The Convict's Bounty Bride Read online

  This arrangement had nothing to do with lust. It was a business deal to enhance his station in society; something that the woman, being from the upper echelons of society would surely understand, if not be expecting.

  Nevertheless, he hoped the obligatory marital encounters with his wife would be a pleasant affair. If Lady Thea was lusty enough to mount a horse like a man, their liaisons might well be mutually satisfactory.

  A sudden swelling in his pantaloons caught him off-guard. He grimaced. Thoughts of Nellie Malone, part hell-cat, part boudoir-kitten, could do that to him. Once all the arrangements were in place he would see about seeking out a suitable courtesan. Right now, however, he couldn’t afford the distraction.

  He tore his attention back to business.

  ‘When might I have occasion to meet the woman in question?’

  ‘Soon, sir. My information suggests Lady Thea will attend the next ball at Almack’s.’

  James passed the miniature back to Biggs. His man of business held the picture out for one last reverential look, and returned it to the plush fabric case.

  ‘She’s very young then, Biggs?’

  ‘Reasonably youthful. Due to her spirited nature it has taken her mother some time to engineer her entrée into society. She is nineteen, sir, soon to turn twenty.’

  The lady’s image sharpened with the new information; a feisty young virgin mounted astride a horse.

  James shifted in his seat, silently cursing the fashion for the new, tighter style of breeches.

  Chapter Two

  Thea took the opportunity, while everyone was engaged in small talk between quadrilles, to slip from Almack’s dance floor into the supper room. The air was heavy with the scent of damp wool, mixed with the liberal use of perfume that was past its best.

  Musty and fusty; just like the society ladies themselves.

  Thea had contrived and rejected all manner of strategies until settling on one she deemed most likely to succeed. There had been no difficulty procuring the cognac. She had found a bottle in her brother’s bedchamber. In fact she had almost tripped over it, while conducting a tiptoed search of his room as Stephen snored, out cold, fully clothed on top of the bed.

  Thea smoothed down her gown and eyed the lemonade set out beside the cakes. Sidling closer to the table, she pretended to study the victuals on offer, but instead stole a look at her surrounds. Tonight the house was full. A number of people had spilled out into the supper room to talk, away from the crush. Off to one side, her mother was huddled in conversation with another of the more well-connected matrons. As Thea expected, the countess was far too embroiled in the latest sensational gossip to notice her daughter’s movements. Likewise, the lady patronesses were either still out dancing or absorbed in tittle-tattle.

  Thea swivelled a serving platter in her hands, feigning scrutiny of a particular sweetmeat until the Viscountess Clydon entered her line of sight from the left. Almost anyone would have done, but Elspeth Clydon was a particularly good witness. A sycophantic crawler on the periphery of the inner circle of the ton, the viscountess would waste no time in running to one of the society matrons. Making an exaggerated glance to the right, Thea set down the salver, pulled a flask from her reticule and lifted the stopper.

  ‘Excuse me, my lady.’

  Thea lurched backwards, startled.

  The voice was mellifluous and male, not the shrill female exclamation she expected. The owner of the smooth timbre stepped up to the table, blocking the viscountess’s view.

  ‘If you are about to do what I think you are, I could not recommend that course of action. I understand this establishment is teetotal. If I may?’

  Without waiting for permission, he snatched the flask and sniffed at the neck of the bottle, then, raising a dark eyebrow in her direction, reached to drain the contents into a nearby urn.

  Furious, Thea forced a grimace that broadened into a smile as she took in the gentleman who had demolished her plan. Despite her best efforts to stop them, her lips curled upwards. His thick hair, cropped short at the sides, pushed lustrous curls up into a rakish tousle, and although dressed in the requisite evening wear, his face was as tanned as her father’s estate manager at the height of the summer harvest. Strength and vitality were not qualities the men in her circle held in abundance. The man stood out in complete contrast, taller and broader shouldered than any other man in the room.

  ‘Hunter, James Hunter.’

  He had circled the table and was now bowing in front of her.

