There was utter silence.
Saint Morris studied her face. He saw the drug was taking effect, and smiled at her.
“What does that have to do with your being called Saint?”
“Your wits aren’t begging yet, huh?” He patted her hand and rose. “You will sleep now, girl. As to why I’m called Saint, well, that’s another story. Del, Miss Mary, take good care of my patient.”
“You should be called a miserable storyteller, not saint,” Chauncey called after him.
He chuckled and waved a huge hand at her.
“That was delicious,” Chauncey said.
“It’s one of Lin’s special dishes for invalids. It’s got an outlandish name—chicken-and-rice soup.” he grinned widely. “And lots of unpronounceable things are in it. I will tell her you enjoyed it.”
“Indeed,” Chauncey said, giggling. “Perhaps she can sell the name to the rest of the civilized world.”
He gave her an answering smile, but his eyes grew thoughtful on her face. She felt better, thank God. Her eyes were bright again and her color back to normal.
The lamps were dimmed and it was nearly ten o’clock at night. Saint hadn’t been to see her today, having to attend a man who had been shot through the leg in a duel. Delaney sat in the wing chair next to the bed after he removed Chauncey’s tray. “You had a number of visitors today,” he said after a moment. “Gentlemen of all persuasions trooped through, hats in hand, mournful looks in their eyes, and the like.”
“I trust you told them I wasn’t receiving.”
“Oh no, I brought them all up. You were taking a nap, of course, so I knew they wouldn’t bother you.”
Chauncey’s hand flew to her hair, now brushed and braided. At his chuckle, she frowned. “You are a liar,” she said.
“You are mending, thank God.”
“And his Saint.”
He leaned forward, his expression intent. “Any pain now?”
She stiffened, remembering her mewling weak groans. “No,” she said in a clipped voice. Now she had only occasional twinges from the bruise at her temple, and her ribs were only a dull ache.
“I don’t believe you, of course, but no more laudanum until you’re ready to go to sleep. Tell me, Chauncey,” he continued without pause, “when did your father die?”
Her eyes flew to his face. “How . . . how do you know about that?”
“You were delirious the night of your accident and spoke of many things. You thought I was your father.”
“He died last April,” she said. Oh God, what did I say?
“I’m sorry.” He saw that she was regarding him with something suspiciously like fear, and wondered at it. Perhaps, he thought, she was in pain and didn’t want to admit it to him. He rose and walked to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and stirred the glowing embers. He could feel her eyes boring into his back.
“You’ve been calling me Chauncey.”
“You insisted,” he said, turning back to her. “It suits you, you know. How did you get it?”
“My Irish nurse, Hannah, dubbed me that when I was only six years old. She said that for such a wee little mite I took too many chances. Her accent was a bit peculiar, you know, and the ‘chances’ sounded like ‘chaunces.’ ”
“I trust you won’t be taking more chaunces in the near future.”
You were so damned elusive, what was I supposed to do?
He saw her flush, and smiled. “I find you most unusual,” he said. “I was beginning to believe you a very sophisticated lady until your untimely accident.”
“I am,” she said.
“Oh no,” Delaney said quietly. “You’re strong-willed, and likely stubborn as hell, but not a blasé woman of the world.”
Her eyes fell. She had planned this so carefully. Being in his house, being alone with him in intimate conversation. But still he seemed to elude her, even make sport of her. She must make him interested, dammit, she must!
“It came as something of a shock to me,” she heard him say, “to find a soft, very vulnerable girl in my bed.”
“I didn’t mean to be,” she said stiffly.
“Had your accident really been a fake, I can only imagine how you would have behaved. It boggles the mind, I assure you.”
“It is unfair of you to mock me now.”
He gave her a crooked grin. “I sense that if I don’t take full advantage of the opportunity, you’ll never allow me another chaunce.”
She returned his smile. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t seem to help herself. “I am tired.”
“Ah, that must mean that you can’t find a sterling retort to put me in my lowly man’s place. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me exactly why you executed that charade?”
She looked him straight in the eye and drew a deep breath. “I like you and you persisted in ignoring me.”
“I did rather ask you for an answer, didn’t I?”
“Now you have one.”
“Why me, Chauncey?”
“Why not?”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Dan Brewer was wondering aloud what the devil a rich young lady was doing in San Francisco. We decided, all in facetious good humor, of course, that you were probably hanging out for a rich husband.”
“I don’t need a rich husband.”
“That is what I find so fascinating, my dear.”
My dear! She gave him what she believed to be a most seductive smile. To her utter chagrin, he laughed, a deep, booming laugh.
“I hate you!” she muttered, feeling a perfect fool.
“Love . . . hate, they are two sides to the coin, are they not?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes narrowed on his face, “they are.”
“Tell me,” he said abruptly, his tone utterly serious, “about your childhood in England.”
She felt herself relaxing against the fat pillow. Here, at least, was safe ground. “I am an only child. My mother died in childbed when I was ten. I took care of my father until he . . . died.”
