Duel of Hearts (7 page)

H
aving spent a sleepless night tortured by her fears for her father and nightmares of Lord Lyndon, Leah rose early and invaded her father's chamber. To her relief, he looked much better, his color having improved greatly, and he was his usual irascible self. As she entered the room, she heard him muttering to his valet, “Damned Frenchie doctor.”

“I collect you were wishful of your morning coffee,” she greeted him as she took a tray from the retreating footman. “Well, Dr. Fournier says 'tis not a restful drink, and therefore—”

“I say hang Fournier—aye, and his prohibitions also,” he grumbled. “Afore long, there'll not be a thing left to enjoy. A man might as well die and take his chances with perdition.”

Having listened to the doctor's opinion last night that her father did indeed have a weak heart, she forbore to argue for fear of oversetting him. “Humor him and see to his rest,” he'd advised. So she held her tongue and set the tray on a bedside table, saying brightly, “You have not even looked to see what Monsieur prepared this morning, have you?”

“Don't have to—ten to one, it ain't fit for a man.” He raised his head to watch her lift the warming cover, then lay back. “Porridge! Ought to have known—pap fit only for a babe, I tell you! Well, I won't have it, miss, and so I have told Wilson already! ‘If 'tis some damned horse mash,' I told him, ‘I don't want it.' ” He eyed her with disfavor and shook his head. “And now here you bring it back to me.”

Unperturbed, she reached for the napkin and tucked it under his chin. “It will not make you as bilious as sausages will,” she observed mildly as she dipped the silver spoon into the bowl. Leaning over him, she held the spoon in front of him and waited.

“Overreaching yourself, ain't you, missy!” he snapped. “I ain't a babe to be fed.”

“Of course you are not,” she said soothingly, “but you must eat if you are to feel better. Hunger makes you ill-tempered, you know, and you must not overset yourself.” She held the spoon steadily. “If 'twere I who was sick, you'd do the same for me.”

“I ain't sick—'twas but indigestion. Damme if I'm going to let you feed me, Leah. You can take that mess back from whence it came.” He struggled to sit up higher on the pillows, barking at his valet, “I'll have my bath and my clothes now, I tell you. Ain't missed a day at the docks in twenty-five years, and I'll be hanged if I miss today—d'you hear me? And you, miss—d'you hear me also?”

“Very well, Papa.” Tears welled in her eyes as she rose from her perch on the edge of his bed. “You must forgive a daughter whose only wish is your health, for I know not how I shall go on when you are gone.” Slowly she replaced the cover over the bowl and started for the door with the tray. She had her hand on the doorknob before he called her back.

“Oh, very well!” he snapped. “Bring the nasty stuff back, puss, but for God's sake let me feed myself!” He could not see the expression of triumph before she paused, her back still toward him, to school her face into bland meekness. “I said I'd eat it!” he repeated, goaded. And when she returned, he picked up the spoon, ready to eat. “Aye, you think you are a sly one, don't you? Well, I ought to box your ears, but I daresay Lyndon'll have to do it for me.”

“Papa, about Lord Lyndon. I—”

“I ain't listening to it! My mind's settled, Leah, and that's all there is to the matter. I don't know what Fournier told you, but he's been pretty open with his budget to me, 'cause I asked 'im the first time I had a spell like last night. Got to give up all my pleasures, and I ain't so sure I want to live without 'em.”

“Papa—”

“Thing is,” he continued, ignoring her interruption, “I got two things I care about in this world—you and my business, Leah—and it looks to me like I can take care of 'em both with Lyndon. Man's got a good head for the business—oh, I know he lost his ship and cargo, but you can't blame typhoons on 'im, you know. He was in a fair way to making a profit afore it happened.” He looked up at her troubled frown and shook his head. “I know you think him an empty-headed fool like the rest of the pack that call themselves Quality, but I don't think so. Don't know what it is about him, but I like him.” His piece said, he dipped his spoon into the cooled porridge and took a bite, shuddering with distaste as he swallowed.