  ‘Lady Thea Willers,’ she said, as curiosity compelled her to ignore the bold breach of etiquette he had taken in introducing himself.

  ‘I suppose I should thank you for preventing a most grievous faux pas, Mr Hunter.’

  Thea’s words conveyed the requisite politeness, but she was unable to muster anything like the same graciousness in her tone of voice. What did this Mr Hunter think he was doing? He had single-handedly destroyed her cunning plan and was acting instead as if he had performed her some great favour.

  ‘May I ask what a lady of your breeding is doing lacing the beverages with alcohol? Granted, this soiree is dull enough to warrant some reinvigoration, but you must have known that you would be apprehended?’

  How had this man guessed she meant to be caught? She had never met him before, and if she had seen him, she would have remembered. The neat cut of his breeches fairly leapt up and threatened to poke her eyes out. Even allowing for the tighter fashions of the season they rode within an eighth of an inch of decency, failing to camouflage an obvious bulge. Her disapproval, however, did nothing to stop her stomach reacting in an amazing feat of internal acrobatics.

  Dash it all. Whoever let him in? Some ninny overawed by his dandyish get-up and agreeable looks, no doubt.

  Mr Hunter handed over the empty flask and Thea snatched the bottle back, grateful to have something other than the man’s appearance to concentrate on. She replaced the stopper, dropping the flask into her open purse.

  ‘What makes you think that I wished to be apprehended?’

  ‘You had no cover, the gaslight in this corner is bright, and the establishment is well patronised,’ he said, identifying all the aspects Thea had taken into account before attempting to execute the manoeuvre.

  ‘That’s most astute of you, Mr Hunter.’

  ‘So, you did hope to be observed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Flummoxed, she had given him the truth before she had the presence of mind to substitute it with something less incriminating, like wanting to liven up the evening. A practical joke, even, would have been a more plausible excuse.

  Heavens, what was wrong with her?

  ‘May I ask why?’

  Thea took a breath, willing her pulse to steady. How should she reply to that? She had already admitted she wanted to be caught.

  ‘To be cast out of polite society.’

  Mr Hunter roared, bursting out with an unexpectedly melodious laugh. Thea hadn’t meant to reveal anything to this man, and yet, it was as if with one look he had stripped her down to her chemise and extracted the truth from her.

  ‘Why? I thought a woman would sooner saw off a limb than to relinquish her position in the ton.’

  There was no point lying now. She had practically told him everything anyway. She might as well come clean.

  ‘To ensure that I remain a spinster.’

  One corner of Mr Hunter’s mouth rose in half suppressed amusement.

  ‘Surely a lady as comely as you wouldn’t want to wither and die an old prune without knowing the pleasures of the flesh. While you’re still succulent, that is,’ he said, with a meaningful glance down to her breasts.

  She drew a hand up to her chest instinctively, as if his stare had the power to burn. Warmth spread out from her middle, rushing to the surface where the feeling skittered out across her skin. She wished she had brought the fan she had jettisoned in favour of fitting the flask into her purse. Men often praised her beauty. Such comments were ne
ither here nor there. She would much rather have been complimented for the sharpness of her mind, but nevertheless, for once, Mr Hunter’s comment left her speechless.

  ‘If you wish to be ejected from society, why not just lay down your maidenhead to a suitable rake? That way you would at least not die a virgin, assuming, of course, you are still pure?’

  Who did he think he was questioning her virtue, let alone referring to her maidenhead in polite company? Irritation pricked like a burr caught in her stocking, and the words that had temporarily deserted her came flooding back. She tilted her chin towards him, determined not to allow his impudence to pass unchallenged.

  ‘Is that an offer, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Is that a request, m’lady?’

  She had expected him to demur, but instead he stepped forward into the space usually reserved for family and intimate friends; close enough that she could sense the heat from his body. His voice was even, his eyes twinkling with devilment. Broad and weathered, the image of him stripped down to his shirtsleeves labouring over some manual task flashed through her mind. Within a few seconds her senses seemed to have heighted a hundred-fold. Mr Hunter’s sudden and brash movement into her proximity was sending odd sensations fluttering beneath her skirts.

