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Beck watched with admiration as Gwendolyn hid her obvious confusion behind a graceful curtsy. “Lady Orpington, Mrs. Newsome.
It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
“I look forward to playing with you,” the old dragon replied, her words dripping with a sweetness Beck had not associated
with Lady Orpington.
She had been a handful ever since they had made their agreement; he would find a whist partner for her, and she would give
him entrée to Colemore. From the moment he’d spied Gwendolyn in Dublin, he’d known she would meet Lady Orpington’s needs—well,
save for the Irish aspect. Lady Orpington, like so many of her class, thought of herself as socially superior to everyone
outside their close circle of acquaintances. So Beck had delayed this meeting until he knew Lady Orpington couldn’t afford
to be arbitrary.
Gwendolyn walked through the door he held open, her head high, her back straight. However, once out in the hall, she started to turn to him. He could feel her excitement and knew she was bubbling with questions. “Not yet,” he warned under his breath.
With a quick nod that she understood, she continued moving.
Beck was surprised by the number of footmen who all of a sudden appeared stationed along the hallway and her path. They hadn’t
been there when he’d arrived.
And he didn’t like the way their gazes followed Gwendolyn’s tall, refined figure as she passed them. He was certain they noticed
the way her hips moved with a gentle sway and imagined exactly how long her legs were.
For her part, she seemed oblivious to the hearts she was conquering. At one point, she smiled in the direction of a footman.
The man’s faced flushed red.
Beck understood. Gwendolyn had that effect on every male of her acquaintance... including himself. There were times when
she shot him a look of complete hero worship. She romanticized him, and if he wasn’t careful, he would see himself through
her eyes. He would forget exactly who he was. He was a loner. He didn’t need entanglements. He liked his life the way it was.
Besides, he brutally reminded himself, Gwendolyn could do much better than him. She deserved better. His job was to see that no ill befell her. She was doing him a great favor, and he was determined to keep her safe. Middlebury hadn’t sent his man Winstead to coddle Beck but to kill him.
That was why the conversation he was about to have with her was critical.
And he didn’t anticipate her being happy about it.
Downstairs, a footman held her bonnet. Gwendolyn took the hat and tied the crisp ribbons under her chin at a fetching angle.
The ribbons matched the blue in her dress and made her golden-brown eyes stand out even more.
For his disguise, Beck had given up his preferred wide-brimmed hat for a curled-brimmed beaver that all the gentlemen wore.
He tipped it low over his eyes and offered Gwendolyn his arm. She rested her gloved hand lightly on his sleeve, and they went
out the front door. Lady Orpington’s coach waited for them.
A footman jumped down from the rumble, the seat at the rear of the coach, to place a small step by the coach door. She held
Beck’s hand as she climbed in, and there was something about her grace, her presence, that made him feel ridiculously gallant.
“Drive until I tell you differently,” he instructed the coachman. He removed his hat and climbed into the coach. He took the
seat opposite hers, his back to the driver, and set the hat beside him.
The footman closed the door.
Beck pulled down the shades to protect them from prying eyes. Gwendolyn watched his every movement, her hands folded in her lap. He sat back against his seat, and that’s when he noticed how close the space was.
Or did it feel close because he was with her? He couldn’t name the scent she wore, but it reminded him of summer, of wildflowers
and sparkling streams.
She wasn’t fair-haired and blue-eyed like her sisters. However, he liked Gwendolyn’s dark looks, her heavy, glossy hair that
was as black as a raven’s wing and her startling golden eyes that seemed to look right into the heart of him.
The tightening in his loins, that damnable need that roiled a man’s blood, assured him that the sooner he set her against
him, the better.
Beck knocked on the roof, a signal for the driver to leave. The coachman shouted “Ha,” and they began to move.
“What is going—” Gwendolyn started as if she could contain herself no longer, but Beck held up a gloved hand. She must still
wait.
