Simmer All Night (10 page)

Cole had gone through his entire repertoire of curses a dozen times since. He was angry at England—a Texas sky wouldn't have fooled him—and angry at himself for agreeing to make this trip to begin with. The biggest portion of his temper, however, was reserved for Miss Christina Elizabeth Delaney.

"She'd better be here," he muttered, focusing on the imposing house that loomed before him out of the driving rain. And she'd be well served to have some folks around her when he arrived. Too many times on this miserable trip he'd entertained himself by visualizing his hands around that selfish, infuriating woman's neck.

He blamed Christina for the fact that in order to get here sooner, he'd hitched a ride on an inferior freighter rather than the well-equipped passenger ship upon which he'd originally booked passage. He held her accountable for the fact said freighter had mechanical troubles and limped halfway across the Atlantic. He faulted her for the bad food, the missed trains, the poor beds in inns along the way, and the awful springs on the public coaches that had tortured his behind. Mostly, though, he blamed her for the worry she would cause her ailing mother and the gut-wrenching fear he himself had felt on her behalf. "You'd better be here safe and sound, Christina. Safe and sound so I can give you what you've got coming."

Of course, Cole's threats against her person were all bluster. He wouldn't physically touch her. Somewhere deep inside him, in a place he didn't particularly want to examine, Cole understood he was better off keeping his hands to himself where Christina was concerned.

As he approached Hartsworth, the size of the place astounded him and stirred up old emotions better left unexplored. His father and mother had worked and lived on a great country estate such as this. Assistant gardener and laundry maid to a duke, his duchess, two daughters and that devil-spawn of a son.

Rain drizzled past Cole's collar, chilling the back of his neck as he vividly remembered the scorn in his father's voice as he spoke of the wealth and excesses of his employer. He recalled marveling over the notion of fifty or more people laboring in a house to make life comfortable for a family of five. And that number didn't include the outside help. The notion continued to boggle the mind today.

Gazing at the house through the splattering rain, he wondered what his father would say if he knew his only son intended to present himself to the lord of this manor as if he were an equal.
He'd be proud,
Cole's heart told him.

That's why Samuel Morgan had chosen America as his destination after he'd beat his wife's rapist nearly to death. He had wanted to live in a country where citizens believed that all men were created equal. He'd wanted to raise his son to believe it, too.

That much of Samuel's wish for the future had come true. Cole might be British-born, but he was American-bred. He had an American's awareness that his countrymen had fought a war or two to ensure they wouldn't have to kowtow to a king or queen and lords and ladies. Plus, Cole was Texan to boot. He would consider himself second to no man on the basis of the color of his blood.

"Remember that," he muttered as he reined his sorry-excuse-for-a-horse to a stop at the foot of the gracefully curving stone steps leading up to Hartsworth's front door. Then, as a liveried footman carrying an umbrella splashed toward him, he stared up at the cold stone facade of the Earl of Thornbury's palace and murmured every true Texan's battle cry, "Remember the Alamo."

Dismounting, he reached for his saddlebags as the footman bowed, then offered the umbrella and said, "Welcome to Hartsworth, my lord."

At that, the Texan in him swelled and his voice slipped to a small-town drawl. "I'll take the welcome but give you back the lord business. I'm a plain old mister and proud of it. And you keep the umbrella for those fancy clothes of yours. My hat and duster do the job just as well. I would be grateful if you'd see to the nag for me, though."

The young man's eyes rounded. "Uh, thank you, sir. I'll take good care of your mount, sir, never fear."

"Appreciate it." Cole slung his saddlebags over one shoulder and turned toward the gracefully curved stone steps leading up toward the shelter of the portico.

"Sir?" the footman called after him. "If I may ask, where did you get that hat and coat? I've never seen the likes before,"

Cole smiled, the first one all day. "Texas, son. I'm from Texas."

The footman frowned with disappointment. "Oh. I should have known from your voice. That's too bad because my papa needs something like your coat. He works outside all the time—he's the gardener here and his cough, well, it worries me."

Gardner, hmm?
"Tell you what. I'll be sending a letter home shortly and I'll order one for him. Just need to know the size."

"Is the price very dear?" the youngster asked hesitantly.

"We'll be able to work something out. Now, why don't you see to that poor horse. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get out of this weather."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you indeed."

