A Heart for the Taking (17 page)

Laughing, Fancy shook her head. “Never, my dear!” She looked over at the big bed. “And if that is as comfortable as it looks, I fear I shall never leave this room again.” Her stomach gave an unladylike rumble just then, and she added wryly, “Except for food, of course.”

As if in answer to her words, there was a tap on the door and a moment later Ora entered, carrying a huge silver tray covered with all sorts of appetizing offerings. The instant the tall, stately black woman placed the laden tray on a large mahogany table in the center of the room, Ellen and Fancy, unable to help themselves, crowded close to the tray, staring greedily at the contents—sliced chicken and veal, a plate of jellied asparagus, some creamed cauliflower, cucumbers and radishes fresh from the garden, and a bowl of thick, clotted cream and some slices of apricot, as well as hot coffee and a pan of biscuits still warm from the oven.

Ora grinned at their expressions, her teeth very white in her round black face. “Miz Letty said that you all might be jus’ a bit hungry.”

“Ora, you have no idea,” Fancy exclaimed as she bit down on a red radish and began to fill a plate with chicken and some of the jellied asparagus. “Mrs. Walker is a saint, and you may tell her I said so.”

Descending the staircase a few hours later, her dark hair piled artfully high, with one long dusky ringlet lying upon her white bosom, the silken skirts of her brocaded Spitafields gown and petticoat rustling around her feet, Fancy was conscious of a knot starting to form in her stomach. In a few minutes she would see Chance Walker again,
and the prospect filled her with a volatile mixture of excitement and dread, emotions she felt frequently in his presence.

There was comfort to be gained from the knowledge that she was looking especially attractive for a woman who had just spent the past fortnight struggling through the verdant wilderness, but as she reached the bottom step of the stairs, her fingers tightened unconsciously on the fan of delicately painted chicken skin she carried in one hand. She had never once given a thought to her appearance during the entire time she and Ellen had been in the wilderness, but now she found herself wondering what Chance would think when he saw her garbed in her normal attire. It was the thought of his eyes upon her that made her suddenly aware of how low cut her bodice actually was and made her embarrassingly aware that of the tops of her small bosom were boldly displayed for anyone to see.

Angry with herself for caring, even fleetingly, what Chance Walker might think about anything, she lifted her head imperiously. Reminding herself that she
was
the baroness Merrivale and that she was wearing a perfectly respectable,
fashionable
gown and that no rude, country dolt was going to put her out of countenance, she swiftly crossed the passage to a pair of doors set in a graceful archway.

Fancy opened one door and entered the room. Letty had pointed out this particular room earlier when she had escorted the ladies up the stairs and had called it the red salon. It was a large, lofty chamber, with three lovely crystal chandeliers and an impressive bank of tall, narrow windows that overlooked a different part of the formal garden. A Caucasian carpet in vivid shades of red and gold lay upon the floor; elegantly draped curtains in the same shades hung at the windows; and there were small tables and chests of mahogany and walnut scattered attractively throughout the room. A trio of delicate settees covered in gold satin and several comfortable red leather chairs constituted the majority of the remaining furnishings.

It was here, Letty had explained, that the family usually assembled prior to the evening meal, the gentlemen to drink
some rum punch, the ladies some ratafia. Feeling oddly restless, Fancy had left Ellen still primping at her dressing table and come ahead. Aware, again from her kind hostess, that they usually dined around seven o’clock in the evening, and knowing that it was not yet gone six o’clock, Fancy expected to find the room empty. It was not.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the far end of the room; his back was to her as he stared out of one of the windows at the garden. Catching sight of him, of the fashionable cut of his claret-colored coat and breeches, his dark hair unpowdered and caught at the nape of his neck in a black silk bag that hung partway down his back, Fancy first thought he was Jonathan, and her heart sank. After his extremely forward greeting to her upon her arrival, and her promise to Ellen uppermost in her mind, the
last
thing Fancy wanted was a private tête-à-tête with Jonathan. Her initial instinct was to slip from the room, hoping that he had not noticed her entrance, but even as she started to back away, he turned and her heart began to thump madly. The gentleman was Chance Walker. But a Chance Walker she had never seen before.

