Very Truly Yours Read online

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  compassion that seeped into her like water into an unseaworthy vessel. Looking at him, growing weak at the sight of so much masculine beauty, made her think her ship was sunk already.

  "Mr. Fairchild," she greeted unevenly, and cleared her throat, tipping up her chin. "What a surprise."

  "Miss Cranshaw," he said. When he smiled the sun became his co-conspirator, bouncing off his fine, white teeth and winking in his eyes. "I've come to beg your forgiveness."

  When he took a step forward, she had the unreasonable notion that he was going to take her in his arms. She made a start and had to stop herself from creeping backward. Her sister caught the aborted motion and shot her a stunned look. Celia had never known her sister to shrink in anyone's presence.

  "Liza?" she queried, fidgeting with the lace collar of her rose-colored crepe dress. Her alarmed blue eyes peeked out from under her wide-brimmed bonnet.

  Liza gave a short, violent shake of her head, setting her black curls flying. Don't ask, the motion said. Don't ask why he undoes me so.

  "Will you forgive me for forgetting our dance?" he continued, sauntering to her side. "Upon further reflection, I avow I remember you well."

  When his eyes crinkled with a wistful smile, she blushed. What precisely did he remember? Only the dance? "I am sure, sir, the evening was quite forgettable."

  "I pray not. And now that my memory has been jogged, may we start again?" He displayed a well-formed calf and sketched a deep bow, taking her hand. His warmth penetrated her Limerick glove. She'd offered only two fingers, but he'd managed to scoop four in his firm grip.

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  "Miss Cranshaw, I am pleased to make your acquaintance again."

  He gazed at her steadily as he placed his lips on the back of her hand. She felt the intimacy of that kiss all the way up her arm to her woozy head, nearly bowling her over. She stiffened and waited for his theatrics to cease.

  "May I introduce my sister, Mr. Fairchild?" she said when he rose. "This is Miss Celia Cranshaw."

  "Greetings, Miss Celia. What a pleasure." Jack turned his focus to the young girl, and her eyes widened in surprise at the force of his charm. He kissed her hand as well, and she stifled a girlish giggle.

  Liza rolled her eyes, then quickly pasted a smile on when Jack turned his focus back to her. "What brings you here to Cranshaw Park, Mr. Fairchild?"

  "I became lost. I decided to walk to your house to give your father a letter of introduction, but I lost my way when I tried to cut through the woods."

  "You're lucky you weren't shot by our land agent," she said dryly, resting her bow against a bench. "He doesn't take kindly to trespassers."

  "Then I should count myself fortunate that I stumbled on you, since you are armed only with a bow and arrow and not a gun. And I came at such a splendid moment. I have never seen such a shot from a woman before. Very impressive, Miss Cranshaw."

  His eyes warmed with genuine praise. It softened her like water on a dry sponge. She smiled and blushed in spite of her wariness. "Thank you. I've worked at it for some time."

  "Is that why you are still without a husband? They fear your marksmanship?"

  At the mention of marriage, her stomach took a tumble

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  and she frowned. How could she explain to this handsome, lovely gentleman that she had finally decided to marry a man like Barrington? She'd once been proud of her independence. She'd relished the way people talked about her, half-admiringly, half-disparagingly, as if she were a unique creature to choose spinsterhood when as a rich merchant's daughter she could have the pick of England's land-poor noblemen. But now her own choice of a husband had robbed her of all moral superiority. Everyone knew Lord Barrington was a wastrel desperately in need of a rich wife. Everyone, that is, but her good-natured parents.

  "Why have you never married, sir?" she asked, trying to deflect his inquiries, turning bright red when she realized what a personal question it was.

  "I hold the unfashionable belief that one should marry only for love." He tapped his cane into a sprig of grass and regarded her thoughtfully, as if waiting for rebuttal.

  "Unfortunately," he added wryly, staring blatantly at her mouth, "I'm not capable of true love. Surely you've heard that about me before."

  "Yes, I have." When his gaze wandered from her lips to her eyes, she smiled sadly. "What a pity, Mr. Fairchild. Don't you think?"