Cole touched a finger to the brim of his hat and started toward the front steps. Halfway there he paused and turned around to ask the footman what he'd meant with his comment about Cole's voice. Did the boy recognize the drawl because he knew Christina? Was she here safe and sound?

He'd hesitated too long. The rain was falling harder now, and the youngster was hustling the nag away. Cole shrugged, climbed the front steps, and headed for the door, which opened at his approach.

"Welcome to Hartsworth, my lord." A servant snapped his fingers and another man appeared and immediately started to relieve Cole of his saddlebags, coat, and hat. Before he was all that ready to be rid of them, to be honest. After one look at the hall in front of him, he fought the urge to turn around and go back out into the rain.
People actually live
in
a place this grand?

"Remember the Alamo," he murmured, retrieving his hat from the servant. At the moment, he felt more comfortable with something in his hands.

"Pardon me, sir?" said the butler or house steward or whatever the hell was the proper title.

"I said I'm no lord."

"I beg your pardon, sir." The fellow actually bowed. "We are expecting Lord Welby this morning. My apologies." Then, his gaze sweeping Cole from head to foot, he scowled suspiciously and asked, "Your card?"

The Texan in Cole once again rumbled to the surface in the face of the butler's snobbishness. "Ace of spades is always my preference," he drawled, slower and thicker than normal. "Hard to go wrong with that one."

The butler blinked. Cole reached out and gave the servant's hand a vigorous shake. "Cole Morgan of San Antonio, Texas. I'm here to parley with the earl if you'd be so kind as to holler at him for me."

Horror flashed across the butler's face before being quickly and professionally hidden. Cole wanted to laugh. He'd horrified himself a bit with that exaggeration. If the members of the Historical Society who had labeled him suave and debonair could have seen this, they'd have tripped over themselves looking for someone else to send.
Too bad I didn't know then what I know now.

The butler replied, "I shall see if the earl is at home."

"You don't know?" Cole called after the departing servant. Then, alone in the great hall, he allowed himself to play tourist and gaze around in wonder. He could as well be in Greece as in England. This was truly the most beautiful room he'd ever seen. The plasterwork adorning the walls and ceiling was artwork in itself. And the murals within those plaster frames—fabulous color and form—the work of a master, obviously.

Cole moved toward the center of the room and stood beneath the domed skylight as he studied the sculptures placed symmetrically around the room. He had the shameful urge to park his hat on top of the fellow with the girlish ringlets whose fig leaves had gone missing. "A well-hung hat rack, that," he mused, suddenly wishing Jake was here to share the joke.

The thought of Jake immediately led to a reminder of his purpose here and he sobered. He should have asked the butler if Christina were here. It wasn't like him to be so hesitant. Why, he wondered, after traveling literally thousands of miles to locate her, was posing the question so damned difficult?

Because if she's not here, your fears for her safety will have come true. Or, because she might be here and already married to that titled Englishman Elizabeth wants her to have.

An explosion of masculine laughter emerging from the corridor leading off the near right corner of the hall distracted him from his bleak musings. Without conscious thought, he moved toward the sound. Just as he prepared to step from the great hall into the window-lined corridor, another voice, another laugh, joined the men's. Cole froze. He knew that laugh, knew that giggle.

Relief drenched him. Christina.

She was safe. She was laughing.

With a group of men, as usual.

Temper roared through Cole.

"Why am I surprised?" He sucked in a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and slammed his hat atop the nearby marble statue's head. Long, determined steps carried him the length of the corridor past medieval suits of armor, lacquered cabinets, alabaster pedestals crowned with Roman busts, and urns of a dozen different shapes and designs. Cole disregarded the riches, so attuned was he to the song of delight coming from a room ahead.

Another burst of laughter had him halting in the doorway to a billiard room. The scent of tobacco drifted around him as he counted six starched-front gentlemen, two of whom held cue sticks, and one lady attired in bustled blue silk currently bent over the table in the process of lining up her shot, displaying a wealth of décolletage as she did so. He did not, however, see Christina.

The woman took her shot and the balls on the table cracked together. Then Cole heard Christina say in a flirtatious tone, "Oh, Lord Chandler, I'm afraid I sank one of yours."

Cole's gaze jerked around the room, searching out every corner.

"Now, now, Miss Delaney. Thornbury warned us all that you are a fierce competitor."