He was garbed and groomed as fine as any lord she had met in England. His black hair was swept back from his hard face, the darkness of his skin intensified by the neatly tied white cravat at his neck. His waistcoat of stiff figured cream silk with a small, tasteful design in fawn and claret was as fashionable as the highest stickler in English Society could have wished. Silver buckles decorated his shoes, his stockings were of silk, and there was a profusion of lace at his wrists and down the front of his white linen shirt. He was, she thought breathlessly, magnificent, looking every inch a gentleman. But even as she acknowledged that thought, she was aware of a longing for the Chance she had grown used to, the teasing blue-eyed devil in the worn buckskins, his unruly mane of thick black hair falling over his shoulders and framing his lean, half-bearded features.

They stared wordlessly at each other for a long moment, then Chance shook his head as if coming from a trance. A
derisive smile suddenly tugging at his lips, he bowed low and murmured, “Duchess.”

Fancy’s grip on her fan nearly broke the fragile thing, but, keeping her voice cool, she returned, “I see that fine clothes do not fine manners make.”

A genuine grin crossed his face. “No, Duchess, I fear they do not. Buckskins or satin, you will find me just as obnoxious and objectionable as ever.”

Something in his expression invited her to share the amusement she saw dancing in his eyes. To her astonishment, she laughed and walked farther into the room. Stopping a few feet from him, she said lightly, “Perhaps, if you did not
try
so hard to be so very provoking, I might not find you so obnoxious.”

Chance’s brow lifted. “I think you are confused about which one of us is provoking, Duchess.”

Fancy looked startled. “Me?” she demanded. “Are you implying that I am provoking?”

Chance’s amusement faded, some undefinable emotion glittering in his eyes. He stepped nearer to her and, running a caressing finger down her cheek, said huskily, “Oh, yes, you, Duchess. So very,
very
provoking.”

The present faded away, and their eyes locked as they stared mesmerized at each other. It was quiet in the room, the faint scent of a spicy potpourri drifting on the air, a few dust motes floating lazily in the rays of the fading sunlight that pierced the interior. But Fancy wasn’t really aware of anything but the tall man in front of her and her heart beating as if it would jump from her chest as Chance bent nearer, his mouth mere inches away from hers.

The sound of the door opening broke the spell between them. “Ah, here you are, my dear baroness,” exclaimed Constance as she bustled into the room. Catching sight of Chance, who had swiftly swung away from Fancy, she faltered and said in a far less pleased voice, “Oh. Chance. I did not realize that there was anyone else here. I thought you had left with Hugh for Fairview.”

Chance shrugged. “No. I decided to stay for the night.”
He glanced obliquely in Fancy’s direction. “I have some unfinished business to take care of before I follow Hugh to Devil’s Own.”

Constance wrinkled her nose. “I still think that is the oddest name to call one’s own home. One would have thought that you could have chosen something far more appropriate.”

“But it
is
appropriate, do you not think so?” Chance asked, a sardonic gleam in his eyes. “Did you not used to refer to me when I was younger as the devil’s spawn?”

Constance took in a deep, calming breath. “I may have,” she said stiffly. She forced a laugh. “Heaven knows that you were certainly a handful. I do not know why Sam and Letty put up with your presence as they did.”

“As you very well know, my dear Constance, we put up with his presence,” said Letty from the doorway, “because we enjoyed his antics and have a great fondness for him.”

An openly affectionate smile on her face, Letty walked farther into the room, the skirt and petticoat of her elegant pale blue silken gown swaying gently as she moved. Approaching Chance, she put out her hand. In a surprisingly courtly gesture, Chance bowed, a far more sincere bow than he had given
her
, Fancy thought wryly, and gallantly brought Letty’s hand to his lips. Pressing a kiss to the back of it, he said quietly, “Ever my champion, are you not, Cousin Letty?”

Letty patted his lean cheek affectionately. “And why not? You are not half as wicked or dangerous as you would lead one to believe.”

Chance laughed. “Madame, I beg you not to destroy my reputation. I have worked very hard at it.”

