Chapter 14

W hen Connor awoke the next morning, it hardly improved the ragged edges of his temper to hear a cheerful song come floating out of the adjoining dressing room:

Once there was a bonny lass

With hair as red as cherries.

Her eyes were blue as a summer loch,

Her lips as ripe as berries.

I begged her to be me bride

While down on bended knee.

She hiked up her skirts and dropped her drawers

And made a mon o' me!

Connor sat up with a groan, casting his blankets aside. Golden sunlight poured through the row of sash windows on the far wall, searing his bleary eyes. A morning breeze perfumed with the intoxicating scent of apple blossoms drifted through the broken window pane.

He'd tossed and turned for half the night after his visit to Pamela's bedchamber, his body aching with its undiminished need for her. He didn't know what made him the bigger fool—sneaking into her bedchamber like the common thief he was or letting her convince him to steal away empty-handed.

When he had finally dozed off, his fitful sleep had been haunted by images of Pamela reaching for him, her eyes misty with longing, her lips moist and tender from his kisses. Those enticing dreams were just as quickly replaced by shadowy nightmares where her desperate hands sought to shove him away. Where he ignored her frightened eyes and hoarse pleas and roughly took his pleasure in every manner imaginable without giving a single thought to hers.

When dawn had finally arrived, he had fallen into a sleep as dark and dreamless as death. Which made it doubly hard to awaken to such a merry sound.

He rolled out of the bed, stretching and yawning like a great cat. He slipped on his trousers and padded into the dressing room to find Brodie splashing about in a long copper tub. Tendrils of steam wafted from the water as Brodie reached around to scrub his back with a long-handled brush, still humming beneath his breath.

Connor cleared his throat.

Brodie swung around to beam at him, lacking the good grace to look guilty. "And a good morn to ye, lad! I hope ye don't mind, but as yer valet, I took the liberty o' ringin' for yer bath."

"My bath?" Connor repeated pointedly.

Brodie dropped the brush in the water and rubbed a ball of soap beneath his hairy underarm, lathering enthusiastically. "Aye, and you'll be welcome to it, as soon as I'm done."

As Brodie ducked his entire head beneath the water to rinse the soap from his braids, Connor eyed the layer of scum on its surface and briefly considered holding him under until the bubbles stopped surfacing. But he couldn't figure out where he would hide the body.

He was gazing thoughtfully at the window seat, trying to judge its width and length, when Brodie reappeared, shaking water from his eyes like a wet spaniel.

Connor sniffed, noticing the succulent aroma of bacon hanging in the air for the first time. His stomach rumbled. Last night at supper he had discovered it was nearly impossible for a man to fill his belly when forced to use a tiny fork for every bite.

It didn't take him long to spot the tray resting on Brodie's cot—the tray stacked with empty china plates. Gazing at the scattered crumbs, he sighed. "I see you also took the liberty of ringing for my breakfast."

"Aye, and I must say it was quite tasty! Though the rasher of bacon was a wee bit overdone. I thought I might have a chat with the cook today." Brodie waggled his copper eyebrows at him. "I hear she's not married and might be in the market for a husband."

"I hear she weighs fifteen stone and can twist a chicken's head off with her bare hands."

Brodie's grin turned into a leer. "I always did love a lass with a strong grip."

Connor clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the urge to demonstrate the impressive strength of his own grip by fastening his hands around his friend's throat and squeezing the life out of him.

Before Connor had time to avert his eyes, Brodie rose from the bath. The sight of his hairy, dripping body displayed in all of its naked glory effectively spoiled Connor's appetite. The serpent tattooed on Brodie's massive deltoid seemed to be winking at him.

"Would ye mind handin' me that towel, laddie?"

"Oh, not at all," Connor replied, snatching up the linen bath sheet draped over a nearby stool and tossing it directly over Brodie's head. "Is there anything else I can do you for you while I'm here? Polish your boots? Starch your shirt? Braid your back hair?"

