He glanced at her, his green eyes dark. “D’you take a bath every night, Princess?”
“No,” she murmured, leaning close to the corner of his jaw. She rather wanted to put her lips there. “But you might want one. And I think it only fair that I have the chance to ogle you in your bath.”
He stopped in the middle of the crowded inn yard and growled, “Princess, are you flirting with me?”
Her heart was beating so fast it was like a moth fluttering against a window in her chest. She leaned up and brushed her mouth against his.
The kiss was meant to be sweet—a mere touch of the lips. A tentative first volley. She’d not kissed many men in her lifetime, frankly.
But he made a sound deep in his throat and opened his mouth over hers, angling his head, probing with his tongue against her lips…and when hers fell open, he took full advantage. Storming her defenses, overrunning her walls, laying waste to everything she’d thought she knew about men and their passions.
Everything she’d thought she knew about herself.
His mouth was hard and ruthless, taking possession of her lips, her tongue, her soul, it seemed. She gasped, arching closer, her fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his neck. He was so hot, so strong. She wanted to press her breasts into his chest. Wanted to feel his heat, his bare chest, the pulse of his heart.
She moaned, the sound shockingly loud.
“Hippolyta!”
Her head jerked back at the shout and for a moment only his face, hard and impassioned, staring down at her, filled her vision.
Then Hippolyta glanced around and her eyes widened. “Papa?”
Her father was striding toward them, his face flushed an unhealthy red. “Unhand my daughter, sirrah!”
If anything, Mr. Mortimer gripped her more firmly to his chest. “This is your father?”
“I…oh, my God, yes.” Behind Papa was the tall, elegant form of Viscount d’Arque and her father’s oldest friend, Mr. Richard Hartshorn, whom he’d known since their days in India. Both of them were her father’s business partners, but why they should be here…
Hippolyta couldn’t think. Her mind was a blank.
Everyone in the yard had turned to look at the scene.
Lord d’Arque had placed a hand on Papa’s arm. “Not here, sir.”
“He has my Hippolyta!” Papa was struggling with the viscount.
“Is that Sir George Royle?” a female voice fluted.
Standing in the doorway to the inn were a group of ladies, among them Mrs. Jellett…who was widely considered the biggest gossip in London.
Dear God. This had to be some sort of nightmare.
“Oh, and there’s Miss Hippolyta Royle,” Mrs. Jellett continued, sounding very excited. “And who is that holding her so very scandalously? My goodness, I’m sure I’ve seen that face before. Now let me see…”
But Papa had reached them now, despite Lord d’Arque’s attempts at restraining him. He was a head shorter than Mr. Mortimer, but he glared fiercely up at the man still holding her. “Who are you, sirrah?”
Hippolyta felt his big hands flex on her shoulders and bottom. “Matthew Mortimer, the Earl of Paxton.” Her head snapped around and she gaped at him, the Earl of…? but his proud glare was all for her father. “Your future son-in-law, sir.”
“How did you come to be traveling with my daughter?” Sir George asked some twenty minutes later.
The man’s color was a little better, though he still scowled and Matthew had felt it a good idea to stand for this meeting.
They’d adjourned to a private room in the inn—he, Sir George, Viscount d’Arque, and Mr. Hartshorn. Sir George, a short man but fit despite his high color, had taken a chair in the middle of the room. He wore a white wig and a well-cut somber brown suit. Seated to his right was Hartshorn, a man of between fifty and sixty, who wore his own graying hair clubbed back. He had a thin face and narrow, clever eyes. D’Arque was younger than the other two men, much closer in age to Matthew. His tall form was propped against a wall, and he watched the proceedings from heavy-lidded gray eyes, a snowy-white wig covering his head. Both men were business partners of Sir George, which, presumably, was why they’d been assisting in the hunt for Hippolyta. Less understandable was why the viscount had brought his grandmother, Lady Whimple, along on the search. Although after having met the elderly lady—even if only briefly—Matthew suspected it was because d’Arque simply hadn’t been able to stop her. In any case, Lady Whimple and Hippolyta were in another of the inn’s rooms.
