Sea Scoundrel (21 page)

The blighter nodded, as best he could with a crushed Adam’s apple, and Grant dropped him so fast, he crumbled to the steps. “See that you keep your word. If you don’t, God’s truth, you won’t live to lament the day you crossed me.” Grant dusted his hands, straightened his cravat and headed up the steps to find Patience and the rest of her brainless charges, certain her purpose in dragging them across the ocean was to drive him to Bedlam. And she was achieving her goal.

He found the Baron in the gaming room. Between the Russian’s match with Sophie and the stack of notes at his side, it appeared he was having a good night. Wel , appearances could deceive. “Munchkin, I’d like a word with you, if you please.”

“Not now, Saint. I have a date with destiny. I cannot lose, and I won’t walk from a win.”

Grant bent close, so only the Baron could hear. “Speaking of destiny, I spent time with the Lady Regina several months ago, old friends you know. Had an informative chat.”

The Baron turned a sickly gray and threw down his cards, his fat beefy hands shaking as he tucked the notes in his pocket.

Grant knew then that he’d hit the mark. Good. He found an empty sitting room and closed them inside. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Whatever the chit said. It’s a lie,” the Baron stammered.

“You know what mistresses are like when you drop ‘em.”

“What did you do, Baron? Brag of your cunning while your face was pressed to her fleshy breasts. Tried to impress her, did you? Foolish man. Now you must pay for her silence.”

“I paid the tart to service me. Nothing more.”

“You pay for
those
services in the bedroom, man, not in a back al ey while the lady wears a hood to cover her face.” The Russian sighed. “Had to pay her off. To keep her from repeating her spiteful lies.”

“Won’t your paying her seem to lend credence to them?” The man appeared to shrink. He removed his handkerchief and dabbed perspiration from his bald pate. “What do you want?”

“You didn’t make a match tonight. Never took place. Al a hum.”

The Baron sputtered. “I’l look the fool.”

“You frequently do. No one wil suspect anything amiss.”

“And if I go through with it?”

“Were you aware that one of your conveniently dead wives was cousin to the Regent’s dresser? A word from him and, say, from the Lady Regina, might be enough to begin an investigation.”

The man’s legs shook. He sat. “No match. Never happened.”

Grant nodded, but before stepping from the room, he turned back to the shaken occupant. “There is an emergency at home. You’l need to leave England in the morning.”

“But I cannot....” The man’s voice became a tired whisper.

He looked into Grant’s eyes, then quickly away. “Yes. I’l need to leave.”

Loathing fil ed Grant. It must be in the blood, the blue blood, he thought—this lying, cheating, manipulation. Lord, he hated the games. He scanned the bal room. He hated the players as wel .

Patience’s approach, Sophie and Grace in tow, turned his attention to other pressing matters. “Ladies.” He took Patience’s arm. At the carriage, she spoke to Rose and Angel to be certain they suffered no harm then she al owed him to hand Sophie and Grace inside. “Patience and I wil take a little longer getting back,” he said. “We’re going to take my carriage. But I want to speak with you tonight, so don’t retire.”

Patience knew, as Grant walked her to his carriage, that his protection was more than she deserved, and she was grateful. That bal room had been a veritable hornet’s nest.

“Do you think the girls wil be al right?”

“They’re young, they’l survive, though I’m afraid I can’t predict their success in the husband-hunting arena.”

“What about Baron Munchkin? I’m frightened, Grant. If Sophie’s in danger, I’l never forgive myself.”

“I’ve taken care of him.”

Patience stopped. “You mean she’s safe? You’re certain?” She swal owed the sudden tears that threatened. She touched Grant’s arm knowing he was now her rescuer in truth. “When I think of what might have happened. Thank you, Grant.” He placed his hand over hers looking down at her with something of a smile.

What would she have done without him? What would she do when he was gone?

Miss him,
came her answer. Lord and she could never let him know how much. She shuddered.

He removed his evening cape and threw it around her shoulders, pul ing it closed at her neck.

“You look handsome in that top hat, Grant. Dapper.” He removed the curly beaver, examined it, and placed it at a jaunty angle. “When in London.” He pul ed his cape’s hood up over her hair. “My carriage is a distance away yet and I don’t want you to catch a chil .” To her surprise, he lifted her into his arms. “Don’t look so frightened. I won’t drop you. You weigh less than a thistle.”