“What about your Aunt Gussie?”
She tried to keep the rush of fear to herself. God, what had she said? “She is a terror.”
“And Owen?”
“He is a toad, and her son.”
“Ah, then who is the prig?”
“His name was Sir Guy Danforth. I had thought at one time that I would marry him. He and his mother lived near us in Surrey. I broke our engagement after my father died.”
“Because he left you penniless?”
She stared at him, her hands fisting beneath the covers in an efort to keep herself calm. “It seems, sir, that you already know everything about me.”
“No, just rambling bits and pieces. I have the impression, though, that this past year has been a trial for you.”
“Yes.”
“Were you by any chance in London in fifty-one?”
“No, I was at home, in Surrey.”
“It is unfortunate. I was visiting relatives at the time, but unfortunately I didn’t see much of your country. I did meet many very interesting people, though, in London.”
I’ll just bet you did! “You mentioned that your sister-in-law is English?”
Delaney leaned his head back, but he regarded her intently beneath his lashes. “Yes. I was the guest of her mother and stepfather, Aurora and Damien Arlington. The Duke and Duchess of Graffton.”
Chauncey felt a rush of fury. So they were the ones who sucked in her father! The ones who had refused to help him recover his money. And they were rich, damn them, very rich! “I do not know them,” she said dully.
“Then why do their names upset you so?”
“Their names do not upset me,” she said with perfect honesty.
“I repeat, Miss Jameson, you are an enigma.” He rose and walked to the side table. She watched him pour water into a glass and add a bit of laudanum.
“I don’t want that.”
“I don’t care at the moment what you want or don’t want. Y
ou will drink it.”
“I do not take orders from anyone,” she said, cold fury lacing her voice.
He smiled at her, quite gently. “Do not force me to hold you and pour it down your throat. You are in my house, in my bed, and in my care. Now, open your mouth.”
She sipped until the glass was empty.
“Excellent. I was wondering if it was ever in your nature to be biddable. No, don’t rip up at me. You’ve worn me to a bone and I’ve got some work to do before I can go to bed.”
“I . . . I’m sorry.”
He leaned down and lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Don’t make me feel like a cad, Chauncey. I am glad you are here. I would have preferred the circumstances to be different, but what’s done is done. I want you to sleep now.”
She raised her face and met his gaze. Unconsciously she moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. She heard him draw in his breath. “You are not a prig,” she said.
No, he thought, anything but. “Hold still, Chauncey,” he said.
She watched the man bend over the woman, as though she were apart from them, observing from across the room. Apart from him until she felt his lips gently caress her mouth. She drew back, startled.
“So sophisticated,” he murmured. “Has no man ever kissed you before?”
“Yes,” she muttered. “Owen. It was awful.”
“I dread to know what you did to him.”
“I kicked him the first time. The second, I bit his tongue.”
“Did the prig kiss you?”
“Of course not! He was a gentleman.”
“Why did Owen kiss you the second time? Didn’t the fellow ever learn?”
He watched the myriad expressions flit over her face as he awaited her response. He wasn’t really surprised when she evaded him by asking impishly, “Why did you kiss me?”
“That was not really a kiss, my dear,” he said, a devilish gleam lighting his eyes. “That was but a beginning . . . exploration.”
“I cannot slap you. It would hurt my ribs.”
“So I have you in my power. Doesn’t that alarm you?”
She chuckled and almost instantly regretted it. “Please,” she gasped, “don’t make me laugh. And you, sir, should remember that I have a saint protecting me.”
Delaney rose and stared thoughtfully down at her. He could see the laudanum drawing her into sleep, though there was still a pert challenge in her eyes. “Should I take my chances and kiss you again? After all, you didn’t try to destroy my manhood.”
She flushed, though he doubted she would have, had it not been for the laudanum dulling her control.
“Dare I believe I’ve had the last word?”
“I’m going to sleep,” she said, and closed her eyes.
“Good night, Chauncey,” he said.
She didn’t open her eyes until she heard the door of the bedroom close very softly. Slowly she raised her fingers to her mouth. Her lips felt soft, somehow different. Tomorrow, she told herself, jerking her hand away, tomorrow I shall begin to question him about his holdings. He will show his true colors. He must! With no laudanum dulling my mind, I will also ask him more about all the very interesting people he met in London.
Chauncey, bathed, her hair arranged in lazy curls falling from a topknot, sat up in her bed, waiting for him to come. When she finally heard a man’s footsteps in the corridor, she planted a dazzling smile on her face.
It was Saint Morris.
“My,” he said, whistling, “I feel like the sun just broke through the fog and is shining on my miserable head. Well, girl, you’ll not have need of me for much longer.”
Chauncey wanted to ask him where Delaney was. After he examined her briefly, she asked in her most offhand voice, “Have you seen my host, sir?”
“Del? Hasn’t he been up to see you, girl? He didn’t deliver all these beautiful flowers from your admirers?” He waved toward the half-dozen bouquets placed about the room.