He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hippolyta in private yet. The last he’d seen of her, Hippolyta’s eyes had been wide and shocked. He didn’t know if her shock was because of the way in which she had been found, his own title, or his declaration of his intent to marry her.
Surely she understood that there was no other way.
Not if she wanted to salvage her family’s name, because, good God, she had a family name. She’d been telling the truth all along and was exactly who she’d said she was from the very start. He’d begun to believe it this morning, but now the truth had been driven home rather forcefully.
He almost winced when he considered what she would say on the matter to him later on.
Instead Matthew kept his face carefully blank and looked at Sir George. “Your daughter stopped my carriage on the high road in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm. She said she was being pursued. I took her into my carriage and protected her. We were on our way to London when you found us here.”
Hartshorn frowned. “We know you only took one room here.”
Before Matthew could answer, Sir George huffed. “How do I know you weren’t the one who took my poor Hippolyta, sir?”
Matthew’s eyebrows shot up at the second question, but he turned to Hartshorn first. “I vowed to keep Miss Royle safe. Letting her sleep by herself unprotected hardly seemed the best way to do so.” He looked at the fuming Sir George. “And if I’d decided to kidnap a famous heiress I’d like to think I would be intelligent enough not to linger on the main highway. Besides. My ship, the Gallant, docked in Edinburgh a mere week ago. I would’ve had to have had wings to have flown to London and kidnap Miss Royle there.”
“So you slept in the same room with my daughter,” Sir George growled, sounding not at all appeased.
Matthew looked the older man in the eye. “Yes. And on my honor I did not touch her.”
“Why should I believe anything you say?” Hippolyta’s father shouted. “You claim to be an earl but your suit is old and you drive a broken-down carriage with but two disreputable servants. You say you haven’t touched my daughter, but half of Leeds saw you embrace her in a public inn yard not half an hour ago. Tell me, sirrah, why I should not call you out this very minute!”
“Because you’d ruin her, you sodding old fool,” Matthew snarled, fear beating at him—not at the old man’s threat of a duel. No. At the very real possibility that Hippolyta’s father would take her away from him.
“She’s an heiress!” Sir George roared, springing up from his chair so quickly that he knocked it over with a crash. “Any man’ll have her!”
Was that why he’d brought d’Arque and Hartshorn? Was the old man meaning to pawn his daughter off on one of them? He balled his hands into fists, ready to fight his way out of here if need be—and take Hippolyta with him.
D’Arque cleared his throat, straightening. “Went to school with a Mortimer.”
Everyone looked at him.
A corner of the viscount’s mouth curled as if he found something amusing in all this. “Ambrose Mortimer. Was the third Earl of Paxton after his elder brother held the title. Always was in ill health, poor fellow, and succumbed to a fever this last spring. But I remember he talked about his cousin, Matthew, who was an explorer out in India. Liked to make maps, I believe.” D’Arque arched an eyebrow.
Matthew nodded curtly.
“Just so.” The viscount strolled forward and offered his hand. “Welcome home
, my lord.”
Matthew hesitated only a second before taking the hand. “Thank you.”
D’Arque’s handshake was harder than his indolent drawl would lead one to believe.
The viscount’s gray eyes crinkled in amusement. He turned to the two older men. “Now, there is no reason to heed what I say—I am only a mere bystander, after all—but it seems to me that the match is a fair and good one. An old aristocratic title—impoverished, granted—matched with young blood and money. And, it appears, passion.” D’Arque shrugged, his mouth twisted in a cynical moue. “Such things make marriage better, I’m told.” He sobered, staring at Sir George. “Take Paxton’s offer, my friend.”
Chapter Eight
The king didn’t actually remember a parsnip test. But since he disliked tremendously appearing ignorant—especially in front of the queen—he merely gave her a wise nod. “Ah, the parsnip test.”
“Quite,” replied the queen. “The parsnip test.”
“Remind me again how that one goes,” said the king.
