Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

C hristmas morning, it had taken Sunshine ten minutes of hard convincing to persuade a footman from Willow Manor to drive her to the nearby township so she might purchase a ticket for home. In the end, Christmas cheer won over the footman as well as a good-natured hackney driver. A mere mile from the outskirts of London made the trip doable. It was the reason she had agreed to attend the holiday affair in the first place.

The drive wasn't a long one, and in retrospect, she should have requested the use of Mr. Arthur Wallace's town coach. It would have been more appropriate for a trip an hour from the city limits, and Mr. Wallace had been an attentive steward, for lack of a better word. Benefactor came to mind, but in this world, it meant something different than a kindly gentleman seeing to the affairs and livelihood of a poor widow.

After Joseph Wallace, Richard's best friend, engaged him in numerous capers, including the phaeton race that took her husband's life, Joseph Wallace's father took it upon himself as a matter of peace to provide for her future. It went without saying that the man was wealthy. Even five years after Richard's death, his friend, Joseph, could not look her in the eye. She knew he felt grief for the accident, but it was his father who felt the need to compensate her. As a poor painter's daughter who had married a good gentleman but not one of means, she had little hope of surviving the calamity without a handout. Of course, nothing could repair the loss, but knowing she would be fed and have a permanent roof over her head gave her the time she vitally needed to grieve wholeheartedly. Perhaps that's how she had fallen into a morbid five-year mourning period. It was times like these that she missed being married. Settled. Her future answered for.

The kind driver of the hack that brought her home refused to charge her for the trip and considered it his goodwill gift for the first day of Christmas. Admittedly, Sunshine was grateful since funds were not as lucrative as her special gown from the masquerade might have suggested. Her travel home was done in the spirit of her normal attire of brown bombazine.

She didn't look as if she needed a handout, but in truth, she did.

Mr. Oswald had been surprised to see her on Christmas day. She had a handful of servants, and when she noticed the dining table set for a dozen and several small tables set for more, she realized they had planned a nice dinner for their families. She didn't blame them and rather thought her presence would put a pall on the day.

"We'll set another chair," Mr. Oswald had told her.

Her servants were closer to her than anyone, proof that she no longer belonged at a masquerade where she was more of a commoner than a guest. To compound the situation, she'd left her little unplanned liaison on Christmas morning without a goodbye.

Shame settled into her bones when she realized that she and Richard had never woken together on a Christmas morning. She had disgraced his memory. Worse than that, the imprint of Phineas and sandalwood overrode her senses until she could not recall the scent of the man she'd married. Richard's memory would always be with her, but the little details were lost on the edge of survival. She'd courted the man for a year, been married six months, and after one night with a stranger, she'd all but forgotten her husband.

The ugly thought of what she'd done weighed on her conscience for three days.

Previously, she'd been trapped by the brown bombazine gowns and the grieving period she had visibly extended. She'd been virtually invisible from a teeming public for five years, and now she felt vulnerable and blinding like a winking eclipse. Anyone who gave her a fleeting look would surely know she'd done a wicked thing. The only consolation was that Phineas Blackmore would be returning to his ship. He'd sail away without a backward glance, and she'd buy a shovel to bury her shame.

Today, she buried it in a tangled web of her own making. A needlepoint pattern of a girl examining herself in a looking glass. She couldn't bring herself to fill in the face.

"Madam, there has been a man standing across the street all morning, staring at the front of the house. I thought him waiting for someone at first, but now I'm concerned. Do you know him?" her butler announced.

Sunshine stopped jabbing the innocent piece of muslin with a saber the size of a needle and considered the curtained window that graced the front of her townhouse. Heart thumping and her mind flipping through the possibilities, she slowly put her sewing aside, visibly paused, and then, without a look at Mr. Oswald, walked to the window on shaking limbs.

A foreboding beat hammered in her chest like a warning. She took a bodice-tightening breath and pulled aside the sheer curtain just enough to see across the street from her second-story drawing room. She exhaled, frosting the cold glass. She rubbed a little circle with the side of her fist and peered through.

A man wearing a greatcoat and a beaver hat stood unwavering on the walkway beyond the street. The clouds cleared a path of sunshine directly in front of him, a small compensation for the icy weather. He turned his face up to the house, but she couldn't see much else of him. The first thing she noted, however, was his hair. Or the lack of it. He didn't appear to have a queue, and no wayward locks peeking from under his hat were picked up by the breeze.