“But one wants a different sort of man for a business partner than for a husband,” she offered helplessly. “I don't—”

“You don't like him,” he finished for her. “Well, that ain't as important as you was to think. For one thing, you don't know him yet, and for another, it don't matter. Manage him. I ain't seen a female yet as couldn't get what she wanted from a man, if she went at it right. And I don't mean sniffling and sniveling and giving 'im the cold side of your shoulder, either.”

“Just what do you mean?”

Instead of answering, he took another spoonful of the porridge and gulped it down. “Ugh! Well, I wish your mother was alive now more than ever, puss, 'cause there's some things it ain't proper for me to tell you, and I got no one to do it for me. Thing is, you are a fine-looking female, Leah, and if you was to play your hand right, you'd have Lyndon in your pocket—don't look at me like that, dammit!”

“You want me to toadeat him—well, I won't,” she muttered.

“Not toadeat—damme, girl, but for a bluestocking, you ain't got good sense! What I am asking you to do when you are married is to . . .” He hesitated, floundering about for the words, and finally finished lamely, “ . . . well, be nice to him. You know, well . . . that is . . . Dash it, Leah! You've got to make him love you!”

“And just how am I to do that?” she asked with deceptive sweetness.

“How should I . . . Oh, the devil take it, Leah! You ain't a slowtop! Make him want what he's got at home, and he won't go out lookin' for something else.”

“If you think I am going to throw myself at Lord Lyndon's head, Papa, you are very wide of the mark. I find his behavior offensive.”

“Back to that insult business, eh? Well, he knows better now—besides, you are to be his wife. He'll give you your due—I am certain of it.” Before she could turn on him, he managed to get another congealed dollop of cereal into his mouth.

She bit back a sharp retort, reminding herself not to overset him. Instead, she merely sighed expressively and nodded. “Well, I hope you are right, Papa. 'Tis just . . . well, does it
have
to be Lord Lyndon? I mean, I think I should prefer even Rotherfield to him—and I do not even know the earl.”

Jeptha Cole choked and spit the cereal into a napkin. “Now
that
shows you ain't been out! No, take Lyndon and be done. Go on—out with you, and let's have no more of this nonsense.” As she leaned down to kiss him, he caught her hand, squeezing it. “Trust me, Leah—I am your papa. You run along and leave me be. It ain't seemly for me to get up with you here.” He waited while she leaned down to brush his forehead with a kiss, and then he caught her hand. “Trust me in this, Leah.”

Even as she emerged into the upper hall, she was surprised to hear Crome greeting someone below. Curious, she leaned over the railing to see Viscount Lyndon in the foyer, looking up at her.

“Good morning,” he called out.

“I thought fine lords did not rise so early,” she muttered.

“We tend to sleep late after dissipation, Miss Cole, but as I retired early last night, I am for a turn in the park this morning. I thought to stop by and inquire of your father—and to see if you might be persuaded to drive out with me.”

“Alas, I would not. As for my father, he is more than a trifle hagged, but his temper is strong, and that is a good sign, I think.”

“I do not suppose you would come down, that we might converse in a more normal tone of voice?” he coaxed.

She started to tell him she had nothing to say to him, but thought better of it. “All right, but you find me scarce ready for company, my lord.”

She didn't suddenly start patting her hair into place or smoothing her gown nervously, and Tony liked that instantly. It denoted an unconscious acceptance of her beauty and made her even more attractive when compared with the young misses of his acquaintance. Most of them would titter nervously and fret about their looks until a man couldn't converse decently with them. He watched and admired as she came down the wide steps, the hem of her sprigged-muslin day gown touching the polished wood softly. Her glorious hair had been brushed until it shone, and it hung down past her shoulders artlessly. In that moment he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a Cyprian.

“Very well,” she announced crisply as she stepped off the last stair, “I am here. What is it that you wished to discuss with me?”

“Is there someplace where we may be more private?”

