Page 5 of Two Secrets to Surrender (Blackwood Legacy #2)
Chapter Four
“ T he place is shipshape, Miss Letty.” Abel Pearce looked around the spa’s pump room with approval. “You have restored it to its former glory.”
A stocky fellow with thinning fair hair and an aggressively large mustache, Mr. Pearce was the largest landowner in Chuddums. Most of the businesses in the square were his tenants. The villagers treated him with deference due to his economic influence and his status as the head of one of Chuddums’s oldest families. When he and his wife Dorothy had stopped by on an unannounced visit, Letty had dropped everything to give them a tour, and Gigi had followed along.
“Thank you, sir.” Pride filled Letty’s voice, which echoed in the high-ceilinged space. “My greatest wish is to make my great-great-grandpapa proud.”
Gigi thought her friend had accomplished that and more. Once again, the pump room had an air of grandeur with large, sparkling windows and columns soaring to the upper gallery. Atop the columns were statues of Roman gods and goddesses. Jupiter, Hera, Minerva, Bacchus, Venus, and Mars formed a ring around the room, staring down at visitors with majestic grace. The parqueted wood floor had been polished to a gleam. At the far end, the pump, newly repainted a glossy black, was primed to dispense warm mineral water directly from the source.
“It isn’t easy living up to our esteemed ancestors,” Mr. Pearce said. “When my own great-great-grandpapa, Langdon Pearce, built his textile mill here, he brought prosperity to our village. He was great cronies with Tobias Caldecott, I’m told.”
“I remember my papa telling me the two had an entrepreneurial spirit in common,” Letty said fondly. “Apparently, your relative was the only one who didn’t laugh at mine when he announced his plans to build a spa, complete with a caldarium.”
“What is a caldarium?” Gigi cut in.
“A heated chamber,” Letty explained. “The Romans used them for relaxation and purification purposes. But they require a feat of engineering, and if my great-great-grandpapa ever started building one, it must have been destroyed by the fire that nearly claimed this place some eighty years ago.”
“You can’t blame a fellow for dreaming big, can you?” Mr. Pearce said heartily.
“Thanks to my husband’s generosity, Miss Letty,” his wife said in her nasally tone, “your wish to preserve your family legacy may indeed be coming true.”
A thin spike of a woman, Dorothy Pearce was possessed of an unshakeable faith in her own importance. Today she wore an excessively ruffled, flounced, and beribboned dress of fawn-colored velvet. Feathers exploded from the bonnet which sat atop her coal-black ringlets. Her outfit matched the ostentation of her husband’s, which included a blinding constellation of gold fobs and buttons.
“I have always appreciated Mr. Pearce’s support,” Letty said humbly.
Letty had told Gigi that, a few years ago, she had taken a sizeable loan from Mr. Pearce to keep her doors open. Since he was charging interest at the rate of twelve percent, he was hardly running a charity, despite what his wife was implying. Even with the spa’s current profitability, it would take Letty years to pay off what she owed.
Yet fate had given Letty an easy solution: a solicitor named Mr. Marvell, representing the interests of Empire Investment Co., had recently offered her a thousand pounds for the spa. Gigi had asked her eldest brother James, who had the financial brains in the family, to look into the company. All he could discover was that it had a history of purchasing failing businesses at low cost and selling them off for profit.
Progress at the expense of people , James had said with disgust. That seems to be the way of it with these industrialists and financiers.
If Letty had accepted that offer, she would be rich and carefree. Instead, she’d chosen to protect her family legacy. She believed in the value of the spa to the community and in Chuddums. From Gigi’s perspective, it was Mr. Pearce who owed Letty, not the other way around. Rumor had it that he was mired in debt due to years of vacancies and plunging land values, as well as his profligate lifestyle. There was fear that he might have to sell off his properties piece by piece, destroying the fabric of the village. Luckily, the spa was bringing commerce back…even if he and his wife were taking credit for the positive change.