  Thea hated backing down from a challenge, but the man’s expression indicated that he would be only too willing to oblige if she called his bluff.

  She took a hesitant step back to widen the space between them.

  ‘Yes, I am pure. And even though it’s none of your business, I did consider my total social disgrace as an option, but rejected it on the basis that I might be forced to marry the cad.’

  ‘Well, well, what a conundrum.’

  Mr Hunter tugged at his neckcloth as if he were unaccustomed to wearing it. Her attention was drawn to strange red marks curling from the top of his collar. The scars licked at his hairline.

  Like the mark of the Satan.

  How appropriate.

  Mr Hunter’s eyes glinted. He didn’t appear the least bit apologetic for ruining her scheme. If anything, he obviously found the whole situation comical. Now, thanks to this man, she needed to obtain more cognac or think of another way to engineer her social disgrace.

  She thrust back her shoulders.

  ‘I’m not at all sure what you find so humorous, Mr Hunter. Due to your chivalrous intervention, I am now inconvenienced to either try again or come up with another plan altogether.’ She jerked the drawstring of her reticule tight, her purse dropping heavily at her side.

  ‘In that case, I must act soon, while you are still a candidate.’

  ‘A candidate for what?’

  ‘For marriage.’

  With her mouth on the verge of opening involuntarily, Thea forced her teeth together. Even if she had been interested in being married, she outclassed him by too many rungs on the social ladder for that to be a realistic consideration.

  Thea struggled to keep her reticule where it dangled at her side, in response to the self-satisfied expression Mr Hunter had taken on. Her hand twitched while she fought the temptation to make a swing for him, which would have had the rather pleasing outcome of bottling him at the same time. Instead she took a verbal swipe at his only obvious handicap.

  ‘You overreach yourself, Mr Hunter. My mother, the countess, is most particular as to the breeding of my suitors. In fact, encouraging offers from properly aristocratic marriage partners is her life’s work.’

  The taunt made no impact. Instead, Mr Hunter tilted his head to give her a sly smile as if he were privy to some secret.

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t be so sure, Lady Thea. I wouldn’t be so sure at all.’

  Three days later, Thea sat at her dressing table at the family country house, dragging a hairbrush through her curls, counting out the strokes.

  Ninety eight, ninety two, ninety five.

  What? Now she had lost the wit to even count?

  Determined to expunge the image of that Mr Hunter she had the misfortune to encounter at Almack’s, she tried to focus her attention on completing a full one hundred brushes.

  It wasn’t working.

  Nothing would lever the man, who seemed both intriguing and infuriating, from her mind. To make matters worse, her brother had drained all his supplies of cognac and she had been unable to obtain the necessary spirits to repeat her plan.

  And for some reason, her run-in with Mr Hunter had put a chink in her resolve to avoid marriage at all costs. Her usually endless stream of cunning ideas had stalled. He was so completely different from the men in her usual circle that more than once she had paused to wonder what it might be like to be wed to someone so bold and irreverent.

  It was all making it frustratingly difficult to come up with an alternative plan to orchestrate her social demise.

  If only she could get that bothersome man out of her head.

  Thea slammed down the brush and went to the wardrobe where she took out her riding habit. Once changed, she walked down the stairs, slipping out of the house, across the courtyard, and into the stable block. She had the faint hope she might sneak past the stableboy and her father’s groom, to steal a proper ride on her brother’s horse.

  Bad luck.

  George Smithie, the stableboy, was already at his work.

  Smithie buffed a bridle, restoring the dry leather with beeswax, and something about the way his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, revealing tightly muscled arms, managed to remind her of Mr Hunter.

  Would she never rid her head of thoughts of the man? Everything brought him to mind: a whiff of strong scent, the housekeeper arranging flowers in an urn, and now the stableboy’s brawny forearms. She had replayed their meeting a hundred times, what he had said and how he had looked at her, trying to work out what exactly it was about the man that was capable of sending such odd sensations directly to her stomach, all to no avail. But then, recalling Mr Hunter’s comment about ending up a desiccated old maid, she had an idea.