Her heart settled. It could not be Mr. Blackmore.

Disappointment collided with her initial unease, causing riotous chaos in the far reaches of her well-being.

She'd done this to herself. She had no one else to blame.

She silently cursed the sage on her shoulder and returned to her needlework. It was silly to think Phineas Blackmore would seek her out. She knew so little of the man that she couldn't have pointed out his normal posture, having only seen him crouched behind a plant, or seated in a carriage, or lying in bed. Good Lord.

"I can't place him, Mr. Oswald. If he doesn't find a hack or his home by noon, perhaps we should send a note around."

"To the man?"

"No. To Bow Street. I don't wish to spend money on the post if it's nothing." But her heart said it was something, and she wondered if the stranger had seen her in the window returning his stare.

Less than five minutes later, Mr. Oswald returned. "There is a Lord Davies requesting a moment of your time."

"The viscount?" she mumbled. Why would the viscount call on her? Unless Phineas knew the man and had bragged of his exploits. Men did that, didn't they? She squeezed her eyes closed. "Tell him I am not at home to callers." She half rose. "Wait. Is he the man from across the street?"

"It would seem so. Would you have me put him in the downstairs parlor?"

"No. He should know better than to call upon a woman he's never met. Especially in the middle of the day without notice. If it's important, let him leave a message."

She nearly left the room and walked to the top of the stairs, where she could see the foyer. Curiosity made a poor companion. She forced herself to pick up her embroidery, seating herself again in a highbacked chair covered in sandy chintz with a dark-violet floral design. The chairs had been a favorite of her mother's.

"Excuse me. My apologies," the butler interrupted her again. "But now he says his name is Mr. Blackmore. I told him you were not at home to callers."

Sunshine almost dropped her embroidery basket on the floor. "The viscount says he's Mr. Blackmore?"

"Yes, madam. The same man."

"You're sure?" Of course the butler was sure, but her heart, her rattling nerves, could no more wrap themselves around the idea than she could wrap her thread around the spool. "Tell him I'm not home, and you're not certain when I'll return." She tried to sound even and cool, but her voice quaked. Mr. Oswald threw her a baffled look but went to do her bidding without another word.

How could Phineas Blackmore be the viscount? If that were so, then he left his own party to spend the night with her. And he lied. That little vexing detail was not lost on her while she tried to make sense of it but could find no excuse for what he'd done.

For what she'd done.

How did he find her? True, her name was an anomaly, but that didn't mean she could be readily found. She was a virtual unknown, and he was supposed to be a blasted sea captain.

What on God's green earth gave him the notion to find her after he'd lied himself into a liaison? She started to fold the embroidered muslin, fought against the tangles for less than a second, and threw the lot on the chair. She tiptoed to the gallery and saw the living proof below.

"Tell your mistress that I am not leaving a message, nor am I leaving the house until she grants me an audience." As he said it, his gaze rode up the staircase and clashed with hers. The urge to pull back into the shadows overwhelmed her, but tenacity kept her feet planted. She wouldn't hide behind another potted fern.

" Mrs . Price," he called to her in a loud voice that brooked no argument. "How lovely of you to welcome me."

Her fingers curled over the railing, gripping as much to steady her as to keep her from responding in kind.

Mr. Oswald had the good grace not to follow Mr. Blackmore's—or Lord Davies's look. He stood at rigid attention with the same reply, "Let me show you out, Lord Davies."

The viscount gave her a challenging cock of one eyebrow, his beaver hat in hand. She noticed then that his hair had been trimmed to a handsome length that left a nice wave with a hint of curl at the ends. A detail she should not be noticing.

She heaved out a sigh, took the stairs, and requested Mr. Oswald bring refreshments as she, without another word, continued into the little parlor on the first floor. Lord Davies followed.

"You have no more reason to be angry with me than I with you," he said after crossing the threshold behind her.

She swung around. "Shut the door, Lord Davies . Or is that too far below your station?"

"Not fair." He reached for the doorknob and shut the jib door. It disappeared into the buttercream wall with a mahogany chair rail. The visual effect, usually pleasant, now made her feel a bit closed in without an escape route.

