So his lordship wished to dole out a bit of intimidation. She let her voice rise to a girl’s pitch with a touch of a lisp. “And how are you this lovely morning, Lord Falgate?”
“Good, Miss Collins,” he harrumphed, “and you?”
She laughed a high, piercing giggle and brayed, “Wonderful! Just wonderful!” While she cut her broiled kidneys, she laughed some more to herself, to the footman, to the walls, and then laughed at her plate as she shook her head to make her coif of ringlets bounce in all directions.
“I must say, my lord, you did make an impression at yesterday’s dinner.”
“Did I?” Thick ebony brows pulled together.
She studied the blade of her knife and laughed as if it had delivered a hilarious joke. Then jerked her attention to Lord Falgate.
Infusing her expression with fevered brilliance, she narrowed her gaze on his receding hairline. “One of your comments intrigued me,” she tittered, while twirling her knife next to her ear. “After your words spun around this little head, something sprang to mind.”
Her laughter echoed off the walls as her gaze flew to her plate where she found something hilarious about her eggs, and then abruptly stopped. Eyes losing focus, she could feel the emergence of the lifeless, flat stare of a dead fish.
She turned her head to Falgate, not really seeing him since her eyes were frozen in place. As if imparting a solemn confidence, she said in a little girl’s stage whisper, “Do you know there’s a shop in London that specializes in life-size dolls? Given your preoccupation with such aids I thought I’d write a friend of mine to send you their address and possibly a catalog.”
A loud clatter echoed through the breakfast room. Serving utensils bounced off the sideboard and onto the marble floor. She looked up to see the footman quickly step over to help Captain Tollier mop up the mess.
***
Beau’s stomach didn’t feel at all the thing this morning. He’d drank too much brandy last night and ended up with a splitting headache. To relieve the pain he’d taken a little laudanum. That had been a mistake as well.
Now dizziness, another headache and a muddled, hung-over misery refused to allow reality and unreality to mesh. After seeing C.C. at yesterday’s dinner table, he couldn’t get her off his mind. The combination of discussing C.C. with his brother, no sleep for two days, then the brandy and laudanum must have produced the delicious carnal dream about her.
After that, things got murky.
Upon entering the breakfast parlor this morning he’d found a very different C.C. cackling like a deranged lunatic. She’d said the most degenerate things to Lord Falgate in a voice as unsettling as her laughter.
The breakfast parlor scene made his head pound anew. He’d taken some toast and a stiff cup of coffee back to his room and now sat on his bed.
As he slowly chewed his dry toast, he sifted through his memories. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? He chewed and breathed and chewed and breathed. My, but her perfume made a very pleasant memory. Vanilla and honeysuckle, was it? Such a lovely fragrance.
He swallowed his toast, breathed in again and…cursed extravagantly. His tray nearly fell off the bed in his rush to reach the window. Throwing it open, he dragged in the fresh morning air. Surely the bed’s flowery fragrance must be some kind of special laundry soap.
The cool air only increased the throbbing in his head. He stumbled back to his bed, moved his tray of food and took a careful sniff. Thin eddies of honeysuckle and vanilla floated off the pillow.
Alarm rang through his body. He threw back the covers. Three long, curly strands of dark hair lay on the sheets. “No, no, NO!” he moaned. The hairs on his neck stood on end, followed by his loins.
For God’s sake, he’d not even been home twenty-four hours. After years abroad, he’d hoped to shed his scoundrel image, present an upstanding captain worthy of respect, and show one and all a chastened, grown man who’d left his awkward youth and impetuous blunders behind. He’d wanted to start over and be more like Thomas.
C.C.’s perfume was distinctive. How could he convince anyone he’d changed if a maid discovered C.C. had been in his bed? The staff would be atwitter and spread the news far and wide. Grasping the three hairs, he hurried to the window and threw them out. Then he tottered over to his trunk and fished out his expensive bottle of cologne.
After splashing a liberal amount into his hands, he ran his fingers over his sheets and pillow. He gave it a test sniff, coughed, then sneezed. The room now reeked of a masculine blend of lime and incense. Hopefully it covered the woman’s fragrance.
Much as he’d like to flatter himself, women in their right mind did not appear unannounced and uninvited in his room. Surely he hadn’t bedded her. He fetched his tray again and mulled it over with another bite of dry toast.
Good God, what a horrid thought.
Even in his wilder youth, when he’d excelled at foolishness, he’d not done anything so witless. Certainly he’d been taught a gentleman’s rules of behavior—which he frequently chose to disregard. But no matter how beautiful or alluring or rich she might be, he did not bed crazy women.
Dear Lord, if they’d been discovered, he shuddered to think of the scandal. They’d say he’d sunk to a new low bedding a woman known to be unstable. He couldn’t, wouldn’t do that to his brother and family, especially after he’d been warned. His days of being a blot on the family escutcheon were over.
For some reason Miss C.C. Collins had decided to torment him—new blood, perhaps? Women as beautiful as she knew their power over men. He’d be damned if he’d let her thwart his shot at a new life. A wise man would make every effort to steer clear of C.C. And that was exactly what he intended to do.
An hour later, Beau slowly made his way down the south wing’s grand staircase to reacquaint himself with the old hall. Signs of his sister-in-law’s renovations were everywhere. Scents of the fresh yellow paint and new red carpet pervaded the cool air. The windows had been replaced and cleared of the heavy drapery. Sunshine now poured in on all sides. He shaded his eyes with one hand.
Music drifted up from below. Someone was playing the pianoforte in the music room. As a boy he’d not been allowed to attend his father’s receptions. Back then his nurse let him sit on the top steps to listen. He recognized the tune—Chopin—one of his favorites. He stopped on a stair. Such a beautiful melody, so filled with emotion and depth. Oh, the memories that lived in this grand foyer.
An odd chord sprang out, then the rubato hit a few bumps, and finally all expression fled in a frantic hammering of keys. On a final dissonant note, Beau sighed and clutched his sore head as he descended the last few steps.
A footman pulled open the music room’s door for Beau. Rows of guests sat in a semicircle around the pianoforte. They began to clap when the cherubic-faced older woman rose from the instrument, gave an unsteady smile and bowed. On the piano bench next to her sat her page-turner, C.C.
She looked up.
Her gaze locked onto Beau’s.
Pivoting in a quick about-face, he muttered to the footman, “No thank you, I need someplace quieter.” He would not allow her to toy with him again.
Beau strode down the corridor and turned into the grand library. Tall mullioned windows reflected the gothic interior of ancient stone, carved wood paneling, ornate gas lamps and plush furniture. He climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the second floor. Thick walls and fully stocked bookcases made