“Chudleigh Bottoms is indebted to my husband,” Mrs. Pearce declared. “Dear Mr. Pearce has campaigned tirelessly on behalf of the village, touting its finer attributes to his influential friends in London. You have him to thank for your gala guest list, Miss Letty.”
Gigi had to bite her tongue because she had sent dozens of invitations to her family’s friends and acquaintances in Town, many of whom had promised to attend.
“I believe that is why my project to honor my husband as a living hero of this village was so well received,” Mrs. Pearce went on. “Indeed, Lady Georgiana, I was particularly gratified by your brother’s donation. Because of Lord Ethan’s generosity, the tribute to Mr. Pearce was constructed of the finest Peterhead granite.”
Since Gigi knew that Ethan would pay any amount to be rid of Mrs. Pearce’s company, she said blandly, “He was happy to contribute.”
“The presence of your family elevates our little village,” Mrs. Pearce gushed. “Will your parents, the marquess and marchioness, be returning soon?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mama and Papa are vacationing in the Cotswolds for a few weeks, but they promised to be back for the reopening of the spa.”
“How splendid.” Mrs. Pearce gave her a conspiratorial look. “Between you and me, Chuddums could use more of the Quality and less of, ahem, the other sort.”
Despite her discomfort, Gigi managed to keep her polite expression in place. This came from years of dealing with social climbers. She didn’t know which she found more irritating: Mrs. Pearce’s need to douse her with the butter boat or to put down decent folk like Letty.
“I must compliment your promenade dress en redingote ,” Mrs. Pearce prattled on. “The salmon-pink merino paired with brown velvet piping is ever so becoming. It is from London, I assume? The work of Madame Dubois, perhaps? I’ve attempted to get on her waitlist several times, but, alas, it is always full.”
“Actually,” Gigi said brightly, “this dress is the product of our very own Mrs. Sommers. Is she not talented?”
Mrs. Sommers owned the village dress shop. She and Mr. Duffield, the draper, kept abreast of the latest fashions and ensured that Gigi’s locally made garments were as stylish as any from London. Gigi looked forward to her visits to the dressmaker not just because of the lovely clothes. Mrs. Sommers had an inexhaustible supply of nieces who cycled through her shop as assistants. The young women were lively, full of gossip, and obsessed with beaux and flirtations. Mattie, the current niece-apprentice, always had amusing stories to share.
“You should take your cue from this young lady, Mrs. Pearce.” Mr. Pearce winked at Gigi. “By patronizing our local shops, you’ll save me those outrageous bills from London. There’s nothing wrong with keeping the wealth here in Chuddums, eh?”
“Well, that was exhausting,” Gigi said.
“Are you tired, dear?” Letty fretted. “You’ve overtaxed yourself on my behalf?—”
“I was referring to Mrs. Pearce.”
“Oh.” Letty’s lips quivered. “She has taken a rather keen interest in you.”
“If she invites me one more time to her ‘Ladies of Quality’ meeting—which, I’m told, spends its time discussing all those who don’t belong to the group—I shall throw myself over a bridge,” Gigi vowed.
Letty laughed. “If you plan on getting soaked, I have a better suggestion. Would you like to be the first to try the bath? You still have a half-hour before your sister-in-law comes to fetch you.”
She gestured at the pool, which the village stonemason had restored to its former glory. The limestone basin had been scrubbed clean and leaks in the lining patched and filled. The pipes had been opened, and water filled the long rectangular pool, steam drifting lazily toward the skylights above. The spectacular scene was completed by the pristine columns and relief.
“I was hoping you would offer,” Gigi said gleefully. “I brought a bathing suit with me.”
“Enjoy yourself, dear. You’ve earned it.” Letty patted her cheek. “None of this would be possible without you.”
While Letty went to conquer her to-do list, Gigi changed into her bathing suit. The ensemble consisted of two pieces: a navy, knee-length flannel tunic with long sleeves and a pair of pantalettes that extended to her ankle. The top and bottom were decorated with jaunty yellow ribbon rosettes and ruffles at the cuffs and hem. Returning to the pool, Gigi eagerly descended the wide steps that led into the water. She made a sound of delight as warm, silky water engulfed her.