“Papa always said I was smal of stature but tenacious of spirit.”

Grant handed her into his carriage. “Your father had a gift for understatement.” When the vehicle began to move, Grant raised her legs to his lap and removed her wet shoes to massage her feet. The first time he’d held her foot, she’d thought him a scoundrel. Now she was certain of it.

“As I suspected. Your feet are cold as a stone wal in January.”

“England’s chil does seep into the bones,” she said.

“Mmm.” He was so tender right now, she could hardly equate him with the snarly Captain, because tonight he was Grant. She closed her eyes in ecstasy at the stimulating massage, wondering if he harbored any other personalities.

Grant wondered how in hel massaging someone’s feet could be erotic. He’d come to expect this type of paradox with her. She’d scrambled his brain—and other parts of his body—starting the day they sailed.

In self defense, Grant tucked his cape around Patience’s feet. “This’l keep them warm for now.” Then he ruined the perfectly good defense by pul ing her onto his lap. Lord, this was even better.

“Why wil it take us longer than the girls to get back to Briarleigh House?” she whispered against his neck.

“I wanted to speak with you about the bal , but I’ve changed my mind. Now I just want a few quiet minutes with you.”

“I have made such a botch of things.”

She verged on becoming a watering pot, and Grant knew he needed to distract her. So he kissed her. She angled her head to welcome him, and he coaxed her lips apart with his own, until he found heaven. Their tongues met. He groaned and shifted positions, rocking her against him, while he cupped a smal straining breast.

His blood surged at the sounds she made.

As they kissed, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and slid her hands inside, running her palms over his bare chest.

“Oh, God, Sweetheart.”

Disappointment fil ed him when she broke the kiss, until she nibbled her way down his neck and nuzzled his shirt open further to rub her cheek against his chest. His heart took to hammering when she tongued his nipple, and he about came when she closed her mouth around a hard bud.

He undid her bodice and lowered it to tease her with his thumbs. But it wasn’t enough for either of them. He raised her, and laved a breast in slow strokes. She gasped, held his head against her, and with her body’s seeking movement, she unwittingly stroked his hard arousal. He lifted her skirt to explore the silk of inner thigh. “Sweet, sweet Patience,” he whispered as he encountered her center, and knew he must have her, then her words penetrated his fever. He gave up her breast with regret, his hand at her apex. “What?”

Her slumberous look surged through him as she arched against his palm. She took a deep breath. “I, I think we’ve arrived.”

Almost, but not quite, he thought, relief and regret warring within.

Patience looked at her exposed breast and became aware of herself throbbing against Grants hand. Fire crept along her spine, her entire being aflame. She hid her face in his neck. “Has anyone ever exploded from this? That you know of?” she whispered.

The rasp of their breaths fil ed the carriage. Grant pressed his hand against her one last time. She gasped, need suffusing her.

As if from afar, she watched his large, cal used hands, so strong they could raise a sail against the wind, gentle now, as he brought the bodice of her dress together and fastened it.

He’d deftly managed her clothes, but he couldn’t seem to put himself back together. She pushed his clumsy hands aside to secure the studs in his shirt, but one had gone missing. She looked around. “Oh, Grant. I think we’ve lost one.”

“We’re lucky it was the only thing lost here tonight.”

“What?”

“Another time,” he said, almost grateful for the close cal they survived. He held one of his wrists out, palm up. “Take a stud from the cuff and use it on the front.” He watched as she did then turned her face to his. “How do you feel?” He finger-combed her hair while she repaired his cravat.

“I don’t know,” Patience said, honestly. “Exhausted, as if I’ve just run a race. I’d like to curl up and sleep, though I don’t believe I was ready to stop when we did.” He touched his brow to hers. “Patience. Patience. What am I going to do with you?”

“Be my friend?”

