Margaret Moore Page 2

  Vivienne stiffened.

  “The courts not keepin’ you busy enough?”

  She breathed again.

  “He’s somethin’, ain’t he?” the woman continued, grinning at Vivienne. “Brains in that handsome head o’ his and shoulders on him, eh? Not too many solicitors from this part o’ the city, but he done it.”

  “Polly,” the solicitor said evenly, turning to look at her and giving Vivienne a better view of his remarkably fine profile, “this is business. Wine, if you please. Your finest—and not watered down,” he added.

  “Nothin’ but the best for you, o’ course!” the wench said. She laughed and displayed black teeth as she winked at the lawyer. “She’s a beauty, I must say. And business, is it? I’ll wager it is! There’s a room upstairs for your business, if you like.”

  Vivienne flushed hotly. “I am not a harlot!”

  “No?” the woman replied with a hint of amusement. She addressed the man. “Jack said you give that up, but I didn’t believe him. Guess he was right, after all.”

  “Polly, just fetch the wine,” the man replied in a low voice.

  “Aye, I will,” she replied, still chuckling as she sauntered away, hips swaying.

  “She is a friend of yours?” Vivienne inquired coldly, all the heat of shame at being thought a harlot gone as she wondered what kind of man was sitting across from her.

  His brows contracted and suddenly he reminded her of a painting of the god Mars she had seen once.

  Dread again threaded down her spine and she searched through the smoke for the door. She wished she had not taken him up on his offer, even if he really was an attorney.

  She splayed her hands on the table and began to rise. “I think I have made a mistake—”

  He covered her right hand with his. “Lawyers are not born lawyers,” he said softly, his sincere gaze searching her face. “I know Polly because I grew up not far from here.”

  “Yet you would have me believe you are a solicitor? How do I know you are not in league with that woman, that this is not some ruse?”

  “To what avail?”

  “To rob me, or worse. First you gain my confidence, then you bring me to your lair and—”

  To her astonishment, he laughed, a low, deep sound that seemed sad, somehow, too. “My lair? I assure you, madam, the only lair I possess are chambers near Chancery Lane.” He sobered, and regarded her with more respect than ever Uncle Elias or Sir Philip had. “I see I was quite wrong to think you were foolishly naive.”

  “I told you, I am not a fool.”

  “Just desperate.”

  Vivienne sat down. “Yes.”

  The serving wench returned with the wine. As she set down two pewter mugs, she gave Vivienne a warm smile. “Whatever you’re up to, take care of him, won’t you, m’dear? He’s a good friend to me and mine. Sees to all the legal troubles for lots of folks’d be taken advantage of otherwise.”

  Vivienne didn’t respond as her companion paid for the wine. “Thank you, Polly.”

  Mercifully, an impatient customer shouted drunkenly for more ale, causing the woman to hurry away.

  “What did she mean?”

  “She means, I often give advice. Now, about your problem,” he replied, once more the cool, efficient advisor. “When is the wedding to be?”

  “The arrangements have not reached that stage yet.”

  One of his eyebrows rose questioningly.

  “But they will,” she affirmed. “My suitor,” she said, her tone sarcastic in the extreme, “has apparently made his intentions clear.”

  “Apparently?”

  “To my uncle, not to me. Indeed, they both act as if I have nothing to do with the marriage at all, except to be there in body.”

  “Your uncle is your legal guardian?”

  She nodded. “My parents died five years ago. I came to live with my uncle then.”

  “It could be that your uncle and your suitor consider the business side of a marriage not of interest to a young woman.”

  “It is not the ‘business side of a marriage,’ as you call it, that I object to.” Vivienne leaned forward, more into the light, trying to see him better. To see his eyes. “It’s the groom. I don’t love him, and he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me, except that he would like me in his bed.”

  The very notion of making love with Philip made Vivienne shiver with disgust. She couldn’t even imagine kissing him on the lips.

  Kissing this man, however … suddenly it was very easy to imagine pressing her lips to his, their breath mingling, his powerful arms tightening about her …

  She forced that image out of her mind. “Unfortunately, my uncle sees marriage only as a business proposition. I am the object to be sold, and my suitor has the appropriate payment.”

  “What is the payment?”

  “A title.” Vivienne wrapped her hand around the cold pewter mug. “The man my uncle wants me to marry is a nobleman.”

  The lawyer’s eyebrows rose and she could finally see that his eyes were as brown as his hair. “You are not titled?”

  “No, I am not,” she replied, a little flattered by his surprise. “Nor is my uncle, or any of my family.”

  “You do not want a titled husband?”

  She sighed with exasperation. “If I loved him, a title would be a charming addition. However, I do not love him, so if he were the king himself, I would not want to marry him.”

  “That is a very unusual attitude.”

  “Perhaps, but it is mine. My uncle doesn’t care at all about my happiness. You see, if we wed, my uncle gets a title in the family and an introduction to the court, which he can use to his advantage in business. He does not think of me at all.”

  “Is the bridegroom ignorant of your true feelings?”

