Her Prodigal Passion (7 page)

"I know," Charity said gently. "But the fact remains that Mr. Fines would have no interest in Sparkler's. Or, more importantly, me. I'm not the sort of girl your brother fancies."

I'm no Rosalind Drummond.

"
You
are an absolute gem, and my brother would be lucky to have you." Percy chewed on her lower lip. "Oh, I just wish he would grow up!"

"Keep your promise to me. You'll say nothing to your brother—to anyone—about my trip to Spitalfields. Swear it, Percy."

Charity held out her gloved pinkie. Her friend hesitated before doing the same. Their fingers caught and held in the most solemn of vows.

"For a girl who's supposedly quiet and reserved, you argue like a bloody barrister, you know," Percy grumbled.

*****

A half hour later, Charity parted with Percy, who was ready for a nap after all. Not wanting to waste the lovely afternoon, Charity continued the walk alone. She saw Sarah in the distance chatting with the other maids and decided not to disturb their conversation. In truth, she wished for time alone with her thoughts. Spying a path in the woods that bordered the gardens, she made her way over, letting out a sigh of pleasure as the cool, leafy shade enveloped her.

Here, her worries abated. The country idyll was a rare escape from the bustling, smoke-choked bosom of London. Here, she took in buzzing dragonflies and chirping birds rather than clattering carriage wheels and raucous street mongers pitching their wares. Even the splendors of Hyde Park paled in comparison to this verdant, untamed paradise.

Surrounded by towering oaks, overgrown bushes, and glittering streams of sunlight, Charity felt removed from the troubles of the world. There was only the spongy squish of her kid boots against the forest floor and the humid air bathing her senses. A pair of squirrels darted across her path, their bushy grey tails swishing as their game of chase took them high into the leafy boughs. Through perforations in the forest canopy, she spied birds winging through the sky.

What would it be like to be so … free?

She wasn't accustomed to such idle thoughts. Her ordinary life was organized around gainful activity: an unending list of tasks to be completed at the shop and another list when she returned home. She enjoyed keeping busy. It prevented her from the devil's work—from thinking too much. And from futile … longing.

For the attention of her father, who already had too many burdens upon his shoulders. For the care of her mother, who she wished she might have known. And for …

A love that can't be mine.

She caught herself. Solitude was making for a poor companion indeed, if it encouraged her to indulge in such foolish thoughts.

"What is the matter with you, Charity Sparkler?" she said aloud. "You're carrying on like the heroine of a maudlin opera. Next thing you know, the violins will start playing and you'll be tossing yourself over a bridge."

Regaining her practical senses, she took another step—and lost her footing. Her boot encountered a hole hidden beneath the carpet of moss, and she yelped as her ankle went over. She lost her balance, tumbling into the shallow gully next to the path.

Lying on her back, breathing rapidly, she blinked up at the leaves and glittering patches of light. She became aware of an odd buzzing noise and thought, at first, that her ears were ringing because of the fall. But the sound grew louder and darkness swarmed her vision, obliterating leaves and light, covering all a vortex of black, swirling frenzy.

Wasps.
Thousands
of them.

Panicked, she scrambled to get up, but her skirts were caught in the brambles. She yanked at them as the insects roared. She managed to stumble to her feet, only to fall with a cry as her wrenched ankle gave out. The wasps descended in a humming shroud. She curled into a ball, shielding her head with her arms, her heart hammering with helpless fear.

The ground shook beneath her. The rhythmic vibration jolted her to her senses. The pounding of hooves, a horse ...?

She cried out, "Help! Over here, help me, please!"

Heartbeats passed. Powerful arms reached through the veil of death and swept her up.

SEVEN

Just beyond the woods, Paul drew his horse to a stop at the folly. It was the closest place he could think to go. He lifted Charity Sparkler into his arms, ignoring her protests, and carried her through the gothic arches into the gazebo. With care, he placed her down on a stone bench, surprised to realize that his heart was pounding.

"Are you hurt?" he said tersely.

"I didn't get stung." She peered up at him with worried eyes. "What about you?"

"I'm fine." He exhaled. "We'll have to wait here until the blasted things clear from the path."