Gwendolyn sat back, a small line furrowing her brow, her pressed lips a sign of impatience—and then she wet them. The sight
of the tip of her tongue caught and held him.
Dear God, she had no idea of her impact upon men, and it made her all the more enticing—
“I am not who you believe I am,” he said abruptly, the opening to his planned speech warning her not to expect anything from
him, especially if it involved her heart.
Before he could launch into his planned admon ishments, she interrupted him with mock dismay. “Oh, are you telling me you aren’t Mr. Curran?”
“Miss Lanscarr,” he said in warning.
“Mr. Steele,” she replied in the same formidable tone.
“I’m attempting a serious discussion.”
“As am I. You wish to be Mr. Curran. Very well. Yes, Mr. Curran? What do you need to tell me? Oh, you aren’t the man I believe
you to be? Well, that makes sense, because I know you as Mr. Steele. Does Lady Orpington know?”
“Of course she does,” he snapped. “She hired me to find you. And she knows I’m not her nephew.”
“And in return for you finding her a whist partner she likes, she owes you a favor. You asked that she pretend you are her
nephew. I’m correct, aren’t I? I’m assuming you are doing this to go to Colemore. Why? What is your game?”
His intention had been to inform her that he was not someone she should focus her hopes on. He was not heroic. He didn’t deserve her longing looks or wetting her lips in that innocently seductive way of hers. He was not a man
like Jem who wanted a wife, a hearth, and a cluster of children.
Unfortunately, Gwendolyn had seized control of the conversation. She was also justified in asking questions. He would do the
same in her position. At his silence, Gwendolyn waved a hand as if to wake him up. “What is the ploy? The scheme? What are
we about to do?”
“You act as if I want you to help rob the Post—”
“Do you?” she asked, her eyes lighting up as if she would be game, God help him.
With great deliberateness, he said, “Miss Lanscarr, curb your imagination. You will be a guest at Colemore. You will be Lady Orpington’s whist partner. You play cards and nothing else.”
“Do you want me to win?”
“Lady Orpington does.”
She considered that a moment and then pressed, “But what do you want me to do?”
To let me kiss you. To fall into my arms and let me make love to you.
He could have smacked himself in the head for his errant thoughts. They had just popped up without encouragement... Well,
the tilt of her head as she’d looked up at him under dark lashes had encouraged them, and her asking him what he wanted her
to do. Such an innocent question... that every male part of him had come to life upon hearing it.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Steele? You seem unsettled. How may I help?”
Another question, with a lewd undertone—except to her. She was looking at him as if she was a green recruit and this was the
first day of training. And that made him feel even more awkward. He hid behind sternness.
“By playing cards,” he responded. “That is all I ask of you.” He said the last as a reminder to himself. Especially since the rolling of the coach over London’s cobbled streets brought her knee repeatedly in contact with his knee. It was not intentional, but then, it apparently didn’t need to be for him to hear the double entendre in her replies.
She sat forward, the peak of her bonnet almost brushing the roof of the coach. “Then ask more of me,” she said.
And there was another one. Did she realize what she was saying? The very male part of Beck roared to life with desire. Instead,
he shifted his weight, moving his knee as far as he could from bumping hers, and masked his reaction.
Gwendolyn frowned as if she thought him behaving strangely, and that only added insult to all of it. She, apparently, was
not affected by his presence, while he hadn’t been so rattled since he’d first discovered there was a difference between men
and women. His intended lecture about not expecting anything other than a working relationship now seemed egotistical on his
part. He was the one having the problem. Gwendolyn Lanscarr seemed unbothered by his close proximity. To the devil with all of this.
He started to reach up and tap on the roof, a signal to the driver to take Gwendolyn home—but she grabbed his arm, pulling
it down.
Her boldness and the contact surprised him. Even through the layers of his jacket sleeve and shirt, sparks shot through him.
“You cannot return me home yet,” she informed him. “I will not partner with Lady Orpington until I know what is happening.
There is more to this than a whist game.”