  He blinked with a flash of sadness in his nut-brown eyes, then grinned ironically. "Not really. One rarely misses that which one instinctively knows one cannot have."

  "Cannot have or will not have?"

  He shrugged. "Is there a difference?"

  "What pretty words from such an experienced young blood."

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  "Not so young anymore," he interjected. "I am near to thirty-five."

  She was twenty-five. That made him positively ancient. And yet age had done nothing to diminish the vibrancy that thrummed in his lean, muscular figure.

  "How many hearts have you broken with such gracious humility, sir?"

  He held up his arms as if she were a bandit threatening his life with a pistol. "Have I struck a bruise, Miss Cranshaw? I fear my charm is not having its usual effect."

  "No." She shook her head and the raven coils spilling from her cambric cap bounced at her temples. Her eyes narrowed with a warning. "No, sir, do not imagine one dance with you left any impression upon me at all."

  He lowered his arms and frowned with understanding. "Is that it, then?"

  "Is what what, then?" she asked, her eyes flaring. He thought he knew her. The audacity of the man! The air was suddenly stifling. She reached down and snatched up her bow and grabbed an arrow from her quiver. She nocked the arrow and drew it back, letting it fly cleanly. For a moment, she felt glorious release. But then the arrow struck wide of the mark, and that only added to her exasperation. She turned on him. "Why tempt women with your peculiar brand of charm, sir, if you have no intention of going the distance with them?"

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she cut him off.

  "Oh, I've heard of your charitable efforts to pleasure unhappily married women. How magnanimous of you."

  "Liza!" Celia gasped. During the course of their scandalous conversation, the younger woman's complexion had turned from pink to red to white. But Liza ignored Celia's shock—and her presence.

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  "I think you're selfish," Liza rushed on like a lemming that could not stop its mortal plunge into the sea. "You teach women to want that which they can never have. You know very well any respectable girl will never find such pleasure in marriage."

  "Yes, I do know that. That's why I've never married. And will you now marry, Miss Cranshaw, you who were once called the Untouchable? It appears that, like me, you had your own reservations about the state of matrimony."

  She shut her eyes against a wave of nausea. Marriage to Lord Barrington. Heavens, what was she doing? And why had this man come back into her life at the worst possible moment to taunt her with what might have been? She had to get ahold of herself. In fact, this would be the perfect test. If she could convince one of Society's acknowledged rakes that she was set on a happy course, then she could convince anyone. Even Desiree.

  She opened her eyes and pilloried him. "Yes, I will marry. I'm soon to announce my engagement to Viscount Barrington."

  He didn't flinch or blink. That was a good sign, wasn't it? She breathed easier.

  "Will you marry him happily?" Jack asked softly, regarding her with those penetrating, dark-lashed eyes.

  The word yes stuck in her throat, and she swallowed hard. "You are despicably impertinent, sir. Why are you hectoring me in this way?"

  "Forgive me again, Miss Cranshaw, that was not my intention."

  She drew back her shoulders. "What was your intention?"

  "I brought you something."

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  "What could it possibly be, considering you did not even remember me yesterday?"

&n
bsp; He reached into his pocket, then skewered her with a speculative look that made her feel as if she'd forgotten to dress that morning. Now she knew what Eve must have felt like just before she'd found three fig leaves.

  "What is it, Mr. Fairchild? Do you have something for me or not?"

  "Not," he said, pulling an empty hand from his pocket. "Unless you count this for something."

  He stepped forward, his shadow falling on her face. She leaned her head back to look up into his strong, determined features. He gripped her arms and pulled her close like a sack of goose down. She started to gasp, but he swallowed the sound with his mouth. The faintest growth of whiskers brushed her chin. His lips were hard silk. His breath was delicious. She frowned in astonishment at the pleasure. She'd forgotten, completely forgotten what it was like. Then she groaned and melted in his grip. She leaned into him and breathed in his musky scent and felt a gnawing hunger for more; oh, so much more. Madness. It was pure madness, but for one moment she was alive again. Alive, God, yes, alive!

  He drew back suddenly, watching warily, as if he couldn't quite believe he'd done it either. A moment later she heard a thud. They turned in unison and found Celia in a crumpled heap on the ground.