  “Even if he were the greatest dolt in England, he could not be. I have given him no encouragement at all. Unfortunately, my uncle is well-to-do, and the groom, for all his breeding, is not overly wealthy. I will be my proposed spouse’s way to regain a squandered fortune.”

  “Did he squander it?”

  “No. Not even a title would overcome that deficiency in my uncle’s eyes. My suitor plays the much-put-upon heir to perfection.”

  “Are there other objections?”

  She ran her finger around the rough edge of the mug, then raised her eyes to look at her companion. “Need there be more? My parents loved each other and they were very happy. I want to marry for love, too, not gain or social position.”

  “I gather your uncle does not consider your reason sufficient impediment?”

  “No. He will not listen to me at all.”

  The solicitor leaned back and regarded her thoughtfully. “Then what you need to do is change his mind about your suitor. Search out those things most likely to upset your uncle, not you. Debts your suitor has kept secret, for example, or liabilities he has not spoken of.”

  At once Vivienne saw the wisdom of his advice and realized she had been trying to discourage her uncle in the wrong way.

  He was a man of business, and it was business, not emotion, that he understood best.

  “Or …” the lawyer began. Then he hesitated.

  “Or?” she queried, wondering what else he could suggest.

  He shifted forward, bringing more of his face into the candlelight.

  She had never seen lips like his, full and yet with no hint of softness about them. They were undeniably masculine. Virile. And incredibly alluring, so tempting she could scarcely attend to his next words, which were spoken softly, in a low, confidential whisper. “Has your would-be groom ever behaved improperly toward you?”

  “Only by persisting in his suit.”

  “He has not tried to seduce you?”

  If Philip had used that tone of voice, and looked at her with such intense, dark eyes, and possessed such lips, she might have been tempted.

  “Forgive the personal nature of my questions, but has he ever done so?” her companion repeated.<
br />
  Vivienne forced herself to concentrate and answer him. “Thankfully, no.”

  He looked relieved a moment, before his face assumed its usual serious demeanor. “Is there nothing else you can say against him? Does he gamble? Drink to excess? Wench?”

  She shook her head. “I have heard nothing of any indulgence in serious vices.”

  “Then I must say you have very little with which to condemn him as unworthy.”

  “I will not marry without love,” she reiterated.

  “And obviously, you are so adamant about this, you will risk your life.”

  “Yes.”

  He took a sip of wine, then very slowly and deliberately set down his mug and raised his eyes to regard her steadily. “Then my advice is, go home.”

  “But—”

  “Allow me to finish,” he commanded, and in such a tone, she did. “Return to your home and find ways to delay the proceedings.”

  “Delay?”

  “Yes, and while you do, try to find out all you can about the proposed groom.”

  “I don’t want to know more about him,” she murmured, realizing she would much rather know more about the man facing her.

  “It is your best chance. Every man has something to hide.”

  “Even you?” she blurted.

  “We are not discussing me.”

  She flushed hotly. “I’m sorry. How am I to discover such things?”

  He immediately continued as if she had not made her impetuous remark. “There is always gossip,” he said, and she thought his jaw clenched a bit. “You must find something to make the groom less appealing to your uncle.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “If things progress to the point of discussing a marriage settlement, there can be many questions and items to dispute during the negotiation of that legal document that will provide extra time for your investigation, as well.”

  “I understand,” she said, nodding. Then she frowned. “I am ignorant of the law. How would I know what to query?”

  “Query everything and anything. Ask all the questions you can possibly think of. If I guess aright, at least a few will give your uncle pause. He may begin to ask other questions, or doubt some of the language of the contract. I assume he will want it all to his advantage, or as much as possible.”

  “He will.” She toyed with her mug. “He may tell me such things are none of my concern.”

  “He may not if he is pleased by your interest.”

  “I can try,” she conceded.

  He looked around the tavern, and Vivienne realized it wasn’t as crowded as before. “The hour grows late,” he observed. “You must go home, and you must not think of running away again. Although now you think your family is being most unreasonable and even cruel, I’m sure they would be very distressed if anything were to happen to you.”

  “I am not so certain.”

  He reached out and cupped her chin in his long, lean fingers. His dark eyes seemed to be full of sorrow, a sadness that made her own heart ache, although she could not say why. “Trust me, they would.”

  He let go of her, and got to his feet.

  This place stank worse than a abattoir, but she didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

  “Have you ever participated in plans for a marriage where a woman was obviously not willing?” she asked, making no move to go. “Or the groom?”

  “No, although I have seen many where affection appeared to play little part in the planning.”

  “To be in such a marriage must be a miserable existence.”

  He held out his hand, obviously expecting her to take it, and stand. “They seem able to cope.”

  “Yes, by taking lovers or gambling or drowning in drink,” she said, still delaying. “As I said, I do not wish to live that way. I want to have the kind of marriage my parents had, a marriage based on love.”

  “They were fortunate.”

  “And your parents?”

  “I never knew them,” he said coldly.

  He was shutting her out. For whatever reason, he had decided the conversation was concluded.