The sparks died. Few challenged Beck. He did not like it. His equilibrium returned. “You owe me a favor, Miss Lanscarr.”
Her chin came up at the finality in his voice. “I am willing to pay it... but I would be a fool to involve myself in something I didn’t understand. Why can’t you go to Colemore as yourself? What is the scheme?”
“The less you know, the better.”
Of course, that didn’t appease Gwendolyn Lanscarr. “I doubt that, Mr. Steele. And if you wish me to keep your true identity
hidden from the Marquess and Marchioness of Middlebury, I believe I’m owed an explanation.”
“You wouldn’t betray me.”
“Is that a chance you wish to take?”
“I shall find another cardplayer,” he said.
“By next week?” She shook her head. “That isn’t possible, not now that someone as stubborn as Lady Orpington has given me
her approval. Besides,” she continued as if her hand was being forced, “I can send a letter to Colemore. Let them know you
are planning some sort of subterfuge—”
Beck’s temper ignited. “Don’t test me, Miss Lanscarr.” Why was he always attracted to the wrong woman?
“Then you must explain yourself. I have a right to know why you are impersonating someone else.” She spoke reasonably, and
that made her words all the more infuriating.
And it didn’t help that he actually did need her. Desire was one thing. Being in a position where he had no other recourse
was another.
In truth, he’d brought in several partners for Lady Orpington. They had been mostly men and with minor titles, the sort Lady Orpington had thought she wanted. But Beck had known Gwendolyn would be the one. She had the talent for cards and the aristocratic bearing to fit in with the Middlebury set. She would make Lady Orpington look good. More important, she would deflect attention from himself and his purpose at Colemore.
“I’m attempting to protect you,” he said tightly.
“So you keep telling me.”
Very well, he would give her the truth. All of it. He would make her retreat in distaste, and then he’d never have to worry about her being infatuated with him.
“I am the bastard son of the Marquess of Middlebury. My mother is some nameless whore.” He paused, giving her a moment to
react, expecting her to recoil in delicate horror. But he’d misjudged her—once again.
Instead, she plunged into questions. “Does the marquess know you are his son? Is that why you are pretending to be someone
else?”
“He knows of me, but he doesn’t know me. We have never met.”
“This seems a strange way to introduce yourself.”
“I’m not introducing myself. I don’t want him to know my true identity.” She didn’t need to know about Olin Winstead’s attack,
a sign that someone at Colemore would go to great lengths to stop him. As for her safety, he would protect her.
She changed the subject. “You speak well for a whore’s son,” she observed as if it was important to their conversation.
“I’m not uneducated.”
“How did you become educated?”
He made an impatient sound. “Middlebury paid for my schooling and purchased my commission.”
“All that money and he doesn’t know who you are.”
“He doesn’t wish to. There, curiosity satisfied?”
“Not completely. You were in the military? Of course. That explains much about you. No wonder you do not enjoy being challenged.”
“Does any man?”
“Does any person?”
His frustration overcame his command of the situation. “Gwendolyn, you try my patience.”
“I find you somewhat challenging as well,” she replied without heat, and then there was a quick smile. “I also like the way
you say my given name. You linger on the first syllable.”
Only then did he realize he’d taken the liberty of her name, the name he used when he thought of her. “Not on purpose,” he
answered, “but because you can be exasperating, Miss Lanscarr. I should not have forgotten myself. Please forgive me.”
Her lips formed a pout. “We are back to formalities. I give you permission to use my name, if you wish.”
“I do not wish. I was improper. I beg your pardon.”
“No pardon needed,” she assured him.
What he had anticipated to be a three-minute conversation of him telling her not to form an attachment to him had turned into her talking circles around him. “Miss Lanscarr, do not allow me liberties—”
“I—” she started, and he rolled right over her, cutting off whatever she was about to say. She needed to see sense.
“I spent my childhood in a brothel. I lived among whores .”