Brodie tugged the towel off his head and rubbed it over the curling hair that furred his massive chest. "Well, now that ye mention it, I could use some help trimmin' me toenails before they send up yer tailor. The puir fellow's already been waitin' for an hour, but this one toenail has been rubbin' against the top o' me boot for—"

Connor would never learn how long the pesky toenail had been plaguing Brodie because at that precise moment he grabbed Brodie's arm and hauled him right out of the tub. He dragged him across the bedchamber with Brodie sputtering, swearing and dripping all the way. Connor threw open the door, shoved him into the corridor, then slammed the door in his ruddy face.

As Connor leaned against the door, blockading it with his body, he heard a maidservant's shrill scream and a loud crash, followed by Brodie's jovial, "Why, hullo there, lass! Would ye like to see my snake dance?"

Connor shook his head, hoping for the poor maidservant's sake that Brodie was talking about the serpent tattooed on his upper arm.

"Now don't go runnin' away like that, lass! I do believe I'm goin' to need a bigger towel!"

Connor quickly discovered that one of the benefits of being a marquess was that you were allowed—and perhaps even encouraged—to keep people waiting. He rang for a fresh bath and breakfast before informing a footman to send up the tailor.

He also discovered that having his bath and breakfast pilfered by the most shamelessly incompetent valet in all of England was the least of the indignities he would be forced to endure that day. The tailor spent hours poking and prodding him and showing him bolt after bolt of fabric, all of which looked identical to him. While the man chattered on and on about the benefits of nankeen over merino—names like Byron and Beau Brummel tripping from his nimble tongue—his assistant climbed all over Connor with a measuring tape, cooing in admiration over the breadth of his shoulders and the circumference of his forearms.

When the assistant dropped to one knee at Connor's feet and pressed the tape to his inner thigh, rolling his eyes in near ecstasy, Connor decided he'd had quite enough of being jabbed with pins and groped by strangers for one day.

Gripping both the tailor and his assistant by their high starched collars, he ushered them toward the door.

"But, my lord," the tailor protested in dismay, his skinny arms filled with bolts of cloth, "how are we to carry on? We haven't even decided between the superfine and the kerseymere yet!"

"Surprise me," Connor snapped. "Or better yet—I'll take them all. Just send the bill to the du—to my father."

Pleasure suffused the tailor's long face. "Oh, yes, my lord! It would be my great honor to—"

Connor slammed the door in both their faces, cutting off their fawning bows in mid-motion.

He was still slumped against the door, savoring a precious moment of peace, when a footman's brisk voice informed him that the hatter had arrived.

It turned out the tailor was only the first in a long parade of London merchants eager to use their wares to transform him into an elegant gentleman worthy of his title. Connor was forced to look at so many different incarnations of the beaver hat he decided it would almost be easier to wear an actual beaver on his head. The hatter was followed by a haberdasher with a dizzying array of handkerchiefs, stockings and ivory-handled walking sticks, a stationer with reams of expensive parchment and vellum, and a jeweler with a gleaming display of crested rings and silver snuff boxes.

By the time another footman arrived to inform Connor that his fencing master was waiting for him in the ballroom, he was more than ready to run someone through with a sword, preferably himself.

Eagerly excusing himself from the crestfallen young man appointed to help him pick out the perfect toothpick case, he hurried down the stairs, thinking a little swordplay might be the very thing to soothe his temper.

"Bloody hell, man, you don't honestly expect me to fight with that thing, do you?"

As that familiar roar reached Pamela's ears, she froze in the middle of the deserted corridor, cocking her head to listen.

"I might be able to darn my stockings with it, but it's not good for much else. Unless, of course, you'd like me to shove it up your arrogant—"

As that threat met with a virulent outpouring in fluent French, Pamela lifted the hem of her gown and took off at a dead run, following the clash of those raised voices. She didn't have to lift her hem much since it was already four inches too short. Having exhausted her own supply of suitable frocks, she'd been reduced to commandeering Sophie's favorite morning gown—an act that had left her sister weeping piteously into her pillow and muttering unkind remarks about strained seams and overstuffed sausages.