“Ah.” He tapped her nose. “Wel , friend, we have problems to deal with. Someday, though, I would like for us to spend

—” He searched for the right words.
Unlimited time
, came to his mind, then,
forever
, which didn’t suit. That led to betrayal and suffering. Grant sighed. “I’d like to spend time with you—without spoiled American misses who need to be throttled. Are you ready to go inside now?” Patience nodded. “Whatever wil John Coachman say about our staying in here so long?”

“He wil not dare say anything, though we have no control over his thoughts.” Grant chuckled. “Patience, before we open the door, perhaps you had better scoot off my lap and over to the other seat.”

“Oh!” She complied with a giggle, but managed to wipe the grin off her face by the time he handed her out.

Before shutting the carriage door, Grant picked up something thick and white from the floor. From its shape and texture, he realized it must be a bosom insert. He grinned as he fingered it. Patience had walked almost to the stairs so he tucked it in his frock coat, dismissed his coachman, and quickened his pace to catch up. He’d give it to her later. They’d dawdled long enough as it was.

As they made their way up the steps, Grant shook his head at the curious faces in the window. “Look at the hoydens,” he said. “No sense of decorum. I can’t guarantee
they
won’t have something to say about how long we sat in the coach.” Less than fifteen minutes later, Grant leaned against the mantle and contemplated four—no five—dangerously-innocent misses.

Grace settled her spectacles on her nose at the rate of about once per minute. Angel braided and unbraided the tassels on her shawl not meeting his stony regard. It bothered Grant that they sat in fear, yet somehow, for their own good, they must remain so. He slapped the mantle.

Because he damned wel wanted to make an impression here!

Rose, not surprisingly, began to cry. When he questioned her, she tearful y refused to explain her attack upon the Earl of Garwood. Grant sent her to bed. They could not speak sensibly tonight.

Pul ing away from the mantle, he spoke to the others as he paced. “Tonight was a disaster. As far as English Society is concerned, your chances of finding titled husbands are ruined. Finished. At an end.” He stopped to regard them.

They withered as he watched.

Patience, his darling Patience, looked as if she would like to let her very dreamy eyes shut. He should be angry. But al he could think about was the reason she was so lethargic.

And he wanted to finish what they started. Again, and again, and again.

He coughed and cleared his throat, and regarded Sophie, Angel and Grace. “If there is
any
way to undo this evening’s social debacle, you must listen careful y. Under no circumstances should you dance more than two dances an evening with the same partner. Never dance the waltz unless you are given permission to do so. You cannot cal a Duke ‘
Duke
,’ Angel, you must cal him, your Grace, likewise his wife. Lesser titles are referred to as, my Lord, or at the very least, Sir or my Lady. Is any of this making its way into your cotton-fil ed heads?”

The only girl who nodded was Angel, al the while twirling a chocolate curl between her fingers with a smile on her face.

Grant saw Patience shift in her chair, rearrange her cape, and notice for the first time that she was off-sided, one bosom bigger than the other. She touched the flatter breast, then she skimmed her bodice to her waist. When she began to search the immediate vicinity, he coughed to get her attention.

She looked up and by her color he saw she realized he knew. He patted his pocket to tel her he had it. Her eyes widened, and she groaned.

The girls’ looks of contrition increased at the sound.

Grant felt bad upsetting them, until he looked at Sophie.

Acting as if their problems had nothing to do with her.
She
laughed. “Wel I have done nothing wrong. I have made a match.”

Grant rounded on her. “You haven’t made a match, you twit.”

Sophie looked stricken. Her large brown eyes fil ed with tears. Vexed with himself, Grant took a moment to regain control. “Did no one ever tel you, Sophie, it is in poor taste for a woman to ask a man to marry her? Poor taste? Hel , it’s unheard of. A blatant miscarriage of al that is proper. A woman should know something about a man and his expectations before even considering
his
proposal.”

“He’s a Baron,” she said in a smal voice, shrugging her shoulders, as if to ask,
What else is there to know?

“Baron or no, the man has two dead wives to his credit.

Wives who left their fortunes to him. That he is paying blackmail money to his ladybird might also interest you.” Sophie’s thunderstruck countenance was satisfaction for the moment. He turned to Angel. “Speaking of ladybirds, Miss Angelique—you’l forgive me if I find it difficult to cal you Angel—Did you not think it odd to accept a position for which you had no knowledge?”