The queen rose. “Follow me.”…
—From The Prince and the Parsnip
* * *
“Ah, this reminds me of my salad days,” Lady Whimple said with what sounded like a great deal of satisfaction. She and Hippolyta sat in a small inn room. There were a faded settee, several tables, and a pot of tea. Lady Whimple held a cup, but Hippolyta had been too nervous to take any. “An heiress kidnapped, a chase, a passionate embrace, the possibility of a duel. Oh, the scandal!” She leaned toward Hippolyta, who she seemed to think had somehow contrived to get herself into this terrible situation on purpose. “I do congratulate you, my dear. Hardly any of your generation have the mettle to set the gossips aflame, as it were.”
“Erm…thank you.” Hippolyta glanced nervously at the door to the inn room and then asked delicately, “How did Papa know to go north? I mean to find me?” Had the Duke of Montgomery left a note or…?
“He didn’t,” Lady Whimple replied promptly. “As you can imagine there was a to-do when he found you missing, but your father is a smart man. He kept the news to himself and a few trusted allies and friends. The Duke of Wakefield went south with his duchess, while Lord Griffin Reading and his wife, Lady Hero, took the western route.”
“Oh.” For a moment Hippolyta blinked, feeling touched that she had such friends. Then her brows drew together. “But why were the ladies included?”
Lady Whimple poured herself another cup of tea. “Actually, that was the doing of us ladies. It was thought that if we did not find you before your captor had bedded you, then it would be best if you had a feminine shoulder to lean on.”
Hippolyta opened her mouth…and then didn’t know what to say. What a truly ghastly thought.
Lady Whimple seemed to understand what she was thinking. She patted her hand. “But as it turned out, I wasn’t needed for that, was I?”
“No. Thank goodness.”
“Indeed.” The elder lady sipped her tea serenely.
But Hippolyta still worried her lip, thinking. “Then my kidnapper didn’t leave any sort of note behind?”
Lady Whimple shook her head.
“Do you think I should tell Papa who kidnapped me?”
“No, indeed,” Lady Whimple replied. “Not unless you wish your father dead. He’ll be forced for honor’s sake to call out the man, and then…” She shrugged fatalistically.
Hippolyta shuddered. She didn’t doubt at all that the horrible Duke of Montgomery would accept a challenge from her poor father. The duke would kill Papa without turning a golden hair on his head.
No, Lady Whimple was right: far better for Hippolyta never to tell who had kidnapped her. Of course Papa might have his suspicions—the Duke of Montgomery had been making a nuisance of himself—but as long as Papa had no confirmation, he need not make a move against the duke.
A male voice shouting suddenly rose from somewhere outside. But the sound was muted enough that Hippolyta couldn’t tell if it was from Papa or Matthew.
“Whatever can be taking this long, do you think?” she asked.
“Oh, gentlemen.” Lady Whimple waved a dismissive hand. “They might take hours coming to terms over a marriage contract.”
Hippolyta’s gaze snapped back to the elderly woman’s face. Lady Whimple was in her eighth decade and had a sweet, gently crinkled face, made soft with white rice powder and pink rouge on lips and cheeks. The lady herself, however, was neither soft nor sweet. Her gray eyes were every bit as sharp as her grandson’s.
On the whole Hippolyta found herself rather liking the old woman—especially since, by her own admission, she’d come to rescue her. “Do you think then that my father will accept Mr. Mortimer’s proposal?”
Lady Whimple snorted. “He will if he has any brains—and your Papa didn’t make a fortune in India by luck alone, girl. No, once he calms down he’ll see this is an excellent outcome.”
“But…” Hippolyta paced the little room. “Mr. Mortimer will be so angry. No man likes being forced into marriage.” And forced he was being, even if he’d made the announcement himself. As a gentleman and a man of honor, he’d had no other choice once he’d so thoroughly compromised her in front of witnesses.
“If he were being roped into a partnership with a penniless nobody, perhaps,” Lady Whimple replied. “But don’t pretend unnecessary naïveté, dear. Some see it as charming in the young, but I’ve always found it cloying. You’re an heiress. He’s got a title and debts from the previous earls. He might’ve spent years trying and not found a better bride than you.”
