The Accidental Abduction (30 page)

Her friend raised an inquiring brow.

“Mr. Valloy came to me after he found out about the marriage. He threatened to, in his words, make things difficult if I did not persuade Father to sign over his seat on the board of trust for the Wakefield land.”

For the first time in the whole long conversation Meredith appeared genuinely shocked.

“I knew Terrance Valloy to be a hard man, but I would not have expected this.”

“Neither would I. There is something more going on here than wounded pride. Do you think you could find out what it is?”

Meredith took her time in answering. “I think . . . yes. At least, I will do what I can. There's a particular gentleman at the naval office to whom I could apply. He has . . . some rather wide-ranging connections.”

“It also might be that Mr. Valloy is in communication with Mr. Dickenson about the matter.”

“Two jilted men pulling in harness?” Meredith's brows knitted together as she turned this possibility over in her mind.

“Stranger things have happened.”

“They have. Very well.” Meredith's gray eyes glimmered behind her spectacles. “I am engaged.”

“Thank you. I feel so much better knowing you are with me.”

“Put it down to my irrepressible romantic nature.” Meredith closed her book with an audible snap. “Now, finish your tea. You've given me quite the list, and we must get started at once.”

“T
hank you for agreeing to see me, Anthony . . . Mr. Dickenson.”

It was the fashionable hour, and Rotten Row—the broad avenue running along the southern edge of Hyde Park—was filled to the brim with horses and carriages. This was the time of day when members of the haut ton who particularly wished to see and be seen ventured out to bask in whatever sunshine there might be, and in each other's company. None of that top-lofty crowd paid any attention to the neatly turned-out young woman who strolled along the edge of the Row, even though she walked in company of an impeccably dressed and clearly prosperous man who wore his quizzing glass on a gold chain about his neck.

But they should have paid attention. To Anthony Dickenson's eyes, Genevieve Morehouse surpassed every single woman who passed by in a shining carriage or on the back of a high-stepping horse. How could anyone not be captivated by her, with her auburn hair, her green eyes, or her sweet, slender figure? Everything about her spoke of freshness, of innocence and femininity. She was a perfect jewel. All she lacked was her setting. All she lacked was him.

“Of course I agreed to come,” he said. “I've been most concerned about you.”
And about what
she
is whispering in your ears.

Of course, her writing to ask for a meeting here in the park was most improper and inappropriate. But her evident unease as they walked, along with the distance she kept between them, was proof that she understood this. He did sympathize with her discomfort. Her sister's actions had placed her in an impossible position, and driven her to the extreme.

Miss Morehouse lowered her eyes with becoming modesty, further evidence of her proper feeling.

“Oh, no, not at all. Well, a little.” Dickenson hated her bonnet. It was plain and unbecoming, and kept him from seeing if a blush rose in her cheeks at these words.

It was maddening to have her so close. If they had been alone, he would not have been able to resist seizing her, kissing her, and more, much more. It was weakness. She was his weakness. He must not give in yet, but he could soon. Very soon.

“I know how hard this has been for you, Miss Morehouse. It is natural you should be confused, and angry at this delay in our marriage.”

“I . . . no . . . well . . .” She hesitated yet again. “This isn't what I'd wanted to speak to you about, not entirely. I . . . I had a favor to ask, but perhaps, as things stand . . .”

“You may ask me anything. Indeed, I am the first to whom you should apply.”

She made no direct answer to this, only fumbled in her reticule. She paused, and fumbled some more. “Oh, no! Where is it! Where is it!” She groped in the bottom of the beaded bag.

“What is the matter? Calm down. Speak clearly.”

“I can't believe I've lost it! Leannah will
murder
me!”

“What have you lost?”

“The ring! The ring Mr. Rayburn gave . . . ”

“Did Rayburn give you a ring?” he demanded, but he already knew the answer. Rayburn most certainly coveted Genevieve. No one could want the older sister once they'd seen the younger. He could not help but imagine the brawler casting his lustful eyes over her, and offering her every manner of insult. He would kill the man. He would watch him die slowly for daring to think that Miss Morehouse could be purchased as easily as her sister had been.

“No! Certainly not! But he did give it to Leannah, and . . .” Genevieve let the words trail off. “Oh, I never should have come,” she muttered. “I've made so many mistakes. Anthony, I'm sorry. I haven't been at all fair to you, but I can't carry on with this anymore. You should go now. I'll . . . I'll write to you.”

“I will not leave, not until you tell me what this about.”

In that moment, a look of such unforgivable stubbornness crossed her delicate face that Dickenson could almost believe it was the sister standing there. But it quickly subsided, and when Miss Morehouse spoke, it was in her own sweet, modest voice. “Mr. Rayburn had a wedding ring with him when he married Leannah. It was just so strange that a man whom one met by chance would have a ring with him. I wondered, I mean, is it genuine?”

Of course she wondered. Of course she could not understand. Anger burned in him. He would track Rayburn down, catch him alone. He would make sure the brute never dared come close to Genevieve again, and he would bring men enough to do the job properly.

This thought warmed him enough that it was easy to speak gently. “Of course it was strange. It speaks well to your common sense that you should not only see this at once, but that you should lay the matter before me.”

“I'd put the ring in my bag. I meant to bring it to you . . . I thought you might be able to tell me whether it was real. But now it's gone, and I must get home and find it before Leannah asks any questions . . .” She shook her head. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm making a mess of things again. And a scene.” She glanced quickly about to make sure no one was taking notice. But there was no one even near them, except some black-headed clerk sitting on a bench with a book in his hand. “You'd be well within your rights to cut me dead.”