"What is not fair, is you tracking me to my home when it was apparent that being followed was not my wish."

"I guessed as much when I woke up to an empty bed," he retaliated in kind. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling before closing them. "I didn't come here angry, but I cannot express my displeasure enough that you left me without a word."

"Oh? Did that bruise your sensible ego?" She was overreacting to a situation that already had enough jarring chaos without being derailed by wasted words. But she couldn't seem to help them from falling out of her mouth.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it did. What kind of woman runs out?"

"A trollop?"

"Don't say that. Don't ever say that."

She crossed her arms, forcing him to stand because she refused to sit. Without the fire lit, she felt as if she were standing in an icehouse. But she didn't want to be cozy. Not with him. Not after he lied. She needed descension. "I'm too old to be chastised, thank you very much."

"No one is too old for correction."

"Oh, lovely, then let's have it, Lord Davies."

"You wish to know why I didn't tell you. This I understand."

"You don't."

"I do." He lifted his hat with a tiny jiggle, raising his eyebrows in a question. She motioned to a side table by the door. He set the hat down and proceeded to talk with his hands, first pressing them both to his chest. "In my defense, I had a difficult time believing that your name was Sunshine, so I didn't see the need to give you mine. Not completely. In fact, I was happy that you didn't recognize me. You can't know what a drain it's been."

"The poor viscount has too many women to play with?"

"With such clipped responses, I'm beginning to see how much I do not know you."

She gripped her arms more snuggly in place, slanting her mouth.

"I came here to rectify that. Honestly, the fact that I'm not running out the door now should be proof enough of my sincerity."

"Perfect. You're a diplomat."

"Sunshine."

"Mrs. Price."

"And that is another thing." His temper was barely hidden, and she dared to find out just how deep it went. For that, she stood still without a word and coaxed him with a lift of her eyebrow. "Why didn't you tell me you were married?"

"Because I am not. Not anymore." Her heart tricked her voice into a mumble. She took a breath. "Besides, it wasn't any of your business or concern."

"You speak so well for me. All these years, I didn't know I needed an interpreter."

"Then we've all learned something new today."

"You are something, aren't you?" His gaze skated over her with a pattern of confusion lining his brow.

She felt her nostrils flare as she clenched her teeth. A barely audible tap caused them both to look in the direction of the jib door. Before she could propel herself forward—and in truth, she didn't wish to cross his path—Lord Davies pulled open the door. Poor Mr. Oswald was on the other side, barely balancing a too-large silver tray with rattling china and a hot tea urn.

"Allow me," Davies said.

Her butler gave him a haughty look that said everything about his loyalty to Sunshine. The viscount took a step back with a conceding bow. Mr. Oswald arranged the spread, poured her a cup, and ignored Lord Davies.

"It's just as well," the viscount said. "I prefer clotted cream." He directed it toward the butler, but his glare was for her.

"Generally, speaking," the butler intoned, "we are better prepared." He flipped a cloth over his forearm. "That is, when guests are invited, sir." The sixty-year-old butler produced a retort that a younger man would not have tried. Her servants were clearly a part of her life.

Sunshine thought she saw the wisp of a smile in the viscount's eyes. "My apologies. I stand corrected."

"Which I am told is appropriate at any age," she said. That was the moment that broke the proverbial ice.

* * *

Phineas thought her a rare jewel, even with his temper peaked, or perhaps because of it. The women his aunts had invited to the masquerade had been colorless, fragile, and at the same time, overeager.

They were girls. Sunshine was a woman who knew her mind. She was also a woman still grieving if her clothes were any indication. He pointed to the open door. "Do you mind?"

She shook her head, dropping her arms to her sides. The room at large opened a fraction, and Phineas took the lead in conversation.

"Your butler is devoted to you."

"My relationship with my servants is a little unconventional."

"I like it."

She opened her mouth and closed it. Her brow bent into a charming vee between her eyes.

"Would you mind if we sit?"

"You may sit if you like." Her demeanor was abrupt, withdrawn, on the edge of dismissive.

He couldn't sit, of course. Not without her, so he walked to the window and absently pulled the sheer curtain aside with a pinky. "I saw you upstairs. I assume you were checking on me?"

