Page 69 of Some Like It Wild
“What about my son?” she hissed. “Are you going to cast your nephew into the streets as well?”
“I believe I’ll leave that decision up tomyson. If Percy—ifConnorwants him to stay, I’ll allow it.”
She straightened until her spine was as stiff as an iron poker, standing face to face with her brother for the first time in years. “How very benevolent of you,” she said with a sneer. “You’re no different from Father, are you? He couldn’t wait to be rid of me either.” As if watching someone else from a great distance, she could hear her voice rising on a shrill note. Could see the ugly beads of spittle flying from her lips. “Father never even saw me. He would look right through me as if I wasn’t even there. He married me off to a drunken sot and I had to endure the lout’s crude fumblings night after night until he got his whelp on me. I wrote Father dozens of letters begging him to let me come home. But he never even took the time to answer one of them. He never cared about me. All he ever cared about was you—his precious heir!”
“You should go, Astrid. Before I’m forced to call back the constable and ask him to investigate the tragic death of Marianne Darby.”
Astrid felt an icy shroud of calm descending over her. “You’ll be sorry, Archie. I promise you that you’ll rue the day you cast me out of your life!” With those words, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.
It wasn’t until the door had slammed behind her that her brother sank back into his chair, running a weary hand over his face. “I already do, Astrid,” he whispered. “I already do.”
Pamela perched on the edge of Sophie’s dressing room cot, watching her sister sleep. Judging by the grimy tear tracks staining Sophie’s fair cheeks and the wrinkled blue gown tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, it didn’t appear that her sister’s masquerade had ended any more successfully than her own.
She brushed a curl from Sophie’s cheek, thinking how heartbroken the girl was going to be when she discovered she’d missed one of the scandals of the century. The gossipmongers and scandal sheets would no doubt be abuzz with the news for weeks to come. After all, it wasn’t every day that a marquess and his fiancée were hauled out of a ball hosted in their honor in irons.
She gently tucked the blanket around Sophie’s shoulders. She might as well let her sleep for now. She would have to wake her soon enough.
Pamela returned to her bedchamber and the task at hand, making a concerted effort not to look at the tightly latched window. But it wasn’t so easy to steer clear of her bed where Connor had held her tenderly in his arms until the wee hours of the morning. Or the cheval glass she had stood in front of while he wrapped his arms around her from behind and encouraged her to watch their entwined reflections while he pleasured her. Or the settee where he had—
Pamela squeezed her eyes shut, a blade of fresh pain lancing through her heart. She could leave the lamps lit and latch the window, but there was nothing she could do to bar the doors of her heart. No way to stop the memories from stealing past her defenses and wreaking havoc on her fragile determination.
She dropped her burdens on the bed and drifted toward the window. The night beyond seemed darker than ever before, the moonlight paler and more brittle. The somber-eyed woman gazing back at her from the wavy glass bore little resemblance to anyone she knew. She rested her brow against the cool glass and closed her eyes, feeling a hot tear trickle down her cheek.
She was reaching up to dash it away before it could be joined by others when her bedchamber door flew open. Clapping a hand to her pounding heart, she whirled around to find one very large, very angry Scotsman standing in the doorway.
Chapter 27
If Connor were dressed all in black and gripping a pistol, he would have looked exactly as he had on that moonlit road in the Highlands on the night they had met. “Did you really think latching the window was going to keep me out?”
She stiffened. “You’ll be the master of this house someday. I suppose you can go wherever you like.”
He started forward and she took a wary step backward. He stopped, eyeing her incredulously. “What do you think I’m going to do, lass? Lift my hand to you?”
She couldn’t tell him that she was more afraid of him putting his hands on her. She knew just how persuasive and irresistible those hands could be.
Resting them on his hips, he surveyed the untidy room, taking in the open trunk sitting on the floor, the battered valise perched on the settee, the gowns and shoes scattered across the bed. His gaze finally returned to her. She wasn’t wearing her elegant ball dress or her nightdress, but a simple copper merino gown with frayed seams and a high neck that had been out of fashion for at least three seasons.
The sight obviously did not improve his temper.
He shook his head. “I should have known it would come to this. It’s just like the English to cut and run at the first sign of a battle.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “And I should have remembered that the Scots are notorious for not fighting fairly. In case you didn’t notice, the battle has been won. The duke’s beloved son has been restored to the bosom of his family. He’s now free to take his rightful place in society.”
“Free?” Connor shook his head in disgust. “I’ll never be free again. I’ll spend the rest of my life behind bars—imprisoned in this gilded cage.”
She drew closer to him, unable to help herself. “That’s not true, Connor. You’ll be truly free now. Free to travel the world. Free to study. Free to move through society without always looking over your shoulder because the hangman might be one step behind you.” She inclined her head, adding softly, “Free to choose a bride who will do honor to your station in life.”
“I already have.”
She lifted her head. Whatever he saw in her eyes made him close the distance between them in two strides. His fingers dug into her upper arms, giving her a rough little shake. “Dammit, Pamela, I’m still the same man! The man you took to your bed only last night. The man who had to put his hand over your mouth to keep you from waking the entire household when he—”
“No, you’re not!” she cried, the words pouring straight out of her lacerated heart. “You’re not the same man at all. That man was a rogue—an imposter, just as I was. You’re a marquess. And someday soon you’ll be a duke, while I’ll never be anything more than the bastard daughter of an actress. You’ve had two fathers now. I’ll never even have one!”
Connor released her and moved back a step to put some space between them. Pamela eyed him warily, unnerved by his quick surrender and the dangerous gleam in his eye.
He folded his arms over his chest, the motion accentuating the natural arrogance she had noted in his bearing upon their very first meeting. “If you no longer fancy yourself fine enough to be my bride, then you can be my mistress.” His smoky gaze drifted lazily down her, then back up again, heating everything it touched. “You’ve already proved you have the skills to please me.”
She gasped, unprepared for such a blow.