Unfortunately, when she tried to swim, her heavy costume bogged her down, and she had to satisfy herself with prancing along the length of the pool. After a while, she grew tired of the restriction and yearned to move more freely. She was an excellent swimmer. As a girl, she’d snuck off to swim in the stream on her family’s estate, wearing just her chemise. Of course, there’d been no one to see her…but who was here to see her now? The spa was closed, and Letty wouldn’t care if she removed her pantalettes.
Getting out of the pool, Gigi peered around furtively before untying the flannel pants and stepping out of them. They made a rude sound like passing wind as they fell to the ground, and she snickered. Feeling a hundred pounds lighter, she went to the deepest side of the pool and dove in. She cut cleanly into the water, hardly making a splash. Although the tunic was restrictive, she could at least move her legs, propelling herself through the water. She did a few laps, exhilarated by her newfound freedom. When she got tired, she turned over onto her back and floated. Gazing up at the rising columns and flickering wall sconces, she lost herself in a daydream.
She was a Byzantine princess, enjoying a bath. Unbeknownst to her, one of the Varangian guards—Viking warriors who served as mercenaries for the king—was spying on her bathing. She experienced a frisson of excitement at being secretly admired. One day, he would step out from behind a column and say in his deep, gravelly voice, “ I have been waiting to declare myself to you, princess… ”
Her pulse thrummed as the star-crossed lovers’ romance unfolded in her head. Every day, they would meet at the bath. Then, one day, they would share a kiss…
Suddenly, a face came into her view.
She blinked… but the Viking was still there .
His wild-as-the-sea eyes glinted down at her as he flashed a wicked smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the water nymph,” he said.
Conrad’s annoyance faded the instant he saw the young woman in the pool. He recognized her immediately: she swam like he imagined a naiad would. Even hampered by a bathing suit, she moved gracefully through the water…although, oh ho, it appeared her legs were unencumbered. As he stalked her through the columns, he caught the flash of her long, slender limbs.
By Jove, she has a fine pair of legs.
What an unexpected treat this was. He’d been looking for a stubborn spinster and instead found a nubile, half-clothed nymph. Was the girl a servant here? Sneaking in a swim while her employer was away?
Then and there, Conrad reversed his prior decision to avoid her. Bedding her was clearly a superior strategy. Once he had her, his interest would wear off, the way it had with other lovers. This woman was like any other, one who might prove a pleasant diversion during his hopefully short visit to this godforsaken village. He would invite her to supper and back to his room at the inn. When she flipped over, floating gracefully on her back, he made his move and went to the edge of the pool.
“Well, if it isn’t the water nymph,” he said.
Her eyes, the same vivid violet as they’d been in his filthiest fantasies, widened. The next instant, her exquisite legs vanished from view with a splash. She stood, staring up at him.
“What in heavens are you doing here?” she asked.
Oh ho, again. His nymph did speak. Her voice was as beautiful as the rest of her…and, he registered with a frown, cultured . Her accent was undeniably the product of generations of breeding, the kind that elocution lessons could not buy. He knew this because, to please his papa, his mama had tried desperately to polish up her accent. She’d succeeded to some degree, but certain vowels always betrayed her. His stepbrothers had mocked her, saying she sounded like a shopgirl.
“I said, what is your purpose here?”
If this young lady’s accent hadn’t betrayed her origins, then her expression would have. Even though she was standing in a pool dressed in a wet tunic, her damp tresses tumbling down her back, she carried herself like a duchess.
“You talk,” he murmured.
“And you, sir, apparently do not answer questions,” she retorted.
Yes, a duchess through and through.
Enjoying her spirit more than he should, he said easily, “Before we get to that, introductions are necessary, don’t you think? I am Conrad Godwin.”
She canted her head. “The name sounds familiar.”
“I am an industrialist, and my projects have done passably well. Perhaps you’ve read about me in the papers.”
After a moment, her gaze turned speculative. “I have read about you. You’re that Godwin.”