"I didn't know it was you. I suppose that is the theme of the day." She rounded the settee, set her cup down, and took a seat in one of the wingback chairs. It was a pretty room, pleasantly decorated in muted tones of sky and sand and with a clever jib door to disappear behind. Sunshine looked out of place, somber in a room that should have been lit up with her smile.

He refused to be bated again. "Christmas morning, how did you manage the trip? I found a servant who said you asked for transportation to Town where you could purchase a ticket home. I would have gladly given you a carriage if you'd asked."

"I didn't want to wake you."

"You didn't want to see me, is more like it."

She licked her lips, rubbing a thumb over her cuticles. "I didn't know what you'd think of me in the morning when I wasn't certain what I thought of myself."

"Understandable, but not a good reason to leave. I can't imagine it was easy to find a fare on Christmas day. It must have cost a fortune."

"It cost me nothing. A cab was returning and offered me free fare as a first day of Christmas gift. I was surprised." She looked away, almost embarrassed or ashamed.

"Do you see how people respond to such a kind face? Because that's who you are, Sunshine. A kind person." He thought she needed to hear it.

"Is that what you thought? A kind face?" She went from shy to vexed in a heartbeat, and he didn't understand. He didn't understand her, but he wanted to.

"That and a few other things crossed my mind."

"And your view?"

He scratched the side of his nose and took a seat on the settee opposite her. He still wore his greatcoat, but he managed to get semi-comfortable despite it. "I am guilty of noticing an attractive woman who happened to be made for me. So, yes. I enjoyed the view because even then, subconsciously, I knew you were something special—more than a remarkable specimen of a woman."

"A kind-faced woman."

He tilted his head and sat back. "I will concede that our meeting was unconventional."

"And based purely on attraction." The statement sounded like a question disguised as contempt.

"Decidedly."

"Your answers do not make your case any better. And I am not just a kind face. I am a foolish woman. A foolish, lonely woman." Her underlying emotions trickled out, one sentence at a time.

"If you suggest that I took advantage of a widow, our first argument will not end well." He kept his voice level, curious where she might take the conversation next.

"Such a threat for someone who came to apologize." And there went her arms again, folded across her chest. A view he had enjoyed in the coach that night. Currently, it did her no favors in the high-collared dress she wore. It didn't do him any favors, either.

"I…" He scratched his cheek, closing his eyes against the words he wanted to say. Words such as: He wasn't sorry for their night together. He wasn't sorry for anything.

He sat forward, slicing the air between them with the side of his hand. "Sunshine, what I need from you is more than a sentence or two. I need to talk with you. To know you, for lack of a more florid explanation. Is it possible we can speak honestly?"

"It is safe to say that most things are possible when the question is put to."

"You are exhausting me."

She blinked with nonchalance. "It's but a small townhome. I'm sure the door is in the same place as when you arrived."

He held silent. Like a vigil, he crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. The level, patient tone evaporated from his lungs.

She sucked in a steady breath, held it, and extended the exhale with a long sigh. She absently massaged her kerchief-draped collarbone while she deliberated. "Clearly, it was a mistake." She blurted the words as if they were forced out.

And there it was. Her truth. He nodded in a way that was not agreeable while grinding his teeth in a sawing motion.

"Oh, you want more."

"It would be nice."

She might appear brave, angry, confident, but she was on the verge of tears. He could see that much. "That woman was not me. I don't know what else to say, except I do not behave that way. Normally." She spit out the last bit like an afterthought. "Can you not understand I was not thinking clearly? I lost my husband."

"How long ago?" he asked carefully.

"What does it matter?"

"Because I don't wish to be crass, or unkind, or unsympathetic with your situation if, in fact, it happened recently. But I have the feeling it was a measure more than a year."

"And I shouldn't be grieving anymore? Is that it?"

"You are skirting the subject. The questions. The everything about that night, and we both know it. So, my ill-timed and rude question is apparently necessary for a real answer. What say you?"

"Five years ago. And I am still sad."

"Of course you are." He blew out a relieved sigh. "Your grief is not in question. It's your desire to live that took you to the rout. At least admit that much."

"I wanted to make a memory." She couldn't look at him when she said it.