  Thea tapped George on the shoulder. As he turned, she planted him with a kiss. With eyes wide in alarm, George dropped the cloth and the tin of beeswax. He backed away, holding his arms outstretched to avoid any touch, and especially the one Thea was forcing upon him.

  Not to be put off, she stepped forward, attempting to slip her tongue into his mouth as some of her suitors had done every time her mother was distracted. George, however, had his lips locked shut and she slithered across his face like an eel out of water. Unable to speak, he made the most peculiar strangled noises.

  Ludman, the groom, rushed into the tack room, ‘Smithie, unhand her ladyship immediately!’

  Picking up a nearby horsewhip, he brandished it towards the rafters.

  Smithie stepped back, his head darting from side to side.

  ‘I didn’t… I didn’t mean…’

  ‘There’ll be the devil to pay for this, boy. Lady Thea, you best return to the house at once.’

  The groom turned to leave. Thea mouthed the word ‘sorry’ to George who held both palms upwards, gesturing at her in disbelief. She felt a stab of guilt at having used him, but her father was a soft touch. Given she was still a virgin, besmirched a little, although not totally ruined, it was unlikely George’s punishment would be too harsh.

  She hurried after the groom, hoping to head him off. Ludman, however, reached her father’s study first, his lanky stride outdoing any pace she could muster. As Thea tried to follow him in, he barred the door with his bulk.

  ‘Excuse me, Lady Thea, but this is best dealt with man to man.’

  Left out in the hallway, she twisted hopelessly on the heels of her riding boots.

  How far should she admit to things having advanced with George?

  She would not want her father to believe that she had been ruined and for George to lose his job. On the other hand, a chaste kiss with a stableboy, one she had initiated herself, might not be grave enough to seal her fate as persona non grata as far as the ladies of the ton were concerned. Why hadn�
�t she considered all of this more carefully?

  The door opened.

  ‘You’re wanted inside, m’lady.’

  The groom stormed past her towards the stairs.

  Waiting until he had thundered by, Thea stepped up to the threshold.

  ‘Dorothea, what happened?’

  Her father’s voice was tense. She wiped her hands, now clammy with sweat, on the woollen folds of her skirt, still undecided about how much to say.

  ‘He touched me.’

  In a literal sense her words were true, nevertheless, she looked down at the carpet, knowing full well the inference the earl would draw.

  ‘Were you…er, hurt?’

  She understood what her father had asked, however indirectly. She was no barefaced liar. Now she would have to tell the truth.

  ‘It was merely a kiss, Father.’

  A throat cleared on the opposite side of the room.

  ‘Should I leave, my lord?’

  Surely not.

  It couldn’t be.

  But the voice was unmistakable, rich and smooth as treacle poured from a spoon. She followed the sound. Mr Hunter stood up and bowed in her direction. Her breath caught in her throat. He seemed even taller and broader than she remembered, filling up the small room.

  ‘We meet again, Lady Thea.’

  She frowned.

  Why was he here, and what possible business could he have with her father?

  ‘No, James, no. This concerns you now as well, I fear, and I should have a witness,’ her father said, pushing down on the arms of the chair with force, propelling himself upwards. The earl had never been prone to excitement, but his face was bloated with anger. He grasped the riding crop the groom had left on his desk. Swinging the whip up under his arm, he hurried past her, starting down the stairs.

  Without risking a look at Mr Hunter, Thea followed the earl. She wasn’t sure what unnerved her more: Mr Hunter’s presence and her father’s odd comment that this matter somehow concerned him, or the earl’s uncharacteristic demeanour.

  Thea trailed her father down to the courtyard, acutely aware from the sound of his feet on the cobbles that Mr Hunter strode close behind, forcing her to keep up her pace. The outside air was cool, but nevertheless she felt a glow rising on her cheeks, and sweat pricked at her neck beneath her collar.