There, he’d said it. He wasn’t just the son of a whore. He’d lived that life. It was his shame, his secret. Not even Wagner
knew about his mother or any of the circumstances of Beck’s parentage. Fortunately, it wasn’t a conversation that came up
among men at war.
Except there were those who knew, or so he suspected. The murkiness of his past had been one of the reasons he believed General
Danvers had frowned upon his suit for Violet’s hand. There was something unsettling about a boy raised without family or ties.
Any caring father would be wary of him.
Except, Gwendolyn didn’t shudder with horror. Instead, she interrogated him. “You lived in the brothel until—what? You said
you went to school.”
Beck threw himself into the corner of the coach and crossed his arms against his chest. He no longer cared that his leg brushed
hers or that she smelled of clover and daisies. No, right now, she was maddening, and he knew she had bested him. She’d not
rest until she was satisfied. “You want the whole story?”
“I expect it.”
“So be it,” he ground out. “When I was around five or six, maybe seven—”
“You don’t know your age?”
“No.”
“Didn’t your mother tell you?”
“I don’t know my mother.” That was a terrible thing to confess. Except Gwendolyn nodded as if it made sense. “I don’t know
when I was born,” he reiterated as if she didn’t completely understand. “Whores don’t keep careful records.”
“I suppose some do.”
Beck scowled. “ Mine didn’t. I don’t even know who she was. I never knew her.”
“How did you survive? You were very young to be on your own.”
“By doing what I was told and staying out of harm’s way.” Something she would be wise to emulate. “I worked in the scullery,
I emptied chamber pots, I cleaned out ashes, the jobs a child could do.”
“But you have no inkling of how you came to be there?”
He paused, considering, and realizing that he’d never truly thought deeply about how he had ended up at Madam’s. “I was young.
I can’t recall.”
“But you did know whom your father was?”
“Not until Middlebury’s man came to see Madam. She was the bawd who owned the house. The next thing I knew, I was yanked out
of the only home I’d known and sent to Faircote, a school up north.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Wonders never cease,” he said. “An answer you accept without another question.”
A hint of a smile came to her eyes as if she enjoyed his sarcasm and even this conversation between them. He realized he didn’t
mind it all that much himself. He preferred keeping his affairs private... but he knew Gwendolyn would push until she knew
all. Besides, she hadn’t flinched over learning his parentage, and he had to admit he was impressed... and a bit grateful.
Therefore, he continued. “I wasn’t even to know I was Middlebury’s until Madam made a comment about it. She gave up the secret,
and she shouldn’t have. Middlebury’s man struck her so hard she fell to the floor. Up until then, she was the most powerful
person in my life,” he explained, wanting Gwendolyn to understand how shocking this was. “She had a bodyguard named Dervil
who could snap the arm of anyone who created trouble at the house. Everyone was afraid of Madam. She was afraid of Winstead.”
“That is Middlebury’s man?”
Beck nodded. “When he left me at Faircote, he said that if he ever heard Middlebury’s name pass my lips, he would cut my tongue
out. I believed him.”
“But you have said his name freely just now.”
“Because he is dead. I have no fear of him.”
“How did he die?”
Beck wasn’t about to confess he’d killed him. He kept silent.
Gwendolyn waited, watching him as if she could stare him into answering.
She couldn’t.
Finally, she gave a small huff of annoyance before asking, “You never met your father?”
This he could answer, although he secretly enjoyed his small victory. “Never. I lived at the school, stayed at the school,
and then went off into the military.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have a desire to meet him either.”
“Because of what this Winstead said?”
“I’m not fond of people who want to cut out my tongue.”
She seemed to actually consider this, and then admitted, “I wouldn’t be either.”
“I’m not surprised,” he murmured.
Her grin was quick. Beck liked watching her eyes sparkle with humor.
Then she sobered. “Why do you wish to confront the marquess now after all of these years?”
“My desire is not to confront him.”
“Then why infiltrate his home? I mean, you are going under a different name.”
“I believe it safest.”
