Authors: Shirl Henke
It was obvious that Joshua would take delight in besting her by becoming a reasonably proper English gentleman. The earl could hardly wait to observe their war of wills. Congratulating himself, he strolled into the front parlor where the worst gossip in London, the Dowager Countess of Wiltshire, awaited him. When their conversation was complete, Miss Edgewater would work for him...or she'd work for no one in the whole of England.
* * * *
Sabrina had not one single client left. And she knew who was responsible. Dare she confront the earl in his own home? Sabrina was growing desperate. If only Edmund could manage to pay her back some of the money she'd lent him, she might be able to hold on until the earl's interest in her waned. But her cousin seemed constitutionally incapable of saving halfpence.
She sighed. The earl would only refuse to see her, or worse yet, grant her an interview and then smile benignly while protesting his innocence regarding her predicament. Her only recourse lay with the viscount. He had an appalling opinion of her morals; and, even worse, he upset her equilibrium in strange ways no other man ever had—a matter she assured herself had to do with his exotic background, nothing else. He was a...curiosity, an uncouth, utterly unsophisticated ruffian.
If the accounts she'd read in the newspapers were to be believed, he had actually grown up in some small hamlet in western Texas...in a house of ill-repute! Small wonder he could not discern a lady by her demeanor and dress. He was probably accustomed to seeing his women unclothed! She could still remember those coolly amused green eyes sweeping over her disheveled appearance on the gangplank of the ship...that lascivious wink he'd given her in the jailhouse. And the kiss he'd given her in the garden...
That was what made her hesitate to approach him. For one brief instant—well, perhaps more than just an instant, she was forced by her conscience to confess—she had allowed him to take utterly shocking liberties during that kiss. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in the large chintz-covered chair in her sitting room, imagining that moment when he'd held her and pressed those sculpted lips to her own. They were warm and mobile...and open! He'd actually dared to touch his tongue to hers. Sabrina could scarcely credit that she had even met him partway, allowing it.
Enjoying it,
an insidious voice taunted.
What she should have done was bitten it off!
He'd pressed her body tightly to his, enfolding her in powerful arms, cradling her head with his hand. Her breasts had been flattened against his stone-hard chest. Even now, that peculiar ache filled them, the nipples puckering into tiny hard points. She fought the urge to touch herself there, to examine what a mere memory could do. But, of course, she did nothing of the sort. Horrified, she practically sprang from the chair, small hands fisted into tight little balls as she began pacing back and forth over the well-worn carpet.
Perhaps the good ladies of London were well advised to remove their daughters from her charge. Was she morally perverse? An unwholesome influence on young minds? No! She'd devoted her life to teaching upright Christian behavior as well as social graces to her pupils. This whole difficulty was the fault of one man...one dangerous, black-haired, green-eyed devil with a rogue's grin and a seducer's husky, melodic voice.
“Get past this, Sabrina. Take charge of your life. You've done it before when you were far younger and in more dire straits,” she scolded herself. She strode into her bedroom to change clothes. Mrs. Collingwood went shopping at the arcade off Piccadilly the first Wednesday of every month. That was today, and the wealthy shipping magnate's wife had agreed to meet her for tea at a fashionable restaurant that afternoon to discuss deportment lessons for her daughter Martha.
“Just one new client,” she repeated like a prayer as she dressed in her last good suit, a light-yellow linen with a frilly white blouse. The yellow straw flowers she'd sewn on the brim of her only remaining hat should match her outfit perfectly. “You can win over Mrs. Collingwood,” she said sternly to her image in the mirror, giving her appearance one last inspection before setting out.
She arrived nearly an hour early, determined to take no chance that traffic might cause her to keep Mrs. Collingwood waiting. Besides, Edmund's birthday was next week and she needed to buy him a present. Thank goodness her family had sent a small amount to supplement her own meager contribution for the gift. As the youngest in the family, and an orphan, he'd always been everyone's favorite.
Sabrina browsed through the shops lining the arcade, searching for some item he could use. She was comparing handkerchiefs and trying to decide if her family's combined money was enough to have a pair of them monogrammed when a hatefully familiar voice sent a shiver racing down her spine.
“Buying your sweetheart a love token?’’ Josh asked, oddly peeved that she might indeed have a gentleman friend. He'd judged her to be near his own age, perhaps a few years younger,, rather over the hill as far as English females in the marriage market were concerned.
Sabrina jerked around, holding a handkerchief in one hand while the other dropped to the counter for support. He looked utterly splendid, dressed in a conservatively cut suit of fine lightweight wool and a snowy white shirt. The paisley ascot at his throat picked up the dark-green color of his eyes, which were studying her with indelicate interest.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of craning her neck up to meet his gaze. Besides, it was safer not to be drawn into those laughing eyes. Already she could feel her pulse pick up speed like a locomotive on a downhill grade. “Whether or not I have a fiancé or am purchasing anything for him is certainly no business of yours,” she snapped. “Please be so kind as to move along and leave me alone.”
“Aw, I was hoping to get a lady's opinion on what monogram to put on my hankies,” he said, giving her a blinding smile as he leaned one elbow on the counter directly in front of her. “I always went with JC back in Texas. Had a kinda nice ring to it, you know?”
She started. “Only you would have the audacity to compare yourself to the Deity!” The instant she blurted out the blasphemy, Sabrina froze with shock. How could she ever have thought such a thing? Why had this man made her say it? He provoked her beyond all reason.