Used to having his accomplishments recognized, he bestowed a genial smile upon her. “Indeed, I am?—”
“The one who tore down three blocks of tenements in London to build factories and left hundreds without a roof over their heads.”
He stopped smiling. “Those buildings were fit to be condemned?—”
“The one who bought those mills in Manchester and closed them down, costing dozens of workers their livelihoods. Your actions caused riots.”
“The workers caused the riots,” he said, annoyed. “ I simply took over businesses that were not performing and made them profitable.”
“By shutting them down.”
“By establishing lucrative enterprises in their place.”
“Rather cold-blooded and mercenary reasoning, don’t you think?”
“I think,” he said through his teeth, “that a lady like yourself would not understand a man’s business.”
She crossed her arms over her bosom. Thanks to her clinging tunic, he could see her tits were perfection. Unfortunately, he couldn’t claim the same about her attitude.
“That solicitor who came. Mr. Marvell,” she said. “Does he work for you?”
She wasn’t stupid, he’d give her that.
He saw no reason to lie. “He does.”
“Well, Miss Caldecott already refused your offer.”
He cocked his brow. “How is that any business of yours, Miss…?”
“I am Miss Caldecott’s friend, and I know how much the spa means to her and to this village.” She gave him a look that would have put Joan of Arc to shame. “I will not stand by and watch some unfeeling financier destroy it for the sake of profit.”
When she lifted her chin, he didn’t know if he wanted to shake her or swive her. Who was this woman? Someone who had a reputation to protect, he guessed. Then again, so did he. The last thing he wanted was to compromise some milk-fed miss and find himself caught in the Parson’s mousetrap. He needed every ounce of his focus on one thing: achieving his vengeance.
Inhaling, he took a step back. “Don’t you have a chaperone?”
“I didn’t need one until you interrupted my private swim,” she said loftily.
“What about that day at the stream?”
He had her there, and she knew it. The roses in her cheeks acknowledged his point.
Nonetheless, she didn’t back down. “If you would kindly turn around, I shall restore myself to rights.”
“By restore yourself to rights, do you mean you’ll put on your drawers?”
Her eyes flashed. “Must you be so crude?”
He didn’t know why he was enjoying needling her. If he were wise, he would let her get dressed and find the spinster. Then he would buy the spa and get out of this bothersome place. Yet he found this woman irrationally intriguing. She had spirit and fire…and, if the abandoned drawers by the pool’s edge were any indication, an enticing streak of impropriety.
Beneath his frock coat, he was getting hard.
“It is the nature of cold-blooded mercenaries such as myself, I’m afraid.” He issued a mocking bow before turning around. “My back is turned as requested.”
Hearing the sloshing sounds she made, he paused before twisting his head subtly around. To be fair, he hadn’t promised not to sneak a peek. As he admired her shapely legs, which she was trying to hurriedly jam into the wet, uncooperative drawers, she lost her balance. She hopped, one foot caught in the pantalettes, the other losing purchase on the slippery surface. Arms flailing, she let out a squeak as she toppled backward toward the pool.
He moved, catching her in the nick of time. Their gazes locked, and he felt every inch of her wet form plastered against his. Her curves fit perfectly against his edges. One hard edge, in particular, was jutting into the soft cove between her legs…her naked legs.
His blood pounded in his veins. Her tunic had ridden up, and she was straddling his thigh. Bleeding hell, was that the soft, damp heat of her pussy he felt through his trousers? He was tempted to find out…but unfortunately, she seemed to be in a state of shock.
“Are you all right?” he murmured.
She gazed up at him, and he was mesmerized by those fathomless violet pools. Then she let out a breath, and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. It was the color of a rose-flavored Turkish delight and, he recalled, even sweeter. When she parted her lips, heat surged through him, for he knew an invitation when it was offered.
Ravenous for another taste of her, he bent his head and took her mouth. Devil and damn, she was even more delectable than he remembered. With a hungry growl, he deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue inside her dewy cavern?—
A voice rang through the chamber. “Gigi! What in heaven’s name is going on?”