he tried again, cautiously cracking one eye open. Once his vision focused and the room stopped spinning, he saw pink velvet drapes, a vanity cluttered with colorful perfume bottles, a secretaire stacked with hatboxes … and his insides turned to ice.

Bloody fucking
hell
—where was he? What had he done?

He bolted upright in panic. The bedchamber wavered before his eyes, and he pushed himself from the bed, stumbling against the vanity. Bottles rattled, and one rolled off the surface, shattering against the ground.

Heart thudding, he heard approaching footsteps.

The door swung open ... and Thomas Bellinger poked his head in.

"Surprised to see you up, old chap. By Jove, we went on the mop last night, didn't we?" Though Bellinger's eyes were red-rimmed, his freckled face creased in a grin. "I haven't been that top-heavy for ages. Just like the old times."

Memory returned. Yesterday, after the torturous episode with Rosalind, Paul had sought out Bellinger. He'd intended to visit Oblivion, and no one knew the way there better than his friend. Along with a crowd of the old cronies, he and Bellinger had gone for a night on the town. His gut roiled as he recalled how much alcohol he'd imbibed. He'd broken his vow of abstinence ... yet as far as he could recall, that was the only vow he'd broken.

"Where are we?" he said hoarsely.

"Don't remember? Well, you were drunker than a wheelbarrow, so I can't blame you," Bellinger said, chuckling. "The other fellows wanted to end the night at a Covent Garden Nunnery. Lovely fresh recruits plucked from the countryside, don't you know."

At the mention of prostitutes, Paul's belly lurched again.

Bellinger waggled his brows. "But the drink must have affected your brain for you transformed before our very eyes."

"What do you mean?"

"You turned from our adored rake, the one all of us fellows have aspired to be at some point or another and became the deuced
Prince of Virtue
!" Bellinger slapped his thigh, hooting with laughter. "Refused to go to a bawdy house because you're leg-shackled. Went on and on about
vows
. You had the others roaring." He had to catch his breath before sputtering, "Ain't
ever
going to live this one down, Fines!"

"Glad I could provide the evening's entertainment." Scrubbing his neck, Paul muttered, "How'd I get here? Where
is
here?"

"My sister's room in my father's house. She and the rest of the family are off visiting our ever ailing great-aunt in Yorkshire." Bellinger yawned. "Since the place was empty and more spacious than my apartments, I brought us here."

Paul's chest loosened. He realized that he'd begun to breathe again.

"Well, what's next on our agenda, eh? Have a shave and off to the club?"

"What time is it?" Paul said.

Bellinger blinked as if he'd been asked to solve a complicated maths problem. "Buggered if I know. Late afternoon, maybe. What does it matter?"

Paul refrained from rolling his eyes. Mostly because his head hurt like murder when he moved any part of it. "It matters because I have business to attend to."

"Back at Gentleman Jackson's, you mean?" Scratching his head, Bellinger said with a grimace, "Not sure the old skull can handle getting thrashed about at present."

"I'm in no mood to box." Paul went to the window, parted the drapes. Tried to get his bearings and decide what he should do next. He wondered if Charity was worried about him ...

"Ah, I see," the other said in a knowing manner. "Perhaps you have an intimate
tête-à-tête
with a certain Scottish countess, eh?"

Paul's head whipped—
Ouch, devil take it!
—in Bellinger's direction. "Why do you say that?"

"Easy there, old boy." Bellinger held up his hands. "It don't take a genius to surmise you've got the former Miss Drummond on your mind. Hell of a shocker, I'm sure, with her showing up in the carriage like that."

"Goddamnit. Were you
spying
on me?"

"Spying implies premeditation, and I never plan ahead," Bellinger said defensively. "I happened to see the two of you from the window of the Saloon; fair Rosalind always did catch a man's eye. In fact, a bunch of fellows stopped practicing to get a closer look."

Bleeding perfect. Just what Paul needed: a roomful of young bloods with their noses pressed up to the glass, eager to report and embellish everything that they thought they saw.

"Nothing happened," Paul snarled. "For God's sake, I'm
married
."

His friend shrugged. "So is she. Hasn't changed much though, has she?"

Indeed, she hadn't. What had surprised him more, however, was the fact that
he
had. So much so that when she'd taken him on that carriage ride and proposed that they now enjoy the freedoms that their respective marriages permitted, he'd felt nothing. No, nothing wasn't it.

He'd felt disgusted. At himself.

For ever believing that he'd loved Rosalind and for acting like a bloody fool because of it. Had he truly been so shallow that he hadn't seen past her beauty to her true character? The fact that he'd spent years nursing a delusion—that he'd nearly destroyed his life and his family's fortunes because of it—made him feel nauseous. It wasn't that he judged Rosalind for pursuing extramarital activities; wives carried on
affaires
all the time.

Just not the kind of wife he wanted for himself.

At the thought of Charity, his gut balled. He knew he was making a mull of things with her. His marriage was like a runaway carriage, and the reins were slipping from his grasp. His exchange with Rosalind only heightened his sense of an impending Doomsday. Although he'd turned down her proposition as gently as he could, she'd broken into tears.

Feeling awkward and guilty, he'd passed her his handkerchief. Her shimmering gaze and pretty protestations had made him even more uncomfortable.

"You're a liar, Paul Fines," she'd said finally, blotting her eyes, "and a fool. Do you know how many gentlemen would give their eyeteeth to have a dalliance with me?"

Not knowing how to answer, he'd said, "I'm sorry if I've disappointed you."

"Who do you think you're fooling, masquerading as a virtuous husband?"

"I'm not masquerading as anything." Yet his heart had begun to thud, his inner voice sneering,
You're an imposter and everyone can see it.

