Chapter 12

P amela winced in alarm as Connor rose to his full height to face the stranger. She had not forgotten his threat to shoot anyone who dared to call him Percy.

"Forgive me, your grace," the footman said, his gloved hands trembling as he faced the duke and tugged his rumpled coat straight. The poor servant's face was scarlet and his wig askew. "I did everything I could to discourage him."

The duke dismissed the man with a curt flick of his hand. "It's all right, Phillip. I know just how impossible my nephew can be."

No wonder Lady Astrid looked so pale and miserable. This drunken interloper was no stranger, but her son—the "whelp" the duke had spoken of during their interview. The whelp who would have inherited the duke's title and fortune if not for her mother's letter and the unexpected return of his cousin .

Both his eyes and hair were as dark as midnight. His unruly curls tumbled over his brow in fashionable disarray. Although Pamela judged him only a year or two older than Sophie, his air of dissipation and the cynical twist of his lips made him appear far older. He was dressed in clothes that would have been the envy of any young buck strolling down Bond Street on a Saturday night, but his cutaway tail coat was missing a button and his cravat hung loose around his throat. The aroma of brandy wafted off of him like French cologne.

Now here was someone who looked capable of murder, Pamela thought, her lips tightening.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and whipcord-lean, but still had to cock back his head to look Connor in the eye. Which he did, with equal measures of boldness and insolence. "So I hear you've been living in Scotland all these years. And to think, my uncle has always said the Scots never produced anything of value but decent whisky and target practice for our English soldiers."

Pamela sucked in an audible breath, knowing perfectly well that Connor didn't need a pistol to defend himself. He could simply clout the young man into next week with one blow from his massive fist.

"And I was told the English never produced anything of value at all." Connor looked the man up and down. "Apparently, it's true."

The man's dark eyes narrowed in an expression eerily similar to Connor's. "Why, you—"

"May I introduce you to your charming cousin Crispin, son," the duke said dryly, polishing off his wine. "It's fortunate you returned before he could gamble, drink and whore away my entire fortune."

"Archibald!"

His sister's scandalized tones appeared to have little effect on the duke. He simply held out his wineglass so a footman could refill it. "No need for histrionics, Astrid. It's not as if the lad was going to live long enough to inherit anyway. Given his delightful disposition and his penchant for cheating at cards and dallying with married women, someone is bound to kill him before I croak my last. He may be one of the finest swordsmen in all of London, but that's not going to stop some jealous husband from shooting him in the back."

Lady Astrid shrank back into her seat, two spots of color burning high on her cheekbones.

Crispin gave his uncle a sullen look before shifting his attention to Pamela.

He prowled around the table, his gait none too steady, and dropped to one knee beside her chair. He brought her hand to his lips, a sunny grin infusing the lean planes of his face with charm. "And just who is this captivating creature?"

"That captivating creature is my fiancée," Connor said, "and I'll thank you to keep your hands off of her."

The lass belongs to me.

As Connor's words from the castle ruins echoed through her memory, Pamela felt that same delicious shiver dance across her flesh. Once again, he'd uttered the lie with such conviction she was almost tempted to believe him.

Stealing a glance at Connor from beneath the sinful length of his dark lashes, Crispin lowered his voice to a clearly audible stage whisper. "Be forewarned, my lady. He'll probably want to get an heir on you as quickly as possible so I'll still have no chance of inheriting should he meet with an unfortunate accident."

Neatly extracting her hand from his grip, Pamela offered him a chilly smile. "I've always heard that it's habitual drunkards who should take the most care. They're the ones most likely to tumble down a flight of stairs and break their necks…or leave their cigars lit and burn to death in their beds."

She caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Something wounded and wary. And more than a little dangerous.

"I shall take care to heed your warning, Miss…?"

"Darby. Miss Pamela Darby."

"Darby? I know that name. Where have I heard it before?" He frowned thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. "I know! There was an actress at the Crown Theatre for years by the name of Marianne Darby."

"Marianne Darby was my mother," Pamela informed him stiffly.

"Indeed?" A guileless smile broke over his face. If he was toying with her, he was quite an amazing actor himself. "She was a brilliant talent—absolutely luminous on the stage. Her Desdemona was a revelation! It probably won't surprise you to learn that I've always had a fondness for actresses and opera dancers. Enchanting creatures, every last one of them."

Pamela wasn't aware that Connor had come striding around the table, until he caught Crispin by the elbow and hefted him to his feet. She supposed Crispin should be grateful he hadn't hauled him up by the back of his collar.

"It's not too late for you to catch a play tonight," Connor said. "I believe your performance here is done."

Wisely recognizing that Connor was no footman to be shaken off or dismissed with the arrogant flick of a hand, Crispin sighed. "My cousin is right. The night is young and so am I." Ignoring Connor's glower, he once again bowed over Pamela's hand, touching his lips ever so gently to her knuckles. "Until we meet again, chérie ."

Then he was gone, leaving her to wonder if she had just come face to face with her mother's murderer.

Pamela flung herself to her back with a gusty sigh, glaring up at the canopy above her head. Considering that she'd spent the last month fitfully napping on carriage seats or sharing prickly heather-stuffed ticks with Sophie in seedy Scottish inns, the sump tuous half-tester with its feather mattress and crisp linen sheets should have lulled her to sleep within minutes. But she was so restless the bed might as well have been studded with nails.

Her belly was full. She had servants eager to do her bidding. Sophie was snoring gently in the adjoining dressing room, safe for the moment from any lascivious noblemen who might try to prey upon her. Pamela should have been sleeping with the satisfied contentment of a newborn babe.

But every time she closed her eyes, she saw a kaleidoscope of faces whirling through the darkness: the duke's expression of helpless wonder when he had gazed upon Connor's face for the first time; Lady Astrid's white-faced mortification when her son had come staggering into the dining room; Crispin's lean, saturnine features twisted in a sneer as he gazed up at Connor.

And the smoldering look Connor had given her when he had pledged to devote his full attention to pleasing his bride.

Biting back a moan, she kicked away the heavy counterpane. Given her wanton response to Connor's kiss, she feared his full attention was not something she could withstand. At least not without surrendering the last of her tarnished principles and proving she truly was her mother's daughter.

She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the moonlight streaming through the sash window, longing for the solace of sleep.

Even as a delicious languor began to creep through her limbs, she could still see Connor's face—his smoky gray eyes, the crooked bridge of his nose, that incorrigible dimple set deep in his rugged jaw. When her eyes fluttered open, it took her a dazed moment to realize he was actually there, looming over her in the moonlight—no phantom, but flesh and blood.