Holy Scoundrel (9 page)

Since there was no changing destiny, he pulled out a chair, sat, and crooked his finger to bring his comically adorable little one over to him. She must actually have regarded him long enough to catch his summons because she came.

“Lovely dress,” he said.

Cricket’s eyes came alive. “It’s Mama’s. MyLacey made it smell like the water meadow again.” Bridget shoved her arm under his nose . . . so he could sniff, he imagined. So he did, nodded, and kissed her offered elbow. “I’ve heard you call her MyLacey before but I don’t know why.”

“That’s—”

He raised a hand to quiet Lacey. “I’d like Bridget to explain, if she would.” He regarded his daughter again, his rush of love so overwhelming, clearing his throat became necessary before he could speak. “Haven’t you noticed, Cricket, that everybody else calls her Lacey?”

Bridget nodded. “I remember that Mama used to call her that, but NannyMac called her MyLacey the day I met her, and I like it ever so much better.”

Lacey looked at him with a plea, and darned if he didn’t experience another rush of love, one that made hi
m
wan
t
to tumble headlong into the sea-green depths of her eyes where he could die happy. For a moment, he allowed his emotions to show, letting her glimpse her power over him, and she looked away, but not before he saw a hunger mixed with fear.

He knew exactly how she felt.

“Can’t I call you MyLacey?” Bridget asked, stepping from her slippers onto the sofa to reach and undo a bodice button or three of Lacey’s while shyly awaiting her answer.

“Of course you can, sweetheart.” She kissed Bridget’s nose and winked at him over his daughter’s enticing plea, the color in her cheeks matching the rosebuds marching across the bit of underbodice Cricket had revealed. “MyLacey can be your special name for me,” Lacey said, “like Cricket is your papa’s pet name for you.”

Bridget turned and gave him a single, strong nod as if to say, “See, I told you,” much as Lace had done this morning to Ivy in regard to Victor’s memorial service. Had Bridget learned that from Lace in the short time she’d been here? Or was prideful stubbornness a natural Ashton trait that his daughter inherited from her mother?

“Now tell me about this kitten,” Gabe asked his daughter as he folded his arms to listen and distract his attention from Lace rebuttoning her dress the way he’d like to do—No, he’d undo it the rest of the way, first, and then—

“Julia gave the kitten to me.” Bridget raised her empty hands. “But it’s dist-a-peared.”

“No, it’s not,” he was mostly pleased to report.

“It’s not?” his lovelies said together.

Gabe carried Bridget to the settee and pointed to the spot on the padded back where the outline of two little kitty paws pushed on the fabric from the inside.

“Oh, my, God,” Lacey said. “It’ll suffocate. We have to take the sofa apart.”

Gabe sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He removed his frockcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and unhooked his cleric’s collar. Then he turned the sofa around and got on the floor behind it with them.

Two hours later, the settee’s tapestried back had been flipped to the front, and Bridget sat on the floor cuddling a tiny, blue-eyed angora kitten who wanted nothing more than to catch those cherries wobbly-bobbing from her hat. Or was it the bald bird the fluffball coveted?

He’d spent so long bent in half trying to get the kitten out, Gabriel
could barely straighten, so Lacey rubbed his aching back. “You’re getting old,” she said, rubbing hard along his spine, and he chuckled because her hands on him felt so good he wanted to kink it every day. And as for feeling old, he’d never felt younger or more alive. “If I’m old, you’re old,” he said, to turn his thoughts and get her eyes to twinkling.

“Not for three years yet. Even so, you’ll still be older than me.”

MacKenzie came in and gasped. “I thought you were going to clean this up. It’s thrice as messy.”

Lacey chuckled. “We noticed.”

“Er, perhaps I’ve come at a bad time?” asked an unexpected male voice.

“Julian!” Lacey shot to her feet.

Forgotten on the floor, Gabriel took satisfaction in the fact that Lacey was not dressed for callers. Her bodice had been splattered with raspberry jam and the back of her skirt looked as though she’d sat on an Eccles cake.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she said, trying uselessly to tidy herself.