“And your purpose?”
“I suffered a head injury at the Battle of the Nive.” He didn’t mention he was cited for valor, that his actions had helped
to stave off Soult’s men until the Peninsula army could regroup. “The injury led to—” He paused, then said, “Dreams.” Actually,
it felt like madness. “Dreams” was a kind way of describing them.
Her expression has softened as if she understood what he had not said. “Go on,” she prompted. “We will not speak of any of
this beyond the confines of this coach. Tell me of the dreams.”
Beck shifted his weight. How to explain? “They may be memories,” he said. “I’m not certain. The dream always starts with a beautiful woman, a singing woman. Her song makes
me happy.” He looked to Gwendolyn for understanding. “I feel as if I belong with her.”
She nodded.
“But then things change,” he said. “The song turns to screams. I try to reach her. I want to help her, but I can’t, and I’m
afraid. Petrified with fear, actually. I keep calling for help, but no one hears me. And someplace in there is Middlebury...
or at least a man. I don’t know if it is him.”
“Do you still have these dreams?”
“Not as often once I made up my mind to confront the marquess. It is as if the dream was prodding me on the path I should
take.” The dream had also pushed him further into being alone.
Gwendolyn spoke. “I understand the desire to know one’s parent and one’s history. I was about the same age you were when I
was sent from the only home I’d known in Barbados to my father in Ireland. My mother had been dead a year or so, and I had
dreams, too. I still do. I hardly remember her, but sometimes, I dream that she watches over me. As for families, they are
rarely what we expect them to be if we could do the choosing.”
“I’m not looking for a family.”
“Aren’t you? Do you not think the woman in the dream could be your mother? What if she needs you? What if her screams are
a warning?”
“What if it is foolishness caused by almost having my head shot off?”
He spoke harshly, but she did not take offense. Instead, she smiled. “You believe it is a memory. You referred to it as that.”
“But I don’t know.”
“Still, you wish to find out. You know there is a truth waiting for you, Mr. Steele. Truth matters.”
It did.
Beck leaned toward her. “After I left the military, I started searching every brothel in London trying to find Madam’s house
or anyone who could give me information. I wanted to know who the woman in the dream is.”
“Did you have any luck?”
“After twenty-five years or so? No. That world is always changing.”
“So you are going to Colemore to poke around, to see what you can learn.”
“Yes.”
“And perhaps meet your father?”
“My father is unimportant.”
“But is he?” she challenged. “Aren’t you at least a bit curious?”
“No.”
She shot him a look as if she knew better. “This is a good plan. You really have no other choice. Your other avenues for learning
who you are have been closed off. Do you believe the woman in your dreams is still in danger? Is it possible this is a premonition,
and that is the reason you feel an urgency to find her?”
Beck hadn’t considered that. “I don’t know. I’m not one to believe in a spirit world. The dream woman might not even exist.”
“Oh, she exists. This is important to you.”
It was.
“I’m glad I am going,” Gwendolyn said. “I can help you search for this woman—”
“You will do no such thing.”
“I must. This is a mystery. I adore a mystery.”
“Miss Lanscarr, you are there to play cards—”
“And to help you,” she said confidently. “I can be very resourceful.”
“No.”
“I can be a great help.”
“You help me by doing as I say.”
She had the audacity to smile at him.
It was a heart-melting smile. It declared louder than words that she would do anything for him. He remembered his true purpose
in talking to her privately. He needed to be direct.
“You must stop this infatuation with me,” he said. “It is not returned.” He spoke firmly. “Do you understand? I despise being
brutally honest, but I don’t want you to feel misled.”
Her brows gathered like miniature storm clouds. “Don’t claim you don’t feel the attraction between us. It is too strong to
belong to myself alone.”
“There is nothing there,” he lied. “You are a lovely woman, but there are many lovely women.” Although few as vibrant and
intelligent as Gwendolyn.
“Why are you trying to put me off you? Is it your past? Is that why you wished me to know you believe your mother is a whore?”