  Reluctantly, she placed her gloved hand in his bare one and rose, noting the stains of ink on his right hand. Could he not even afford a clerk? she wondered as she reluctantly let him lead her from the tavern.

  “We are in luck,” he observed as a hackney coach lumbered toward them.

  She did not think so. She would think herself lucky if they had to walk back to her uncle’s house together.

  He raised his hand and the hackney rolled to a stop beside them. As it did, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his purse.

  “There is no need for you to pay for the coach,” she said. “I have money.”

  “I cannot allow that.”

  “I thank you for your generosity, sir, but truly, I would be ashamed to be any more indebted to you.”

  “You owe me nothing.”

  “I owe you a possible path out of my predicament.”

  “I will pay for the coach,” he said as coldly as if they had not just spoken for all that time in the tavern. As if he had not come to her aid. As if he had not tried to save her life, whether from a watery grave or an abhorrent marriage.

  “May I truly not know who has been so kind and generous to me, and given me such sage advice?” she asked softly.

  “No.”

  “There must be a way I can thank you.”

  “Your words are enough.”

  “I think not.”

  “I am glad I could be of service to a woman in distress.”

  He smiled, and she realized just how handsome he was, as handsome as any man she had ever seen.

  And he was certainly kinder than most.

  “The coachman is waiting,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she murmured, her heart thrumming with an emotion she had never felt before.

  She didn’t move. She wanted to express her gratitude, and mere words seemed pale and insufficient.

  With a different sense of desperation, she suddenly pulled him close and kissed him.

  Not on the cheeks, as anyone might do in parting, but full on the lips, leaning into him. Passion and desire flared within her at the touch of his lips on hers. The sensation reached into her body and demanded more—more fervent excitement, more passion, more communion.

  She had never kissed before, nor had she ever imagined that the melding of mouth to mouth could be so intoxicating.

  His embrace tightened about her and his mouth moved over hers with equal passion. Insistent need exploded within her when his tongue pushed against her lips. She eagerly parted them and let him enter, as willing and full of fire as he.

  Sweet heaven, she didn’t want to stop kissing him. She only wanted more.

  He held her so close, she could hear his heart beating—or was that her own?

  “’Ere, enough o’ that. Are you going to get in or not?” the coachman grumbled.

  The lawyer abruptly stopped kissing her and stepped back.

  She almost moaned with dismay.

  “She will tell you where you are to take her,” he said.

  He sounded so calm, while her heart hammered and her blood throbbed and every sense seemed more alive. Then she saw that his face was flushed.

  He pressed his purse into her hand. “That should be enough,” he murmured. “Farewell, and Godspeed.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the fog like some sort of phantom.

  She might have doubted he had existed at all, except that she could still feel his hot kiss on her swollen lips.

  She had behaved like an utter wanton, kissing him like that. She should be ashamed of herself, and sorry.

  But she was not.

  She only regretted that she did not know his name or have any idea how she could meet him again.

  Chapter 3

  Seated at his desk, Rob rubbed his eyes, then tried to concentrate once more on the document before him. He hadn’t had a decent n
ight’s sleep in a week, ever since that night in Bankside.

  Against his will, his mind’s eye conjured a pretty, smiling face and beautiful blue eyes. Blue like the sky if one were out of the city, with its coal-smoke-tarnished air. Blue like the velvet coat King Charles had sported as he rode past Robert’s office a few days ago.

  He assumed she had arrived home safely and had sufficient money to pay the coachman. He had given her all that he had, but it was not much.

  Perhaps he should have gone in the coach with her, told her his name, asked her what hers was, found out where she lived—but surely that would have been unwise. Judging by her garments and accent, she was far above him. What could he ever hope to offer a woman like her? Chambers he owed back rent on, and not even in Chancery Lane like other solicitors. A bevy of poor clients who were very grateful, but could not afford to give much cash for his services. The few secondhand furnishings he owned, some well-tended clothes.

  And his reputation—the good and the bad.

  No, he could never be anything more to her than a nameless solicitor who gave her some advice.

  Yet every time he spared a moment from his work since he had met her, or when he tried to sleep, he had seen the unknown beauty’s face, and even more vividly remembered her kiss.

  He had never known such a kiss, full of vibrant ardor and desire. His surprise at her unforeseen act had immediately given way to a thrill of delight and growing excitement.

  How wonderful her lips had felt against his own, and how astonishing her passion. To think a woman like her, in a fine soft cloak, by her voice well born and well bred, who could surely have her pick of men—provided they met her uncle’s approval—she had kissed him.

  To be sure, he had been kissed before, especially by his lost, beloved Janet, until she had the chance to be a rich man’s mistress and to leave behind their wretched poverty for something better.

  Sadly for Janet, her opportunity had only led to her miserable death.

  At times in the tavern, with her head demurely lowered and her dusky lashes fanning her rosy cheeks, the young woman had reminded him of his sweet and gentle Janet.

  At other times, she most definitely did not. She met his gaze straight on, her full lips pressed together, her very attitude one of purpose and determination.