A Heart for the Taking (18 page)

Fancy’s frame of mind wasn’t helped by Chance’s unsettling presence across the table from her. He sat between Constance and Anne and, beyond the merest pleasantries, paid little attention to his companions—which was just as well, as poor Anne stared at him as if she fully expected him to turn into a monster. As well she might, Fancy thought uncharitably. Occasionally Chance replied to something Sam or Letty, seated at either end of the long table, sent his way, but primarily his focus seemed to be on Fancy and Jonathan. To her dismay, whenever Fancy glanced in his direction, she found his coolly appraising gaze fixed upon her. She tried to ignore him, but even with her eyes lowered and fixed on her plate, his dark arresting features danced behind her lids.

It was with relief that she joined the ladies as they rose from the table and returned to the red salon for coffee. Fancy didn’t really want coffee—but anything that took her away from Chance’s unnerving perusal was welcome. Her respite was short-lived. The ladies had barely seated themselves and Letty had just begun to pour from a silver pot when the gentlemen joined them.

There was a brief flurry of movement as the men sought their various places in the room. Sam joined Letty on one of the settees and Jonathan placed himself strategically between Fancy and Ellen, leaving Chance to rest one long arm
on the black marble fireplace mantel and view the entire scene with a faintly cynical smile. Constance and Anne Clemmons shared another of the settees nearby.

Passing Fancy a cup of the strong dark brew, Letty said apologetically, “I am sorry that we don’t serve tea. Many of us are refusing to buy or drink tea since those horrid taxes were imposed by Parliament.” She looked a bit embarrassed. “Did you hear in London what happened in the Port of Boston this past December? I cannot say that I actually condone what was done, but I must confess to a certain amount of sympathy for the action.”

“Are you talking about the incident where some of the colonists disguised themselves as Indians and boarded ships in the harbor and threw over the entire shipment of tea and goods?” Fancy asked with interest. In London there had been a good deal of outrage about what had happened, and she was aware of the growing estrangement between the Colonies and the mother country.

Sam nodded and said dryly, “They are calling it the Boston Tea Party, but it does not sound like any party
I
would like to attend. And your Lord North has not helped matters by closing the port. Tempers are very high. There are even rumbles of rebellion.”

“Do you disagree with the notion of most colonists that only
we
can impose taxes upon ourselves?” Chance inquired quietly, his expression intent and serious as he stared at Sam.

“What utter nonsense,” Jonathan interposed impatiently. “We are Englishmen, England is our mother country—of course she can tax us.”

“Odd,” Chance murmured, “but I consider myself a Virginian first . . . and an Englishman second.”

“And I suppose you belong to that . . . oh, what the devil is it that those rabble-rousers are calling themselves?” Jonathan demanded with a sneer on his handsome face. “Ah, I have it—the Sons of Liberty. I suppose you are a member of that seditious group.”

Gently Sam said, “It does not matter, Jonathan, whether he is or not. You have been away in England this past year
and much has happened, and not just in Boston. Even here in Virginia there is friction with the officials of the Crown. In May, Governor Dunmore dissolved our House of Burgesses simply because we voted for a day of prayer and fasting on the first of June, the date set for the closing of Boston Harbor. There are many, honest businessmen and planters and troublemakers alike, who are chafing at English rule and feel that Lord North has gone too far.”

“You?” Jonathan asked, incredulity on his face.

Sam shrugged but contented himself with saying merely, “Perhaps. But what you have to be aware of is that the Colonies are divided—feelings are running strong and hard. The possibility of a break with England is very real.”

“Good God! I do not believe what I am hearing,” exclaimed Jonathan. “Are you serious? You would support rebellion?”

“He did not say that,” Chance interrupted smoothly. “He merely warned you that there is a growing faction, and not made up simply of malcontents and hotheaded miscreants, that is committed to independence from England.”

“Oh, pooh,” Constance said irritably. “I refuse to listen to any more of this nonsense. The Colonies are English and they will always be so. This latest unpleasantness is just some little family squabble that will be ended in a few months, and everything will go on as before. All Boston has to do is pay for the tea and make obeisance, something even Benjamin Franklin has advised them to do.” She smiled at Fancy. “Do not pay any heed to them, my dear, this is just a fuss about nothing.” She shot Chance an unfriendly glance. “To listen to
some
people, you would think that you were sitting on a hotbed of rebellion, and nothing could be further from the truth.”

Fancy had found the discussion invigorating, and she was sorry when the gentlemen, recalled to their surroundings, changed the subject and began to talk of more mundane matters. The remainder of the evening progressed uneventfully, and Fancy was thankful when it ended.

She and Ellen were both very weary from their long trek
and were grateful when Letty, a kind light in her eyes, said firmly, “I think that is quite enough, Constance. Our guests have had a long, distressful journey and I suspect are longing for their beds. You can continue your interrogation of Lady Merrivale tomorrow when she is more rested and far more capable of dealing with you.”

Barely concealing the huge yawn that threatened to escape her, Fancy smiled at her hostess and murmured, “I
am
very tired.” Sending a polite glance over to Constance, who appeared vastly annoyed by Letty’s blunt words, she said, “And I shall enjoy talking to you in the morning about the latest London fashions.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged with the group, and in a very few minutes Fancy and Ellen were slowly walking up the stairs toward their rooms. Noting that Ellen seemed in good spirits despite Hugh’s absence, Fancy couldn’t help asking, “Were you very disappointed that Hugh was not here this evening?”

Ellen nodded. “At first very much so, but then I was able to have a private word with Chance just before we went into the dining room, and he mentioned that Hugh would be returning sometime in the morning with his father. Apparently their plantation, Fairview, adjoins Walker Ridge and is just over ten miles from here.”