"You'll tire of your little mouse soon enough."

"Don't call her that," he'd said between his teeth.

Rosalind had given a silvery laugh, tossed back her dark curls. Had he truly found her affectations pleasing at one time? Looking closer, he'd perceived the faint lines that hardened her beauty—and the streak of vanity that threatened to destroy it entirely.

"Charity Sparkler … ironic name, isn't it?" Malice had given Rosalind's voice a grating edge. "I can barely recall what she looks like, save for those unfortunate spots. You told me once how you pitied her—how your sister
made
you dance with her."

Self-loathing had scorched his gut. Had he said such a cruel thing? He probably had, the bastard that he'd been. In that moment, he'd truly despised himself: bloody careless and blind, the scoundrel that Uriah Sparkler accused him of being.

"She's changed," he'd bit out, "and, more importantly, so have I."

"A leopard never changes his spots," Rosalind had drawled. "You are as you always were. The only difference is that now you've got delusions of nobility." She'd run a finger along his jaw. "How I miss the man who knew exactly what he was ... and wasn't. The Paul I knew would have recognized the simple truth: you're meant to be a lover, not a husband. Good for fun, but not much else."

He rubbed his temples now, trying to blot out the unpleasantness, trying to think. Trying to fend off the urge to do something easier ... like down a bottle of whiskey. But, no, he wasn't going to add insult to injury and get drunk again. He had that much control at least.

"I have to see Charity," he said at last.

Bellinger blinked. "What for?"

"She's my wife, man." Paul glared at him.

"Huh. Well, I'm a bachelor, so what do I know?" Bellinger gave him a once over. "For what it's worth, however, I wouldn't suggest going to your lady in your current condition."

"Why? What's the matter with me?"
Besides the fact that I'm a worthless bastard.

Bellinger cocked a brow and answered with a question. "How do
I
look?"

Paul ran a cursory glance over his friend's rumpled clothes and disheveled appearance. "Like something the cat dragged in ..."—his nose caught a whiff and he grimaced—"from the Thames. Right." He dragged his hands through his own hair. "That bad off, am I?"

"Worse," Bellinger said cheerfully. "
I
didn't get into fisticuffs with those lads from Oxford."

Paul looked at his hands—bruising splotched the knuckles. He touched his jaw and grimaced at the swelling. No wonder his entire head was throbbing.

"Hell," he muttered. "I can't let her see me like this."

"Wait until the morning to serenade her," Bellinger advised. "After a good night's sleep, you'll have your angelic countenance back. You might consider sweetening her up with poesy, too; I reckon you'll need all the help you can get."

Paul reckoned that for once Bellinger was right. "When did you get to be so clever?"

Bellinger grinned. "How do you think I've maintained my bachelorhood until now? Takes brains to evade the parson's mousetrap, y'know."

And even more brains, Paul thought glumly, to figure out how to make the contraption of marriage work. But he'd have to find a way—because this time around he couldn't face the consequences of failure.

THIRTY-TWO

Charity returned to the shop at half-past four. Although the visit to Mrs. Fines' house had yielded no information about Paul's whereabouts, she nonetheless felt reassured by the conversations with her friend and mama-in-law. She took heart from the fact that a couple as blissfully happy as Percy and Mr. Hunt had their share of marital ups and downs. And Mrs. Fines had revealed that, as newlyweds, she and her beloved Jeremiah had fought like
cats and dogs
.

Charity was struck by a revelation: she didn't have much experience with arguing. She'd learned over the years, particularly with her father, to simply hold her tongue. But maybe continually sweeping things under the carpet wasn't such a good idea. Maybe doing so made arguments, when they happened, even worse.

At times like these, Charity missed having a mama more than ever, that source of infinite feminine wisdom to bolster her through difficult times.

She had Father, of course. But he wasn't exactly sympathetic to the plight of her marriage.

"Waste of time," he grumbled when she explained where she'd been. "Chasing after that scoundrel when the shop needs you. When I need you."

Guilt immediately prickled her, yet it was accompanied by another feeling: burgeoning resentment. And for once, she lost the desire to hide it.

"I'm doing my best," she said, lifting her chin. "It isn't easy to be a daughter and a wife. But I'm married now, and I must give my husband his proper due."

Her father's jaw slackened. "
His
due? You dare talk to me—the one who raised you—in this disrespectful manner?"

"I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. Truly I am. But I must also be allowed to make my own decisions." She inhaled, allowing her lungs to expand more freely. "I'm not a little girl any longer."

"I wish to God that you were."

Her papa's gruff tone caught her by surprise; he was not a sentimental sort.

"Everyone's got to grow up," she said softly, "and I'll always be your daughter."

"But I can't protect you anymore." The lines on his forehead deepened, and his somber grey gaze held hers. "You don't know the world like I do, Charity, how it treats people like you and me. People who aren't beautiful, whose only weapons are diligence and modesty." His hand fumbled for hers. "People like us get
hurt
, don't you understand?"

Before Charity could reply, the bell chimed. An exquisitely turned out woman entered the shop, her profile shaded by a dashing bonnet of green straw. Her promenade dress clung to the peaks and valleys of her flawless figure, the flounces swaying sensuously with each step. As she glided toward them, her face came into the light.

Charity's lungs constricted. She knew that face. The unforgettable violet eyes, the dramatic black curls, the smoother than cream skin. Rosalind Drummond—nay, Lady Monteith … what was she doing here?

"How can I be of service today?" Her father went forward eagerly.

Rosalind waved a delicate blush-colored glove in his direction, the way one might swat away an annoying insect. "I'm not here for you. 'Tis Mrs. Fines,"—perfect pink lips pulled into a hard smile—"I wish to have a word with."