“No,” she said. “Mary brought them all up yesterday.”
“Well, there’s a new batch downstairs. Doubtless Del will get around to bringing them up. He’s a busy man. You rest, girl. Take the laudanum only if you really need it. Don’t want you to become dependent on it.”
“Why do they call you Saint?”
He grinned at her and wagged a meaty finger. “Another time, girl. It’s an uplifting tale, and not one to be told lightly.”
Alone, Chauncey glared at the bedroom door. So the cad was here in the house and hadn’t deigned to come and see her! Oaf! Conceited, aloof swine! She suddenly pictured herself executing a series of daring accidents and Delaney Saxton shaking his head at her in exasperation. She started laughing.
When Delaney opened the door, it was to see his houseguest holding her sides and giggling. He raised a mobile brow at her. “I was only thinking the jest, Chauncey. Can you read my mind?”
She wiped her eyes. “I have tried, but there is naught there but a vast wasteland.”
“You don’t see any audacity lurking about in the wasteland? Ah, forgive me, ma’am, Penelope. Do come in. I’m sure Miss Jameson has been pining for feminine company.”
Chauncey sucked in her breath, and said blandly, her eyes on Penelope, “Indeed, Mr. Saxton. After your . . . continuous attentions, it is a pleasant change.”
“Miss Jameson,” Penelope said in a high, shrill voice. “How very . . . pulled you look.”
Delaney prepared himself to be amused, and moved well away to stand by the window, his hands thrust in the pockets of his trousers.
“Do I?” Chauncey said blandly. “It is doubtless all the late nights, Miss Stevenson.”
Mrs. Stevenson sailed to the bed like the Eastern Light under full sail. She proffered a tight smile. “On the contrary, love,” she said toward her daughter, “I believe Miss Jameson well enough to go back to her hotel. How do you feel, Miss Jameson?”
“Pulled, ma’am, but only on the inside.”
“Won’t you ladies be seated?” Delaney asked. But not too close, he thought as he arranged the chairs. He didn’t want them to leave scorched around the edges.
“Everyone is talking about your accident,” Penelope said, arranging her lovely yellow taffeta skirts around her. “Tony Dawson, the silly man, has been haunting the house, Del tells me.”
Chauncey gave Delaney a drawing look, but he merely smiled, saying nothing.
“How nice,” Chauncey said, “to have friends.”
“Agatha Newton wanted to come with us,” Mrs. Stevenson said, “but I told her it would probably overtire you to have too much company.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I hear that dreadful man Saint Morris is tending you,” Penelope said.
“My dear Penelope,” Delaney said, his voice sounding to Chauncey’s ears like a soft caress, “Dr. Morris is one of the few competent medical men we have in San Francisco. I do not understand your dislike of him.”
“He is . . . not refined,” Penelope said, tossing her head.
“Ah, that certainly puts him in his place.” More than likely, Saint’s only flaw was not paying sufficient masculine attention to Penelope.
Penelope blinked, uncertain how to take his words, but Delaney, knowing full well that Chauncey’s eyes were glued on him, lightly caressed Penelope’s hands. He straightened very slowly, wondering why he had done such a thing. He didn’t love Penelope, now had no intention of marrying her, yet here he was behaving like an utter cad, leading her to believe herself important to him. He realized in that endless moment that she was even less important to him than just the day before. His eyes met Chauncey’s. Such expressive eyes; if only he knew her well enough to read her thoughts in them. What would she say, he wondered, if he were to tell her that he probably wanted her more than she did him?
“Lin,” he said, sheer gratitude in his voice, “the tea tray! I think, ladies, that Miss Jameson is a bit worn out. Why don’t we have tea downstairs and let her rest???
?
The triumphant look Penelope shot her made Chauncey want to grind her teeth. Polite departing words were exchanged and Chauncey was left alone with her tangled thoughts.
Lin returned shortly with tea and crisp almond cakes for Chauncey. “Do you like your tea plain, missy?”
“Yes, Lin. Thank you.” Chauncey sipped at her tea. “The cakes are delicious. And all the other delicacies you’ve made for me. I appreciate it.”
Lin paused a moment, then gave her a wide smile. Her teeth look like polished pearls, Chauncey thought. “The ladies left,” Lin announced.
“Oh?”
“Mr. Saxton take Miss Stevenson to ride this afternoon.”
Chauncey spilled her tea, wincing as the hot liquid scalded her palm. Lin bustled about, wiping her hand in a soft cloth, all the while thinking happily that the lady did want her master. She was sure of it now, and couldn’t wait to tell Lucas.
Chauncey didn’t curse until Lin left her alone.
12
Delaney forked the bite of braised chicken breast into his mouth. He could heard himself chewing, for it was the only sound in the room. Chauncey hadn’t spoken above two words to him since he had come in with their dinner. He fancied he knew the reason for her snit, and was amused by it, and inordinately pleased.
“Don’t you care for the peas?” he asked. “They’re fresh from Lin’s garden.”