  "Oh, good Lord, she's fainted!" Liza cried out, rushing to her side. "Poor girl, I've finally shocked her into insensibility."

  "Prop up her head," Jack instructed, coming around to the other side.

  Suddenly there was another voice.

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  "Halloo! Liza, is that you?"

  As Liza cradled her sister's head, her own shot up in dismay. She squinted in the sun to see the approaching figure. "Mother is coming!"

  A genteel and slightly plump woman came up over the hill. Smiling, she paused to brash back a stray strand of graying hair and catch her breath. When she spotted her youngest daughter on the ground, her lovely face turned into a mask of horror.

  "Oh, dear! What has happened?"

  "Celia fainted, Mama."

  "What should we do?" Mrs. Cranshaw said. She rushed to Liza's side and looked to her eldest for guidance. "Liza, what should we do?"

  "We should take her back to the house, Mama. She became ... overheated." Liza exchanged a furtive look with Jack. Her mother followed her gaze.

  "Who are you?" Mrs. Cranshaw asked, completely mystified.

  "This is Mr. Fairchild. He was kind enough to stop and help. Can you carry her, Mr. Fairchild?"

  "Of course." Jack scooped the still-unconscious girl into his arms, which was the least he could do after having caused the girl's distress in the first place. Ironically, he became an instant hero in Mrs. Cranshaw's eyes for merely rectifying the very problem he had caused. Liza saw it all transpire in a sinking instant, and she knew then she would have been better off aiming that second arrow at Jack Fairchild's heart, for if she did not take great care, he would soon capture hers.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ack strolled through the portrait gallery at Cranshaw Park while the ladies and their servants tended to Celia in her room. How the devil was he going to explain that audacious kiss to Miss Cranshaw? God, he was getting reckless in his dotage. But it had seemed the only decent thing to do. He'd planned to give her the letter, but when the moment arrived it had seemed a cruel thing to do, to let this noble-hearted young woman know that her dreadful secret was known. And yet somehow he had to communicate the urgent message that she deserved more than Lord Barrington. At the same time, he'd been struck with an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Hoping she would get the message without words, he'd indulged himself. He'd quite forgotten about Miss Celia. Yes, indeed, he was getting too old to be a rake. He was losing his damned touch.

  He pondered this dreadful thought as footmen carried in tea accoutrements—a three-legged teapoy and tea caddy,

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  as well as expensive china and crumpets—-placing them amidst a cluster of furniture in the center of the long hall. It was a two-story room reminiscent of the Elizabethan galleries of old, except there were few windows here. Oak paneling lined the walls in stately elegance. Candles burned in ornate wall sconces, and a rich red Turkish carpet cushioned Jack's feet as he strolled from portrait to portrait.

  He was struck by the impressive array of paintings, which seemed somehow out of place. After all, Bartholomew Cranshaw had come from the merchant class and had made his fortune himself. It wasn't as if he'd descended from a long line of aristocrats who'd suddenly found themselves kicked out of the nobility into the gentry. Perhaps Mrs. Cranshaw had been of noble birth, Jack mused. He had no doubt he would soon find out.

  "There you are, you dear man," said a female voice from one end of the hall.

  Jack turned and found Liza's mother bustling toward him. She wore a feminine, old-fashioned over-robe of peach taffeta with a gathered ruffle at the neck. A white capote decorated with peach ribbons secured her salt-and-pepper hair, which was pinned up elegantly. Her cheeks were slightly plump and flushed, and despite a constant air of fluster, she was, Jack realized, an aging beauty whose features would have perhaps surpassed Liza's in magnificence in days gone by. She was an interesting contrast of frump and flair. She held out her hands as she closed the distance, clearly intending to greet him like family.

  "My dear Mr. Fairchild," she said warmly, gripping his fingers. "How can I possibly repay you for rescuing my daughter?"

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  "I am afraid I haven't quite accomplished that yet, Mrs. Cranshaw," Jack replied with a blithe smile, returning her sturdy grip. He liked her very much, even though she was apparently oblivious to Liza's peril, a fact which her next comment confirmed.

  "On the contrary, sir, Celia is already recovered. She's sitting up in bed and speaking with her sister at this very moment."