Beautiful. She looked beautiful.

Gorham tilted his head, considering. “You look like a queen.”

Their visitor should take a row on the river Arun, without oars in a leaky boat, Gabe thought. But since the dolt looked so uncomfortable with his outlandish compliment to Lace hanging in the air, Gabe felt more in control. He stood and stretched to his full imposing height, just so he could look down on Gorham. Then he placed his hand on Lacey’s shoulder, adding possession to power.

“Ah . . . is dinner still at eight?” Gorham asked awkwardly.

“Oh, Lord,” Lacey said. “I forgot I invited you.”

Gabe chuckled. Serve the man right.

Julian did not take the unintended slight well.

An hour later, Bridget’s running dialogue on her first-ever dress-up tea party kept dinner from being a compete waste with Lacey’s admirer making calf eyes at her across the table.

“Margaret’s mother makes dolls and doll dresses; did I tell you? She said perhaps I could go and play at her house tomorrow?”

For a little girl who’d rarely spoken until Lacey arrived, his Cricket took to making up for it with a vengeance, talking as fast as she ate.

“Clarissa’s nicer than Gwyn
.
Sh
e
poked her finger into Nanny’s lemon tarts.”

Lacey focused on Bridget, winced at the ill-mannered tart-poke, and ate very little.

“I told Sara Jacques that I want to call my kitten
Merry. She said that’s Mouse’s name, and I know that, but I like it, anyway. I’ll ask Mouse next time I see her, or I’ll ask Hedgehog when Ivy comes back on Sunday.”

“You’re eating awfully fast,” Lacey told Bridget.

“I’m hungry. Lydia said our pig should not be named Lady Cowper. She said we should call our cow that. Do you think so, Papa . . . Gabe?”

He regarded Lacey across the table. Bridget had addressed him directly. Finally. “I think our pig is perfectly happy with the name she has. Though I suppose we could reassign their names and call them the Ladies Cowper and Pigger.”

Cricket’s eyes widened to the size they’d been when Tweenie stole his sock, and Gabe decided he should tease her more often.

“How can you be hungry?” Mac asked. “After all the sweetmeats you ate this afternoon?”

Bridget yawned in answer and that was all Mac needed. She stood. “That’s it. Bath time, lovey. Then bed. My little lady’s had a tiring day.”

Lacey rose as well, bringing Gabe and Gorham to their feet, but Mac waved them all back down. You three finish and go to the parlor—the second parlor, that is—and I’ll bring tea ’round in a bit.”

Half an hour later, Gorham helped Lacey from her chair and followed her from the dining room. Gabe pouted until she turned to look for him. “Aren’t you coming?”

As much as he hated to leave her alone with the blustering dandy, he was concerned about Bridget. She’d been almost too excited. “I’ll tuck Cricket in and come right back.”

This was her chance, Lacey thought, to tell Julian that anything more than friendship between them wouldn’t work. She couldn’t be courted. Not with Bridget’s situation so precarious.

For half an hour, she tried to bring the conversation ’round, but every time she’d begin, Julian would say something absurd such as “her eyes were more brilliant than emeralds,” or, worse, “her cheeks could give apples lessons in bright and delectable.” To the latter, she laughed outright.

“Any man would be honored to have you for wife,” Julian said, bringing her back with a vengeance. “Make me the happiest of men and—”

“Vomit,” Gabriel said. He’d heard how Julian began, of course. “Bridget’s sick,” he said with accusation from the doorway, his demeanor thunderous. “She’s crying for you.”

Lacey stood and looked from one man to the other. What could she say? She shrugged and left the room.

“I’ll show you out,” Gabriel offered Julian as she approached the stairs.

He caught up with her before she reached the top.

“What did you do,” she asked. “Shove him wordlessly out the door?”

“I said good-bye.”

Lacey rolled her eyes but forgot her exasperation when she saw Nanny trying to make a weeping Bridget lie down. She let Bridget go when they entered, and as soon as she did, Bridget sat up with a whine. “MyLacey, my tummy hurts.”