“Too hard, I think, sometimes,” said Sam as he joined his wife, his own affection for Chance apparent in the fond smile he sent his way. He was garbed as fashionably as Chance, his coat of mulberry cloth and gray embroidered waistcoat fitting him superbly. Like Chance, he also wore his dark hair unpowdered and clubbed neatly into a black silk bag, the broad silver streaks at his temples increasing
his aristocratic air. After greeting everyone, Sam smiled at Fancy and said, “I trust that you have found your rooms and everything to your satisfaction, Lady Merrivale. ’Tis our urgent desire that you and your sister be comfortable and enjoy your visit—
especially
so after your unfortunate introduction to the Thackers.”

Constance gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, those terrible men. I do not know why someone has not
done
something about them before now. Why, I swear, sometimes I am afraid even to shut my eyes in my very own bed for fear one of those wicked creatures will suddenly appear here at Walker Ridge.”

Fancy’s eyes widened. “Is that possible?” she asked, glancing around uneasily.

“Of course not,” Letty replied firmly. She sent her much younger mother-in-law a stern look. “And Constance is very well aware of that.” Turning back to Fancy, she said kindly, “You have nothing to fear while staying here, my dear. Walker Ridge may be remote and we may be surrounded by wilderness, but there are a great many people on our plantation and we are very civilized here. I do not believe that the Thackers would ever be so foolish as to show their faces in our vicinity. Those sorts of cowardly creatures only prey on the weak and defenseless, something
we
are not.”

The conversation turned to more general topics, and by the time Ellen, and then Jonathan, joined them, the subject of the Thackers had been left behind. Just before the group adjourned to the dining room, they were joined by another person, an older woman, with worn features and a timid air. Wearing a gray silk gown, long out of fashion, her mousy hair arranged in a haphazard pompadour, she was extremely deferential to Constance. When Jonathan casually introduced her as Anne Clemmons, Constance’s old governesscum-companion, Fancy was not surprised; she looked exactly as one would expect a governess to look.

“My mother is very fond of her,” Jonathan said in a dismissing tone as he escorted Fancy down the wide passage. “She is actually retired and has a little house here on the
plantation, but Mother likes her about, and sometimes she stays here in the main house to be near Mother. Anne has always adored her.”

The dining room was long and large, the furnishings of the finest quality and beautifully arranged. The meal, which was served by black servants in dark blue jackets and breeches, was as delicious as any Fancy could ever remember eating, from the terrapin soup, to the haunch of roast beef and loin of veal, to the vast array of vegetables in various sauces. The final course consisted of delicate Shrewsbury cakes and dishes of preserved gooseberries and white heart cherries.

Despite the stiff civility between Jonathan and Chance, their dislike of each other barely contained, the entire meal had been most pleasant, Fancy thought as she pushed away her empty dessert plate. Ellen, looking thoroughly charming in her rich blue gown and cream satin petticoat, had disguised whatever disappointment she might have felt at the news that Hugh was no longer at Walker Ridge and had been her usual sweet self, conversing easily with the others at the table. It would have been one of the most enjoyable evenings Fancy had spent in many a month, had it not been for the fact that Chance had been sitting on the other side of the table, sardonically watching Jonathan hover at her side.

To give Jonathan his due, he had not neglected Ellen, seated to his left, but as the meal progressed, no one was left in any doubt that he was thoroughly fascinated by Fancy. He hung on her every word; offered her the choicest morsels; and smiled indulgently at her vivacious comments. That Ellen had met his few sallies in her direction with mere politeness didn’t help matters, and Fancy could have stamped her foot in vexation at the entire situation. From the speculative looks and arch manner of Jonathan’s family, it was obvious that they believed
she
was the lady he was courting, and Jonathan’s actions around her only emphasized that misconception. Clearly he had not told his family that it was Ellen who was to be his bride, and she wondered again precisely what he was up to.

She frowned. If Ellen had still been in love with Jonathan, his actions would have wounded her deeply. Fancy wondered precisely what game he was playing. In England he had never acted thus. In England she had been positive that he was a fine, honorable gentleman, and it had been clear that his interest was held solely by Ellen, but ever since they had reached the Colonies . . . Fancy bit her lip. Try though she might, she no longer thought as highly of Jonathan as she once had, and she had begun to question her opinion of him. Had she totally misjudged him? Not only his character, but his intentions? Or, like Ellen, had he suffered a change of heart? Her spirits sank. She hoped that his actions toward her were only those of an overly solicitous host. It simply would not
do
if his affections had alighted upon
her.