Hippolyta swallowed, feeling something settle deep in her stomach. “The earldom is in debt?” That must be the “family business” he’d spoken of in the carriage.
“Yes.” Those sharp gray eyes examined her. “You didn’t know? Well, I suppose he wouldn’t have announced it to you, would he? But don’t fret. Your dowry will be enough to repair the Paxton fortunes. Aristocratic marriages have been built on far less, I assure you.” Lady Whimple poured a second cup of tea. “Now, come and sit, my dear. Soon you’ll be married and this will be all over.”
But as Hippolyta obediently sat she felt something inside crack a little. This wasn’t how it was meant to be, a small voice cried. This wasn’t how she and Matthew should’ve come together.
If they’d only kept driving instead of stopping at this inn.
If they were still inside that carriage, bumping over rutting roads.
If they were just Mr. Mortimer and Princess.
But they had stopped. They were the Earl of Paxton and Miss Royle now.
And as Hippolyta sipped the lukewarm tea Lady Whimple had handed her she knew: the freedom of being only a ragged anonymous beggar maid was over.
She had to face her real life now—and everything it entailed.
Two weeks later Morris, Matthew’s new valet, withdrew from the earl’s bedchamber with a murmured good night and a bow.
Matthew breathed a silent sigh of relief as he pulled the neckcloth from his throat. He hadn’t had a valet since he’d left England, and acquiring one, along with all the other more pompous accoutrements of an earl, had been wearying at the very least.
Not to mention acquiring a wife—not that she was wearying.
Matthew paused before the door that connected his room with Hippolyta’s in the Paxton town house. They’d married just that morning, but besides at the wedding breakfast at a little past noon, they’d hardly talked. At the formal meal, attended by their families, Hippolyta had asked after Tommy, Charlie, and Josiah, and Matthew had complimented her on her dress. Previous to that they’d been kept determinedly apart by her blasted father, possibly in a ridiculous attempt to close the stable doors after the horses had run amok in the pastures. Immediately after the wedding breakfast he’d been waylaid by lawyers and men of business and had spent the afternoon and evening incarcerated with papers and legal matters. The earldom was in a shocking state of affairs, though with the help of Hipp
olyta’s dowry, it was slowly being set to rights.
He hadn’t even been able to take supper with his new bride.
But now…
Matthew set his palm against the old oak door. He could almost feel her heartbeat on the other side. He had no idea what she thought of this marriage—if she was glad or frightened or grieved. He knew only what he felt.
Exultation.
He had her, his Princess, his little beggar maid, his Hippolyta Royle. His ragged girl who had turned out to be the richest heiress in England and exactly who and what he needed in a wife.
He had her and he would not let her go.
Matthew pushed open the door.
The countess’s bedroom was intimately lit with only a few candles. Hippolyta sat in the big bed, dressed in a lace-trimmed wrapper, playing with Tommy. Her ebony locks fell in a dark, shining wave about her shoulders.
She glanced up at his entrance, a smile on her lips. “Oh. I missed Tommy so.”
He strolled to one of the chairs by the fire, banked now. “So you mentioned at our wedding breakfast.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat.
She scratched the little mammal under his chin and Tommy—the wanton—chirped and flipped onto his back, curving into a C and tilting his head to give her better access. “Do you think he missed me?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied as he shrugged out of his waistcoat. “He doesn’t show his underbelly to just anyone.”
“Hmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, pushing her dainty fingers through Tommy’s sleek fur. “He’s a warrior. He needs to keep himself—and his heart—safe.”
“He does indeed.” Matthew pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. He could feel her gaze upon him as he propped a foot on the chair to unbuckle his shoes. She wasn’t as calm as she tried to make out. “But you should be careful with him.”
“Wh…what do you mean?”
“He’s a hunter. He thinks like a hunter.” He pulled off the first shoe and stocking and then the second before straightening to look at her. “He might be letting himself appear vulnerable to lure you in.”