Remarks which seemed only fitting with the bodice stays of the gown digging deep into Pamela's ribcage, making each step a misery. By the time she flung open the tall double doors at the end of the corridor, she was gasping for breath and dangerously close to swooning—a condition that was only aggravated by the sight that greeted her.

Connor stood at the center of the cavernous ballroom, facing a slender, effete Frenchman who had a long, thin sword in his hand and a murderous gleam in his eye. The man was still spewing out a torrent of French, most of it, mercifully, incomprehensible to Pamela's untrained ears.

Connor might have been unarmed, but he still towered over the sputtering Frenchman by half a foot. He was dressed as simply as a highwayman posing as a gentleman could be—in black trousers and a white lawn shirt with full sleeves and flared cuffs. He wore no waistcoat and his cravat was knotted in a simple loop at his throat. A black satin queue secured his gleaming hair at the nape.

It should have been illegal for a man to look so good without even trying, Pamela thought, biting her lip in consternation. Or at least immoral.

The enraged fencing master spotted her first. He spread his arms in a dramatic appeal, the waxed ends of his thin black mustache quivering with indignation. "Do you hear the words of this barbarian, mam'selle? He dares to insult the size of my sword!"

As he brandished the long, thin blade of the delicate epee at her, Pamela had to choke back a snort of laughter. It wasn't that difficult to imagine Connor darning his stockings with it.

"That is not a sword." Glowering at them both, Connor marched over to the wall and swept down one of the massive broadswords displayed next to an empty suit of armor. He strode back to the fencing master, wielding the enormous blade with one hand. " This is a sword!"

"Ha!" the Frenchman barked, dismissing the weapon with a flick of his hand. "Only if one has no skill! No grace! No honor! That blade is fit only for digging your grave after a French foil pierces your cowardly heart."

"Oh, really?" Connor took a step forward, the menacing gesture wiping the sneer right off the Frenchman's face. "Then perhaps you'd like to match your blade against mine and we'll just see whose grave we'll be digging come sunset."

As the fencing master lowered his sword and went skittering backward in alarm, Pamela boldly stepped between the two men.

She flattened her palm against Connor's chest, giving him a beseeching look. "Now, darling, you know I faint at the mere mention of blood, much less its sight. There's really no need for such posturing. I'm sure that everyone, including Monsieur…" She gave the fencing master a questioning look.

"Chevalier," the Frenchman offered with a toss of his head and a sulky flare of his nostrils.

"I'm sure that everyone, including Monsieur Chevalier, would agree that your blade is superior." She drew even closer to Connor, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "As well as much larger."

Connor gazed down at her, his scowl slowly melting to an expression that was even more dangerous. At least to her.

He covered her small hand with his, binding them together so she could feel every powerful beat of his heart beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. "If you're so convinced my blade is superior , lass, then why don't you give me the chance to prove it?"

In that moment the fencing master was forgotten. The two of them might have been all alone in the ballroom, engaged in their own private dance. A dance he had started last night, but she had not had the courage to finish.

She drew in a shaky breath rich with his scent, which now included the enticing aroma of bayberry soap. "As Monsieur Chevalier has just reminded us, one careless blow can destroy even the most steadfast of hearts."

"But just how cowardly is the heart that won't even risk that blow?"

Before Pamela could respond to the blatant challenge in Connor's eyes, the temperamental fencing master blew out a disgusted "Pfft!" and sheathed his sword in the scabbard at his belt. "It's obvious my talents are being wasted here. Please give the duke my regrets." He tossed Connor one last sneer. "And my condolences."

Snatching up the rest of his equipment, he went storming toward the French windows along the west wall of the ballroom that had been propped open to welcome in the afternoon sunshine and balmy spring breezes. Only then did Pamela realize they'd never been truly alone. They'd had an audience all along.

Crispin was lounging against the wall between two windows, lazily swishing the graceful epee in his hand back and forth. As the fencing master marched past him and disappeared into the garden, he ducked his head and offered Connor a sly grin. "Hello, cuz. You seem to have lost your fencing partner. Mind if I step in?"