"And so you did." He took an emotional step forward. "A good one, I hope." The conversation turned softer. He tilted his head to see her better while she bowed hers, studying the fine red carpet fibers of a Persian rug that drew out the warmth of the room.

She fumbled with her hands, pulling at her fingers. "You must understand I am not proud of my behavior. If I were a man, I would be accused of seduction, held on trial in the ethical court of gender."

"And? What does that mean?"

She looked up at him. "Surely, you realize what I'm saying. It was a mistake, Lord Davies."

"And I prefer Phineas, which is why I didn't tell you."

"Lord Davies," she continued as if she didn't hear, "the woman you met Christmas Eve was not me."

"Strange, but she looked very much like you. You have a twin, then?"

"Masks are easy to hide behind, and I'm afraid I hid behind mine. For an evening, I put away the woman I am, along with propriety and every hair of wisdom atop my head. I made a memory, yes. One I shall live with every day forward as a reminder of the inconsiderate way I treated my husband's memory."

"The husband that is not here anymore?"

"You aren't very nice, Phineas Blackmore."

He smiled at that. And by the coarse glare in her beautiful hazel eyes, he knew it was a smile too large, too radiating, for the situation. But damn, if she didn't make him want to laugh. "You are a contradiction. You cannot fault me for clawing for a lifeline. I do, however, appreciate the use of my name. You can't know how many times I missed a question or didn't answer a call because someone addressed me as Lord Davies."

She dealt him a well-deserved glacial condescending glare.

"And you have faced even worse. I see that. So, what is your preferred address?"

"From my friends? Sunshine. Everyone else? Mrs. Richard Price."

It was a dig that hit home. Even her saying her late husband's name made Phineas somewhat jealous. Taken down by a ghost. He couldn't see any good in continuing. She needed time to process what he'd already known. He rose and bowed his head. "Mrs. Richard Price, I would be honored if someday we might be friends again."

He moved to leave, and she quickly stood. "I thought you were returning to your ship."

"I had planned on it, but if you hadn't noticed, it's a bit frostier than normal. My crew moved the Gallant back to a safe coastal distance from the frozen Thames. I'm as stuck here as if I'd already married." The last part, although true, was something he should not have said. "Oh, one more thing," he said, reaching into his inner-coat pocket. "I believe this is yours."

Her eyes fixed on the red ostrich feather. Its plume wilted slightly from being pocketed for days. He carried the damn thing everywhere, hoping to find her.

She took two steps toward him, her hand outstretched.

He held it back, making a warning sound. "I find I'm not quite ready to give it back." He decided this on a moment's whim. If he kept it a while longer, it would give him an excuse to see her again. Even the feeble arguing was better than not hearing her voice, or… For the love of God, he caught a scent of her cologne, lemon-based citrus, and Sunshine. He took in a fortifying breath. Making a memory, she had called it. Well, she certainly had made one for him.

"It's my feather."

"I can't be certain, now, how I came upon it. It looks like the fan you carried." He raised his eyes toward the ceiling, brushing the soft feather end of the quill against his bottom lip. "But it was dark. Oh, there was candlelight." He pointed with the feather as if it were an extension of his hand; animated in speech, he waved it in front of himself, between them. "But even the color of your hair looks different in the day. It's a little more moody red than I remember."

"Moody red? What color is that exactly?"

"It's yours, my darling." He cleared his throat. "I apologize. Mrs. Richard Price." He left the parlor, leaving the jib door open because he couldn't resist baiting her to follow, which, of course, she did.

"I do not understand you, Lord Davies, and I am finished with this conversation and your visit."

He pivoted, banking a smile.

She came to a rearing halt two steps before she collided with him, quickly recovering. With one arm crossed, she held out her other hand palm up and smirked. "I want my feather back."

"I found it. I keep it."

She bit her lip. He blinked and sighed. Without notice, she picked up her skirt, spinning about into a brisk, purposeful walk to the open parlor. She emerged with his forgotten hat.

"Put it in your cap, good sir." She rushed at him, flinging the beaver hat at his chest, forcing him to catch it while she swept from the room without a backward glance.

From the time he stepped foot on land, his sole purpose had been to make his aunts happy. He had been engineered to find the fastest, safest route from point A to point B. But he hadn't counted on Sunshine Price.