He thought it was a miracle that she'd escaped unscathed. With the exception of the dirt smudged on the tip of her little
retroussé
nose and the leafy bits clinging to her gown, she appeared much as she usually did. Most ladies he knew turned into watering pots in the presence of one buzzing insect, never mind thousands. But not Charity Sparkler. Her expression was as composed as a sonata.

His mouth twitched as he noted that although she'd lost her bonnet, only a single lock of hair had escaped her topknot. The strand had an unexpected wave and clung with gentle sensuality to her cheekbone. She brushed it away, and, as she did so, the tendril caught the light. The burnished glimmer made him blink.

Frowning, he scrutinized her coiffure. Whatever she used on her hair—some sort of waxy substance?—obscured its natural brilliance. Up close he glimpsed hints of shimmering gold and bronze twined with rich hazelnut. Why would she hide such an asset with pomade and pins? His palms prickled with a sudden memory of silken waves, grasping them as he plundered the softest, sweetest mouth—

He rubbed his hands over his thighs, shaking off the queer sensations. Where the devil had that come from? Was he hallucinating now? The aftermath of danger must have unbalanced him. Or mayhap her hair reminded him of a past lover's, some spontaneous and inexplicable association … yes, that must be it.

Yet he couldn't recall bedding anyone who resembled Miss Sparkler. He made it a point to stay away prim and proper types. Not to mention virgins.

"Thank you … for saving my life," she said softly.

It had been a long while since anyone had looked at him this way. As if he were wearing a coronet of stars. His chest expanded, even as he replied with his usual wit.

"Happy to oblige. I know you adventurous types thrive on risk," he drawled, "but in the future I must remind you of that old adage: never stir a hornet's nest."

"I didn't do it on
purpose
, sir. And I'm not adventurous—not at all."

She sounded so appalled that he almost chuckled. What an earnest little mouse she was. He couldn't resist teasing her a little more.

"
The lady doth protest too much, methinks
." He tapped his chin. "As I recall, the last time we met you were marauding in the parlor at midnight. Now you're wandering about the woods alone."

Pink spilled over Miss Sparkler's cheekbones, emphasizing their unique slant and the fey shape of her little face. "I know I ought to have summoned my maid. But I …"—she hesitated and then her shoulders hitched in a rather forlorn movement—"I wished for some solitude."

"Tired of the company, are you? House parties
are
a dreadful bore."

"Oh no, it's not that. Everyone has been most kind. And it is an honor to be invited at all. It's just that … well, I'm not sure I can explain."

"Try," he said.

Because he
was
curious. Why had the little chit hailed off on her own? Given the rarefied guest list, any middling class miss worth her salt would be angling to make the best matrimonial catch.

Her gaze on her lap, Miss Sparkler said, "I suppose being surrounded by people made me feel more alone." She fiddled with the beige folds of her skirt. "Sounds silly, doesn't it?"

Actually ... it didn't.

"It's the happy ones in particular," he said with feeling, "that really make one miserable. And we two seem to be surrounded by a surfeit of lovey-dovey couples, don't we? It's like a disease, and it's spreading."

"I wouldn't worry for your health, sir. I'm certain the condition is not contagious."

There it was again: that sly wit of hers. He hadn't imagined it last night. Her mouth tipped up at the corners, and it was a charming expression for her.

"You misunderstand, I'm not worried about
me
," he said. "We hardened rakes have a natural immunity against the softer sentiments. 'Tis young innocents such as you who had better have a care. From what I hear, quite a few eligible bachelors at the party are looking to get leg-shackled."

"With my slight stature, I fear I would make a poor ball and chain."

A laugh rustled from his chest. "But your stature is quite charming and I daresay no barrier to any gentleman's pursuit. In fact, I'm surprised you're not already spoken for."

The laughter in her eyes faded. Her smile, too.

His chest inexplicably tightened, and he masked it by quirking a brow. "Or, perhaps, you are? I apologize for assuming otherwise. I hadn't heard anything from Percy."

"I'm not. Spoken for, that is. At least, not definitively."