Miss Delaney? Cole's stare snapped back upon the woman.

"Competitor? Me?" She patted her chest, calling attention to the dip in her neckline. "Oh, la. The earl is such a tease." With a flirtatious wink, she bent forward to take another shot.

Cole was frozen in shock. The lavish gown and hairstyle, the sparkling jewelry around her neck and dangling from her ears. That elaborate bustle. Was that really... "Bug"?

She jerked and miscued. The white ball bounced twice on the felt before flying off the table. It hit on the carpet, then rolled onto the tile, the
wrr-wrr-wrr
noise sounding like a wind-up toy in the sudden silence of the room.

Christina, as always, recovered nicely. "Oh, Mr. Morgan. Hello."

"Hello?" he repeated, stalking into the room. "That's all you have to say? Hello and
Mr
. Morgan?" She'd never called him mister in her life.

She glanced at the men around her and shrugged. "Terrible weather we're having, isn't it?"

Cole eyed the graceful curve of her neck as the old fantasy twitched his fingers.

"I say, old man," said a young buck in a precisely tied cravat. "You seem to be dripping all over the Aubusson."

Cole ignored him. "Christina. Shall we have this conversation in front of your... friends... or would you prefer to conduct it in more private surroundings?"

"I prefer not to have it at all, at the very least not now. I am in the middle of a game here, Mr. Morgan."

She turned her back on him, and whipped that ridiculous bustle around like an exclamation point to an insult.

Mr. Morgan. She played the formal flirt today, he saw. Cole truly teetered on the brink of violence. "Christina Elizabeth Delaney, get your bustle over here or I swear I'll—" He broke
off
abruptly as something tugged at his sleeve. "Hello, Mr. Morgan."

He glanced down. Blinked. "You're the girl from the plaza. With the Chili Queens."

"Sophie Kleberg." She crooked her index finger, gesturing him closer. Whispering, she added, "I am so glad you finally arrived. My mother and I are very worried about Miss Chrissy and all her gentlemen. Michael would be worried too if he'd stop looking at all the naked ladies on the ceilings."

"Hush your mouth," the boy in question muttered as he took a position on Cole's other side. "I don't do that."

"Do too."

Naked ladies. All her gentlemen. Cole gave his head a shake to clear it, then focused his gaze on the frustrating flirt. Even as he watched she flashed a smile and spoke to a fellow who shot an offended glare in Cole's direction. He heard him say, "Who is that man, my dear? Why does he use that tone with you? What does he want?"

The other men formed ranks around her, a wall of disapproving stares. When she reached out and touched one fellow's sleeve, Cole scowled as he asked Michael, "Her gentlemen?"

"She already has four beaux and the house party hasn't really started yet."

Four beaux. So what else was new?

The boy glanced toward Christina, his tanned brow knitted in a frown. "I'm not certain. Something about her is different now. She's not happy when she bats her lashes."

Cole snorted. "Maybe she's finally figured out it isn't kind of her to lead men around by their... noses. Maybe she's finally growing up."

Sophie stomped her foot. Right on top of Cole's. "Miss Chrissy is very kind, and growing up has nothing to do with it. Mama says she's giving up."

"Giving up on what?"

"On love."

Giving up on love? Not by the looks of it. He watched the woman in question giggle and flash a smile at an obviously besotted fool.

The Kleberg boy said, "C'mon, Sophie. Let's find Mama and tell her Mr. Morgan is here." Glancing at Cole, he added, "She guessed you'd be arriving pretty soon, and she wants to talk to you."

As the children slipped away, Cole thought to himself,
And I want to talk to Christina.
Enough of this.
Pasting a smile on his face, he sauntered across the room and eased his way around the protective throng. "My apologies, Christina. I fear I misplaced my manners in my anxiety to see how you were faring." He met each man's gaze before adding a sheepish shrug. "Christina and I grew up together, you see, and I've come to Hartsworth to look after her, standing in for her brother who can't be here. Because of our past, I fear sometimes I treat her with a brother's callous disregard." He extended his hand and gave the tip of her nose a familiar, familial tap. "I guess the news from home can wait. I have a letter for you from your mother. Would you like to introduce me to your friends now? Maybe they'd be interested in tales of your childhood. The mirror story, perhaps?"