She looked up at him suspiciously, trying to discern his motives, but his brilliant blue eyes were friendly and his smile disarming. Despite her prejudice against him, she found herself responding to that ready smile of his. “Yes,” she answered, “my father's library—the maids are cleaning the front saloon.”

She waited for him to follow her into the richly paneled room, tall bookcases lining its walls. As she left the door slightly ajar, he moved to examine the nearest shelves appreciatively. “Your father has all the classics,” he murmured in approval.

“Those are mine—as are all of them on this side of the room.” Noting his skeptical expression, she added, “When one does not go about much, one reads. Alas, but you have contracted yourself to a bluestocking, my lord.” Unbending slightly, she gestured to the opposite wall. “My father's are over there and make for dull reading. You would not credit it, but he has one entire shelf devoted to the construction of ships. Papa,” she added proudly, “has never been a sailor, but I'll warrant he knows every board in one of his vessels.”

“And I admire him for it,” he responded sincerely. “Miss Cole, you must not think that I look down on trade. I have owned a ship myself.”

“Yes, of course—the one that went down.”

“A deuced bad piece of luck, but I shall come about. It was not my only investment, despite what everyone thinks.”

“Of course you will come about—with my money,” she countered acidly. Moving to lift the rich drapery that darkened one of the tall windows, she looked outside. The sun was shining warmly and there was not a sign of a cloud in the sky. Spring flowers blossomed in profusion in plantings that ringed the house, bringing with them the promise of summer. Her thoughts immediately went to her father, and the lowering thought crept into her mind that he might not live to see her entry into the world he'd so desperately sought for her. She dropped the curtain as her spirits sank.

“I think my father is very ill,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to Lord Lyndon.

He came up behind her, and without thinking placed his hands on her shoulders. “I hope not. But if you would wish a consult, I can arrange—”

“No. Dr. Fournier understands Papa, and that is important. I doubt another physician would have the patience to deal with him, for Papa can be quite obstreperous when he wishes.” She drew away and turned to face Lyndon. “Your pardon—I am merely blue-deviled today.”

“Perhaps with good reason, my dear.”

Her eyes widened at the sympathy in his voice. Kindness was the last thing she'd expected of a man like Lyndon, but then he wished to share her father's fortune. Resolutely she steeled herself to remain aloof, to ignore his efforts to win her goodwill.

“Lord Lyndon, it is imperative that we understand each other—I am
not
your ‘dear,' as you chose to put it,” she told him firmly, striving to keep him at a distance.

“A manner of speech, merely, Miss Cole—but it does become tiresome calling you ‘Miss Cole' when we are betrothed.” He favored her with a rueful smile that threatened to disarm her. “Think how we shall be remarked when we go about in society together whilst persisting in such formality.”

“You are funning with me, my lord.”

“I assure you that I am not. I think that if we are to establish you amongst the
ton,
Miss Cole, we ought to pass this off as a love match.” This time he emphasized
“Miss Cole” so heavily that he made it sound ridiculous. “Unless, of course, you wish it to be said that I have been bought with your father's money.”

“But you
are
bought with my father's money,” she reminded him.

“But do you wish to hear everyone say it?”

“I do not care what they say!” she retorted.

“Miss Cole, I do not care if you fling epithets at me when we are private, but in public you will call me by my given name—'tis Anthony, but my intimates call me Tony.”

“I do not intend to be one of your intimates!”

“Not at all?” he asked with a faintly injured air. “A man has the right to expect certain things from his wife, you know.”

“You may expect Papa's money. If I were to be plain on that head, sir: if I could think of any way to decline your offer without oversetting Papa, I should do so on the instant. I do not particularly wish to be a titled lady. In fact,” she added dramatically, “I do not even wish to know you.”

“You are forgetting the matter of my succession, Miss Cole—you behold the last Lyndon Barsett.”

“That, sir, is no concern of mine.”

There was no point in arguing the matter now, Tony decided, for he was still reasonably certain that he could change her mind once they were wed. Instead, he tried another tack. “At least flirt with me when we are in company.”

“Ί should not know how.”

“I never met a female who wasn't born to it.”