Josh laughed, shaking his head. “Now, ma'am, I never would've thought of that,” he protested. “I'm right surprised you did. No, you see, I was sorta thinking along the lines of using my full handle, er, name, since I found out I was called after my uncle. I have a whole mouthful of initials—Joshua Abington Charles Cantrell. What would you think of JACC?”
“Only that it's a pity you don't spell your last name with a K instead of a C. You could make a splendid acronym if you added an ASS on the end of it. It would suit you perfectly.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Girl, you are a caution. But I've been called worse things.”
“And I'm quite certain you deserved every one.”
Before he could reply, a small clock on the central counter chimed softly and Sabrina looked over at it. It was a quarter to the hour, and she would be late if she did not leave at once. How could she have been so foolish as to stand trading insults with this oaf? But the viscount did not appear to want her to leave in spite of her insults.
“The edgy Miss Edgewater. You have more prickles than a spiny cactus, but, you know, it's the funniest thing about those plants. They can thrive without any help under the worst conditions. No one, not even tough Texas longhorns, tries to mess with them...and every spring they have the prettiest blooms.” He reached up and touched the cluster of yellow flowers on her hat. “Just about that color.”
Somehow his hand trailed from the straw bonnet perched on her head down to her cheek, where one long finger traced a soft pattern on her skin. “Like velvet,” he breathed as his eyes met hers.
For a moment she could not move. She stood transfixed as their gazes locked. Were they both remembering that kiss? Sabrina was. This was insane. She turned her head and backed away. “I am late for a business appointment,” she said breathlessly and darted past him like the craven coward she knew she must be. Hating herself for running, Sabrina did it anyway rather than let him touch her again. Besides, she did have to meet Mrs. Collingwood.
So intent was she on her headlong rush away from Josh Cantrell that she did not hear the distressed call of the clerk. “Miss, miss! The handkerchief! I shall summon a constable!”
Sabrina was halfway down the long concourse, her heels clicking on the hard floor as she walked as fast as her five-foot-two-inch frame could carry her. That was when she heard the shrill of a police whistle and an officer suddenly appeared in her path. She tried to step around him, believing he was pursuing someone behind her and she was impeding his progress, but he startled her by seizing hold of her arm.
“This the gel, Mr. Darby?” he asked the huffing clerk, who was pointing directly at her.
Well-dressed shoppers strolling through the large arcade stopped to stare at the altercation, women murmuring behind their gloved hands and children snickering until shushed by their mothers.
Sabrina looked from the burly policeman with an enormous handlebar mustache to the clerk who had been waiting on her. The handkerchief! She was still clutching it in her hand. She'd been so intent on escaping from that odious Texan that she quite forgot to place it back on the counter. “Oh, dear, there's been a terrible misunderstanding. I will certainly pay—”
“Oh, you'll pay right enough, missy. Off you go,” the officer said, nodding to Darby, who snatched the handkerchief from her as if it were the Golden Fleece and she a slavering Gorgon.
“But, please, you must believe me, this was an honest mistake,” she pleaded. Just then she saw Mrs. Collingwood approaching. Sabrina watched with a leaden heart as the lady's expression turned from puzzlement to incredulous indignation. Oh, to be invisible! The woman actually held her skirt out as she walked past, as if wishing to avoid contamination. There went Sabrina's last hope for employment. And it was all the fault of the swaggering, grinning lout who strolled up and placed his hand on the officer's massive shoulder in male camaraderie.
“Maybe I can help out with this fracas.” He eyed Sabrina with ill-concealed amusement, watching her expression change from blind panic to seething fury.
“Oh, and who 'er you?” the man asked suspiciously. He was not actually a police officer but a guard hired by the arcade to catch anyone pinching small items from the shops.
“Well now, in a few days, depending on when the House of Lords gets around to it, I'll be Viscount Wesley.”
The guard studied the tall man with the peculiar accent, taking note of his expensive clothes; but before he could do more than twitch his mustache, Mr. Darby interjected, “Oh, this is the Earl of Hambleton's heir. But I do not know this young woman.” He eyed Sabrina as if she were a leper.
“Well, I do.” Josh grinned. “You see, she works for my uncle and me.” He let the words sink in, nodding to Sabrina. “Isn't that right, Miss Edgewater?”
Her eyes turned the color of a storm-tossed Atlantic. She itched to deny it. Almost shouted the truth to the high clerestory windows in the vaulted ceiling of the arcade. But she forced herself to return his nod woodenly. She'd go straight to perdition before giving him the satisfaction of uttering a word.
“I'll be right happy to pay for the doodad, and your trouble,” Josh ventured as she jerked her arm angrily from the guard's meaty fingers. Josh wondered whom she'd punch first—him or the guard! As he fished several coins from his pocket, he was grateful that some color had returned to her face. She'd looked white as a ghost and ready to faint a moment ago, something he intuited Miss Sabrina Edgewater never did.
Anger burned through her as she watched the arrogant rotter hand Darby far more money than the miserable handkerchief was worth. “The cost of that handkerchief—”
“Now, now, Miss Edgewater, let's not get all fired up over the little old mistake you made.”
Rich men. They were all alike, thinking they could buy anything they wished, caring nothing for the dignity of those beneath them. She held herself in check as the clerk and the guard bowed and scraped to the viscount as if he indeed lived up to his initials.
As curious passersby began to drift away, the two of them were left standing alone in the center of the arcade. “You know you gave that man over twice what that article was worth. I shall repay you only for its true value,” she said, then added stiffly, “but I do thank you for coming to my assistance.”