Fancy digested this information, wondering, with a little spurt of temper, why Chance always seemed to be kind to Ellen, whereas with her . . . It didn’t matter, she told herself grimly. He would be gone before long, and she would never have to lay eyes on his mocking face again. For some reason that thought did not give her as much pleasure as it should have, and she frowned. What was the matter with her? Wasn’t he the most provoking, infuriating man she had ever met? The vivid memory of his kiss and the emotions it had aroused unexpectedly floated through her mind. Fancy was conscious of a thrill, but it was a curious thrill, one made up of equal parts excitement and fear.

“Er, did Chance happen to mention how long he would be
staying at Walker Ridge?” Fancy suddenly asked with a hint of constraint in her voice, her cheeks burning.

Caught up in her own thoughts of Hugh, Ellen noticed neither the faint color that pinkened Fancy’s cheeks nor her sister’s tone. As they reached the doors to their rooms, she said carelessly, “Hmm, he did say something about having some unfinished business here—but he did not actually say how long he thought it would take him. I suspect he will be gone in a day or two.” A yawn suddenly took Ellen. Laughing slightly, she said, “I am so glad that Mrs. Walker ended the evening. I was terrified that Jonathan’s mother was going to ask me something and I would answer her with a loud snore.”

The sisters took their leave of each other, and Ellen disappeared into her suite. Ora was waiting when she entered the dressing room, and Fancy was grateful for her ministrations as the black woman helped her from her gown and undergarments and carefully put everything away. Dismissing Ora for the evening with a smile, Fancy brushed her long dark brown hair and then, wearing a demure night rail of finest cambric, sought out the big featherbed.

Under any circumstances the bed would have been sheer bliss, but after the days she had just spent sleeping on the ground, it was a great deal more. Snuggling her cheek against the lavender-scented, linen-cased pillow, Fancy sighed deeply. Oh, my. Perhaps she would sleep here for a week—at least. And not once, she vowed fiercely as sleep overtook her, would she dream of that blue-eyed devil Chance Walker.

F
ancy may have slumbered deeply, but sleep did not come easily to Chance that night. Awake and restless, he prowled the large, handsomely furnished bedchamber that had been set aside years ago for his exclusive use during his visits to Walker Ridge. He kept a few personal belongings here, primarily a change or two of clothing, which had enabled him to dress as he had this evening, and one or two other odds and ends. Not that he stayed often these days, he thought with a twist of his lips. And when the sad time came that Walker Ridge fell into Jonathan’s greedy hands, well, he damn sure wouldn’t be staying here at all.

One end of the room was the sleeping area, with a huge four-poster bed in fine mahogany and swathed in burgundy silk hangings. The opposite end of the room had been arranged into a sitting area, with sturdily constructed chairs and a few marble-topped tables strategically placed nearby, a painted canvas rug in shades of gray and ebony upon the floor. Along one wall sat a massive oak sideboard that held an array of glasses and snifters and crystal decanters filled with various potent spirits. After helping himself to a snifter of brandy, Chance sprawled comfortably in an overstuffed chair of oxblood leather, his head resting on the high back,
his long legs stretched in front of him. His unruly hair had been freed from the black silk bag and waved at his temples and along his jaw as he relaxed in the chair. Earlier he had tossed off the cravat, jacket, and waistcoat, leaving his white linen shirt half undone. He looked very much at ease. Sipping the brandy, he stared blankly at the floor, the events of the evening turning slowly in his mind.

He would have liked to convince himself that this evening had been no different from scores of other evenings he had spent at Walker Ridge, but he knew he would be lying to himself. Fancy’s presence, and her presence alone, had made it distinctly memorable. Recalling the swift stab of pleasure that had knifed through him when he had turned and seen her in the soft, fading sunlight of the red salon, he grimaced. She had been utterly lovely as she had stood there in her silken gown, her thickly lashed topaz eyes wide and uncertain, the end of that one long, dark curl resting so provocatively just above her small, tempting bosom. His heart had seemed to stop at the first sight of her, and as he’d stared, he’d known a mad impulse to stride across the room, to brush aside that strand of hair, and to press his eager mouth to the soft flesh where it had lain.

He scowled. Damned silly romantic notion. And if there was one thing he was not, it was
romantic
, especially not after Jenny. No, Jenny had taught him in the cruelest possibly way that women did not want romantic fools. What they wanted were black-hearted scoundrels like Jonathan. Chance took another, larger sip of his brandy, his dark thoughts following a too-well-traveled path as he dwelled upon Jonathan’s perfidies.

The enmity between Chance and Jonathan that had brought about Jenny’s death was of long standing, so much so, in fact, that Chance could not remember a time when he had not viewed the heir to Walker Ridge as his enemy. He had been just four years old or so the first time he had come with his adoptive parents to visit at Walker Ridge, and right from the beginning, Jonathan, not quite six at the time, had been blatantly hostile.

Andrew and his wife had actually come to see Morely, but the overseer’s house where Morely had been living in those days was very small. Sam and Letty, just returned from their prolonged stay in England a few weeks previously, had graciously encouraged Andrew and Martha to stay with them at the big house during their visit. They were, after all, family.

It had been assumed that Chance and Jonathan, so near each other in age, would become friends and enjoy playing together. Such had not been the case—and whether Jonathan, used to being the focal point and darling of the entire household, had merely been spoiled and had not appreciated the fact that he was now forced to share the attention of the adults with another child, or whether it had simply been a case of instinctive dislike, Chance was never certain. Not that it mattered. But from the moment they had first met, they had been at each other’s throats, bloodying each other’s noses often in childhood and then, as they had grown up, moving onto more dangerous ways of competing against each other.