If only I could.
“None of this has been your fault.” Dickenson turned toward her. Despite the chill of the spring day, perspiration prickled under his hat and collar. It was impossible that so small and delicate a creature should exert such a hold over him. Dickenson's yearning and impatience had only increased since he'd taken up with Valloy. His family had even begun to notice, and to remark on it.

Miss Morehouse bit her lower lip. Dickenson stared, fascinated. Even beneath the shadow of her bonnet, her mouth glistened. “I'm afraid it is my fault. All of it. If I hadn't suggested we elope . . .”

“Which you only did because your sister refused to permit us to marry.” Anthony reminded her. She must learn to stop making excuses for that harridan. She had to conquer family feeling, and not only see Mrs. . . . Rayburn clearly, but to speak clearly of her defective character and the atrocities against decency that she had committed. When Genevieve was his, he would explain all this to her—patiently, of course—until she did understand. “I might wish you had consulted me more closely on the subject, but please believe that I do not judge you at all harshly because of it. You have never known a man's proper guidance. Once we are married, things will be very different. You will be able to depend on me absolutely to guide you upon the right path.”

The strength of her surprise raised Miss Morehouse's eyes directly to his. Dickenson felt an uncomfortable tightening in his groin. “A man's proper guidance?” she murmured.

“Of course. Unlike your sister, you are a natural woman. You know that's what's been missing in your life, and your instincts have drawn you to the best and strongest man of your acquaintance.”

Miss Morehouse said nothing for a very long time. A thousand emotions flickered through her bright eyes and he heard her breathing grow ragged. His groin tightened again to see the color that rose in her pale cheeks and the light that burned in her gaze. Now that the truth had been spoken, her love was filling her, her love and her need for him.

“You . . . you . . .” She paused and pressed her hand against her bosom. “You think my sister is somehow . . . unnatural?”

Anthony blinked.
Be patient,
he reminded himself. She is not used to speaking of such things. “She is, and in your heart you understand this. Otherwise you would not be so eager to separate yourself from her.”

She drew herself up straight. Pride showed in every inch of her bearing. Anthony's heart swelled. Once she was properly educated, she would be truly magnificent.

But her next words shook him to his core. “Perhaps, as I am from the same tree that grew such an
unnatural
branch, you should reconsider. I would so hate to disappoint your notions of what a proper and submissive wife should be.”

“But you cannot disappoint, don't you see?” He strove to keep his voice calm. She was innocent still. He must not overwhelm her with an undue show of ardor. “Every word you speak demonstrates that you possess in full measure those proper feminine feelings your sister lacks. I promise, I have already set events in motion. Soon, I will be able to claim you for my own, and you will have nothing more to fear of your sister or her bullyboy.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You must forgive me for speaking openly of such things, but I would have you understand that I know it all.” He seized her hand. He could not help himself. “I see how she dominates you and she poisons your life with her scheming ways. This business with the ring as well. He is trying to make a conquest of you. But it is all right. I know you are innocent in the matter. You will never hear a word about it from me once we are married, and . . .”

“How
dare
you say such things about Leannah and Harry!” Miss Morehouse twisted her hand, Anthony tightened his grip. He had meant to wait until their marriage to begin her education, but clearly he'd already left it too long.

“I will forgive you for raising your voice to me this once,” he told her firmly. “I know you are very confused.”

“Unhand me, sir!”

She struck him. Hard, and right across the face. Not with an open hand, but with a balled fist. Anthony saw stars. Then he saw red, a brilliant scarlet haze between himself and all the world. She'd struck him. His free hand lifted over his head. The poisonous little creature had dared . . .

A hand slapped about his wrist, pinning his harm in place. Not a woman's hand. A man's. Realization brought him back to himself. He couldn't see Miss Morehouse. He could only see the black-haired fellow who'd been sitting on the bench a moment before now. He stood directly in front of Dickenson and clamped his coarse hand around Dickenson's arm.

“Is there some problem?” the black-haired man asked. His voice was calm, but his blue eyes were ice-cold.

“No,” began Dickenson.

“Yes,” replied Miss Morehouse. Now he could see she stood just behind the stranger, pale as marble and just as cold. “This . . . this . . . man is importuning me!”

The stranger's eyes did not even flicker from Dickenson's. “Sir, I think you had better leave.”

Anthony wrenched his arm out of the other man's grip. It was more difficult than he would have credited. “This girl is my fiancée,” he announced. “You will cease to concern yourself in my business!”

“I am most certainly not your fiancée, nor will I ever be!” cried Miss Morehouse. “Of all the mistakes I've made, you are the worst of all! Good-bye, Mr. Dickenson! Sir,”—she turned to the stranger—“will you be so good as to escort me back to my carriage?”

Anthony could only stand and stare as the clerk bowed, and took Miss Morehouse's arm. She was leaving. She was walking away from him and she was not even looking back. Her voice rang in his ears. The shrill contempt, the unnatural harpy's fury. She'd struck him. She'd raised her hand to the one she should have been swearing to obey for the rest of her life.

He'd ruin her. He'd ruin them all. He'd spare no expense, stop at nothing. Then, when she was broken, when she was crawling, only then would he relent, and agree to take her back.

First things first, he would remove her sister. Never mind Valloy and his scheming with the father. The woman could not be allowed a single day's more influence over his Genevieve. Fortunately, his family's extensive business dealings taught him exactly what to do, and whom to hire. There was, in fact, a fellow right in her neighborhood who could be trusted to take the job. All he had to do was wait, and watch.