For the first time, Miss Sparkler sounded flustered. Interesting. A horde of wasps didn't disquiet her, but a possible attachment did? Having his own aversion to marriage, he experienced a surge of empathy. Perhaps he and she had more in common than he realized.

Gently, he said, "Do you wish to talk about it?"

Her lashes fluttered like butterfly wings. She bit her lip—the plump bottom one. The one right above that wicked little beauty mark ...

"I don't think so," she said.

He cleared his throat. Tried to get his thoughts on track. "You can trust me. After all, you and Percy are sisters in every way but blood, which makes us practically related. Old friends, at the very least."

"We're friends?" Miss Sparkler said.

He was discovering many admirable qualities about Charity Sparkler. Beneath her unassuming demeanor lay honesty and wit, a steadiness of character. She was refreshingly different from the usual array of giggling debs and sultry matrons.

"I'd like to think so. One can never have too many friends," he said with an easy smile.

"If I may be frank?" she said.

He nodded.

"You don't seem to lack for companionship, Mr. Fines. Particularly the female kind."

The back of his neck heated, and he rubbed it. "That's plain talking, ain't it?"

"I'm afraid that is my tendency."

"And a refreshing one it is," he said ruefully. Her calm countenance made it strangely easy to speak the truth. "In a nutshell, Miss Sparkler? I grow tired of my habits. Of their lack of substance."

"Then why not find more meaningful pursuits?" she asked.

It must be the way she phrased things, Paul mused, that made all the difference. When Nicholas or his mama harangued him on the topic, his defenses rallied immediately. He
hated
being told what to do. Yet when this chit spoke, he heard no judgment, merely an observation.

He decided to test the waters. "Actually, I have. I'm going to compete as a prizefighter. Not in an exhibition—in a real tournament."

Her brow puckered. "Won't that be dangerous?"

"Not if I'm prepared. Before the tournament, I'm going to train in earnest. I've a patron, Viscount Traymore, and he's offered up a place in the country where I can practice in seclusion and without distractions. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to become a Champion," he said fiercely.

I'm going to show them all that I'm a winner.

Her head tipped to one side. "Prizefighting is an unusual pursuit for a gentleman. Why does it interest you?"

Not
are you daft?
Or
how could you be so bloody irresponsible?

Simply ...
why
?

He experienced a wild urge to
hug
Charity Sparkler.

"Because I love being in the ring. I have a talent for it. Winning those exhibition rounds wasn't even that difficult—I could beat better fighters, I know it." Words rushed from him like water from a dam. "It would be hard work and a great challenge, but I think ... nay, I
believe
that I could be a Champion. That I could win the title and use that fame to start my own academy."

"It sounds like you have given the matter some thought," she said.

"I have."

"Are there any downsides to your plan?"

"I told Harteford and the other men. They think I've bacon for brains," he said flatly.

She smoothed her skirts. "You agree with them?"

He frowned. "Of course not."

"Yet you're allowing their opinion to color your own."

He mulled over her observation. Was he
afraid
that Nicholas was right? Was that fear making him doubt his own dreams? Had he so little faith in himself—was that his true problem?

"You are terrifyingly astute, Miss Sparkler," he said in wonder.

"Not really. I'm just acquainted with the Fines temperament." Her cheeks curved, and her beauty mark seemed to wink at him. "Once Percy makes up her mind, nothing can get in her way—except, perhaps, herself."

"My sister is fortunate indeed to call you her friend." He bowed. "May I also have that pleasure?"

To his surprise, silence greeted his request. She bit her lip. His breath stuttered as opalescent sparks glimmered in her eyes.

"We should go," she blurted. "The others will be looking for us."

Before he could question her non sequitur, she jumped up … and a cry escaped her as her left leg buckled. He caught her before she hit the ground. Sweeping her off her feet, he set her back on the bench and knelt on one knee beside her.

"Why didn't you say anything? Did you hurt your ankle?" he demanded.

"I … I might have turned it a little."

He reached for the hem of her skirt; her hand clamped onto his.

"It isn't proper," she said in a small voice.

"Is it proper to let you writhe in pain?" he said grimly. "We can't ride back if you've broken something. I have to take a look."