  Jack cocked a brow, but wisely refrained from comment. He could only imagine the conversation between the young women. Upon my word, Celia, if I hear you mention a word about that kiss to Mama, I'll never speak to you again!

  "Mr. Fairchild, please forgive my incivility," she continued, releasing his hands. "Please tell me who you are and why you've come to Cranshaw Park. Then I can give you a proper welcome. I am Rosalind Cranshaw."

  Before he could respond, Liza walked into the room. She was no longer the flushed, bold girl he'd encountered in the deer park. With her hair pinned in coils at the back of her head and dressed demurely in white, she looked as fresh as a spring daisy. Her simple dress seemed to accentuate her stunning amethyst-blue eyes and rose-colored lips.

  "Here is my eldest daughter, Mr. Fairchild, Liza."

  "We'd met many years ago in London, ma'am," Jack said, unable to tear his gaze from Liza.

  "Mama," she greeted, dutifully kissing her mother's cheek. Then she turned to him with downcast eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Fairchild, for helping my sister. I don't know what came over her." She flashed him a needling, mischievous look.

  "Then you know one another!" Rosalind said enthusi-

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  astically. "Liza, dear, you must tell me all about this charming gentleman."

  He watched admiringly as Liza's face concealed a multitude of emotions that he was toe .experienced to miss. Her eyes dulled with sorrow, then glinted with anger, then warmed with the pleasurable anticipation of the torture he was sure she intended for him. It would be her retribution for the kiss. Her intriguing lips curled with a tart smile.

  "I am quite sure, Mama, that Mr. Fairchild would not want me to recall the past, for that is something most people would just as soon forget. Especially someone like Mr. Fairchild."

  "So true, Miss Cranshaw." Jack grinned and pulled out his letter from Arthur. "Fortunately, I have a letter of introduction that exaggerates all my current attributes and ignores all past follies. It's from Mr. Arthur Paley. You may know of my family. My grandfather lives but an hour's ride from here, at Tutley Castle."

  "Is he in Lord Tutley's employ?" Rosalind Cranshaw asked politely, taking the letter.

  "No, ma'am, Lord Tutley is my grandfather.
Arthur is also a relation."

  "Lord Tutley is your grandfather!" Mrs. Cranshaw nearly burst with joy. 'That is simply famous!"

  Jack wondered that she had not immediately made the connection when she'd first heard his name. He would have imagined she'd heard something about Lord Tutley's heir, as they were practically neighbors. But the Cranshaws spent little time in London and were doubtless among the folk who deemed the haut ton a bit hedonistic. They probably heard little gossip, which might explain their ignorance about Lord Barrington's character as well. And since Jack's grandfather considered merchants his social

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  inferiors, they'd had scarce chance to acquaint themselves with the goings-on at Tutley Castle.

  "Now that you mention it," Rosalind Cranshaw said with satisfaction, "I do recall hearing that the baron's heir was a London rake."

  "Mother!" Liza cut in.

  It took Rosalind Cranshaw a moment to realize her blunder. Then she smiled sweetly. "I meant no insult, my dear. It is simply a fact."

  Jack smothered a smile as they gathered around the teapoy, the women taking the sofa and Jack settling in an austere Hepplewhite chair.

  "So tell me, Mr. Fairchild," Mrs. Cranshaw said, her face positively beaming with anticipation, "will you be our neighbor one day? Not that I should wish anything untoward to happen to Lord Tutley, of course."

  Jack accepted the cup of tea she had just poured and sipped as he considered his response. She was trying to find out if he was going to inherit the title, and if he did that would make him a prime match for Miss Celia, though he was far too old for her.

  "I will doubtless take up residence at Tutley Castle, ma'am, when I inherit the tide. But my grandfather is in fair health and I do not expect that day to come for some time. Meanwhile, I have come to Middledale to practice law. It is a passion of mine, and one I hope to ply on your husband's behalf, should he have need of services now that Mr. Pedigrew is retired."

  "I will speak to him," Rosalind Cranshaw said, blinking her large sapphire eyes. Clearly she'd been taken aback by the implication that he had to work for a living.