Page 44 of Some Like It Wild
Connor’s heart sank. It was worse than he’d feared. Her beautiful eyes were swollen nearly shut, her nose was bright pink and her cheeks were still streaked with fresh tears. Her hair was in a dreadful tangle—half up and half down with combs and hairpins sticking out at all angles. And worst of all, she was gazing at him as ifhewere the one who had murdered her poor mother.
Although his feet felt as if they were weighted with lead, he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward her. “There’s no need for this, lass, and I won’t have it,” he said quietly. “You can’t spend the rest of your life weeping in your bedchamber just because you spent a few stolen moments in mine.”
Connor heard a startled gasp. Too late, he saw Sophie standing next to the dressing table, her mouth hanging open and her astonished gaze fixed on Pamela as if she’d never seen her sister before.
He stopped a few feet from Pamela, aching to close the distance between them if only so he could touch her one last time. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, lass. I’m the one who took advantage of you and your innocence. As you well know, I’m not an honorable man. But I can promise you that despite what happened between us last night, you’re still a virgin. You’ll bring no shame to your husband’s bed.” Although he made an honest effort, he could not quite keep the bitter note from his voice. “He’ll never even have to know you let a dirty, thievin’ Highlander put his hands on you.”
Connor wasn’t aware that Pamela had been gripping a hairbrush until it went sailing past his head, striking the door behind him with a dull thud.
“I’m not crying because I’m ashamed, you thick-witted Scotsman!” She glared at him, her voice rising to a wail. “I’m crying because I don’t have anything to wear!”
Chapter 17
What’s wrong with what you’re wearing right now?” Connor asked cautiously, prepared to duck should Pamela hurl another unexpected object at him—a lace garter or perhaps the dressing-table stool.
He’d seen her stand down an entire regiment of English soldiers armed with nothing but a smile. He never thought he’d see her trembling on the brink of hysteria over a rumpled heap of taffeta.
She eyed him disbelievingly. “Are you blind as well as daft? I only had two suitable frocks of my own and I wore both of those the first day we were here. I’ve already been reduced to borrowing Sophie’s gowns.”
Sophie snorted and rolled her eyes. “Borrowing? Destroying is more like it. She returned my favorite gown with the sleeve all slashed to ribbons! And that’s not even counting the damage she did to my prettiest pair of slippers with her enormous feet.”
Ignoring her sister’s pout, Pamela waved a hand toward the pile of garments on the bed. “I’ve tried on every one of her gowns and each one is less flattering than the last.”
“I’ve always been more inclined to notice the female in the frock than the frock itself,” Connor admitted. “If you must know, most men would rather do away with the frock altogether.”
“Well, I may have to do just that.” Clutching her skirt in both fists, Pamela lifted the scalloped hem of the pastel pink confection she was modeling at the moment, giving him an enticing glimpse of trim ankles and a pair of bare feet that looked incredibly dainty to him, especially compared to his own. “Because this one is at least five inches too short.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, afraid to say more.
“And just look at this bodice. It’s a disaster!” She dropped the skirt and cupped her hands beneath her breasts, hiking them upward. “If I so much as take one deep breath, my bosoms are going to pop right out for all the world to see!”
Since she had invited him to look, Connor gazed his fill at the luscious globes threatening to spill over the top of the low-cut bodice. He could still remember how warm and soft they’d felt in his hands. “And that would be a bad thing?” he asked, forced to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
“It most certainly would! Especially since Sophie just told me she overheard the servants in the kitchen saying we’ve been invited to our first soiree tomorrow evening. I can’t even find a gown to wear to breakfast. How am I supposed to dress for a soiree!”
“I’m not even sure what a soiree is,” Connor confessed.
“It’s a deliciously sophisticated French word for party,” Sophie offered with a superior little smirk.
“We’re not in France,” Connor retorted. “Why don’t they just call it a party?”
Pamela collapsed to a sitting position on the foot of the bed, her proud shoulders slumped in defeat. “It’s going to create enough of a scandal when everyone discovers the future Duke of Warrick has pledged his troth to an actress’s daughter who was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Once I make an appearance in my ill-fitting, unfashionable gowns, no one will believe you could have fallen in love with me. Not when they can plainly see how common I truly am.” She bowed her head, her voice fading until it was barely audible. “I shall be ridiculous in their eyes and I will make you ridiculous, too.”
Connor’s amusement faded as Pamela’s words slowly sank in. She wasn’t ashamed of him. She was afraid she would shame him. Connor Kincaid. A dirty, thieving Highlander with rope scars on his throat and a price on his head.
He ached to touch her, but he was afraid of further bruising her already battered pride.
Knitting his hands at the small of his back to keep them off of her, he turned to address Sophie. “Look after your sister. Get her a cool rag for her eyes and ring for breakfast.” He turned toward the door, then turned back. “Order her a hot bath as well…with some of those flowers or leaves they sprinkle in to make the water smell nice.”
Sophie gaped at him, plainly insulted at being treated like the servant she was pretending to be. “Aye, my lord,” she said, bobbing him a mocking curtsy. “Will his lordship be requiring anything else?”
He stole a look at Pamela, who was eyeing him with equal bewilderment. “No. You can trust me to take care of the rest.”
Connor strode through the long corridors of Warrick Park as if he were already its master. As he rounded a corner without breaking his stride, a pair of young maidservants dusting the wainscoting exchanged a nervous glance and went scurrying out of his way.
He arrived back at the morning room to find it already deserted. A lone footman was removing dishes from the sideboard. When Connor cleared his throat, the man jumped as if he’d been shot. The silver platter in his hand slipped through his fingers and went crashing to the floor, scattering the remnants of the coddled eggs across the priceless Aubusson carpet.
Connor had no time to waste on apologies or pleasantries. “Where can I find the duke?”