“We come from different worlds, Gwen—” He caught himself in time. “Miss Lanscarr,” he finished.
“Please, you don’t believe in that silliness about different class stations in life. I’m not special, Mr. Steele. You have more titled blood in your veins than I have—”
“It is none of that. Gwendolyn. I don’t have”—he paused, as if testing the next word—“feelings for you.”
“You are lying.” Her expression turned defiant. “Anytime I have needed you, you’ve been there.”
“You were a client who owes me a favor, which I am calling in. That is all that is between us.”
“That night in Dublin, you wanted to kiss me,” she reminded him.
“And my head was bashed in for my efforts. That being said, don’t read too much into a kiss.”
Her head gave a little jerk, and her eyes widened as if he’d struck her. She folded her hands in her lap in that ladylike
way of hers. She looked away as if she could see through the window shade. He waited, hoping for a tear or something that
said she accepted his rude rejection.
And it felt mean. Too mean.
“I’m a loner, Miss Lanscarr. I like my life the way it is. I do not want any entanglements.”
“No one wishes to be alone. Not truly,” she answered.
“I do,” he assured her. “Especially for my work.”
“Skulking around.” She gave a dismissive sniff.
That offended Beck. “I do more than skulk.”
“And you could do it without staying in the shadows. Don’t you want more from life, Mr. Steele? Don’t you wish for more?”
“No.”
Her shoulders tightened. She looked away, her lips pressing together.
“Don’t think you can change me,” he said, his voice quiet and not unkind. “I don’t want to be changed.”
There was a long silence. He wondered what she was thinking. He reminded himself that this was for the best. Better to have
it clear between them now, because the wound to her pride would be deeper if she misunderstood what was truly between them
and he rejected her later.
And then, with a small shrug, she said, “Very well.”
“I do not wish to hurt you or offend you.”
“Understood. We are merely partners—”
“We are not partners.” This was what he feared. “You are to play cards. You do what I say. There is no partnership here.” He moved his
hands back and forth to show that she had her work, and he had his.
“But if I learn something of importance—”
“ You are to play cards.”
“Even if...?”
“ Cards only. Can you not understand?”
She gave him no answer. Instead, she seemed to study some point behind him. He knew then she was never going to agree.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter, he decided. Once they were at Colemore, Lady Orpington would keep her busy. Supposedly, the
card playing began early in the morning and went into the night. There would be no time for her to pry.
And if he was lucky, he’d quickly find the answer to questions he didn’t know to ask. Sometimes life worked that way. A man had no choice but to take action and hope for the best.
He knocked on the roof, the sign to take Gwendolyn home.
They were quiet the rest of the way. She acted lost in thought. He believed the best way to reinforce his message was to let
her be.
He reminded himself that the Lanscarr sisters were not afraid to defy convention. That had been the secret to their success.
Well, that and tremendous luck.
They were like beautiful pirates who had set sail to conquer the ton , and conquer they had.
But this battle was his. He was the captain of this ship.
The coach rolled to a halt, and he peeked out of the shades to see they were in front of the Brogan residence. Beck reached
for his hat so that he could help Gwendolyn down from the coach.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You mustn’t. I am certain my sister is watching for me. She will be upset if she
believes I have been riding alone with you.”
Well, at least she had that good sense.
The coach’s footman opened the door and put down the stool. Gwendolyn started from the vehicle, but then stopped. She looked
back at Beck.
“I shall behave,” she whispered, “because this means a great deal to you. However, you are wrong about the two of us. You can’t fight what already exists any more than you can stop dreams of your mother from haunting you.”
“Gwendolyn—” he started to correct her, frustrated by her stubbornness. But she was already out the door. Her manservant stood
in the open portal of the house. She disappeared inside.
The footman picked up the stool. “Is all good, sir?”
“Fine,” Beck answered absently... but he knew that wasn’t true, because Gwendolyn was right.
What was between them already existed.