“We’ve got her, Nanny,” Lacey said. “Go to bed. We’ll be fine.”

“This is no parlor that needs cleaning,” Nanny said from the door , “but I expect the two of you can manage this one.”

Gabriel started to remove his frockcoat and stopped. “Want to unbutton?” he asked Bridget, but she laid her head on Lacey’s breast and whimpered.

Lacey warmed when Gabe caught her watching him undo his shirt studs and quirked an inquisitive brow, but she didn’t turn from his gaze. He was settling in, becoming comfortable, the way she liked him best, collar in his pocket, sleeves rolled up.

Something about him, dressed, or, rather, undressed, in that at-home way, made her want to curl up in his arms before a fire and weave her fingers through the longish hair at his nape.

“MyLacey?” Bridget placed her hands on either side of Lacey’s face to get her attention.

“I’m sorry, sweet, what is it?”

“Can I have a drink of water?”

“I’ve got it,” Gabe said, filling a cup from the pitcher. He sat on the edge of the bed and handed it to Bridget.

She drank it down in one long gulp as if she’d thirsted for a week. Then she became violently ill.

When the spasms passed, Lacey and Gabriel washed her and got her bed changed.

“She needed that,” Gabe said a while later, standing beside his daughter’s bed, while Lacey stroked her brow.

“She’s sound asleep,” he said. “Go to bed. I’ll stay with her.”

“I’ll go and change,” Lacey countered, “and when I get back, you can do the same. We’re neither of us sweet and fresh.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

In her room, Lacey toyed with the idea of changing into another dress, rather than her night-rail and wrapper, but that was foolish. This was Gabriel, after all. He’d . . . well. This was nothing. Nevertheless, she took the time to brush her hair, then she decided at the last minute to let it curl down her back rather than braid it.

She unpacked the gift her friends at Peacehaven had given her when she left. An elegant China silk wrapper of buttercup yellow, trimmed in lace, hand-embroidered, and threaded with ribbons and love. After Lacey put it on, she gazed at her reflection in the cheval glass, and pulled the ribbons tighter beneath her breasts. How foolish, primping to sit with a sick child. Nevertheless, she pinched her cheeks before she left her room.

Gabriel stood when she entered, and by the light that leapt in his eyes, she knew he approved. Those same eyes hardened as quickly, however, and he left the room in silence.

Deflated, Lacey touched Bridget’s brow, then she pulled up her discarded covers and went to open the window to cool and air the room.

Looking out, she wondered where to go from here. Some time later, Gabriel placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. He wore a Spanish blue brocade dressing gown. Mercy. If she’d thought he looked good in shirtsleeves . . .

A different fire leapt in his eyes, one
of intent. Before she could fathom it, he took her in his arms and kissed her with the same greedy hunger he’d shown the day he returned from divinity school.

Forever, Lacey thought, sliding into the perfection of his kiss. It had seemed forever, a lifetime, since they’d kissed like this.

He slid his big hands up and down her back, everywhere, as if he needed to learn her before time ran out.

Lacey lost her ability to think. Her head swam, her body ached. She opened to him and kissed him back, the way she knew would drive him wild.

It did. His kiss deepened. His body roused and sought closer contact with hers.

They broke for air. “Oh, God, Oh, Gabriel.”

He shifted nearer and took her mouth again, his long arms so tight about her, his hands came back around her to caress the sides of her breasts, moving closer and closer to the place where she ached.

Her soul rejoiced; her body wept for more.

“Papa? MyLacey? What are you doing?” When Bridget’s voice broke their sensual fog, they jumped apart so fast, Lacey hit her head on the window.

“Cricket,” Gabriel said, needing to clear his throat before his words could emerge as more than a rasp. “Ah, Cricket, I see you are—”

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” Lacey asked, since he could barely form a sentence.

“I’m thirsty. Hungry, too.”

“I’ve heard this song before,” Gabriel said in a more natural voice.