Page 27 of Some Like It Wild
Sophie shooed the cloud of powder away, then went back to trying to arrange the thick coils of Pamela’s hair into some sort of manageable coif. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe it’s customary to accept a marquess’s marriage proposal with a tad more grace.”
“That’s the second time the conniving wretch has led me straight into a trap. And the last, I should add.” Pamela leaned forward on the skirted stool, scowling at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She was starting to look nearly as feverish and mad as the duke. “I still can’t figure out why he would do such a wicked thing.”
“What?” Sophie sighed wistfully, tucking a curl behind Pamela’s ear and securing it with a mother-of-pearl comb. “Declare his love for you in front of a roomful of people and announce that you’ve agreed to be his bride?”
“Precisely! I knew he was a born villain but I never expected him to sink to such monstrous depths. Did you see the way that nasty Lady Astrid was looking at me? You’d have thought I was something he’d dragged in on the heel of his boot! And I thought the duke was going to have an apoplexy and drop dead right then and there. They no doubt believe I’ve decided the reward’s not good enough for me. That I’ve set my sights on the duchy itself!”
Sophie leaned over Pamela’s shoulder, clutching the silver-backed hairbrush to her bosom. “Perhaps he spoke from the heart. Perhaps he’s fallenmadlyin love with you and can’t bear the thought of living another hour of his life without you by his side.”
Somehow her sister’s teasing words cut deeper than Connor’s betrayal. Because for an elusive moment—when Connor had gazed deep into her eyes and tenderly brushed his lips over her hand—her own heart had dared to entertain such a ridiculous notion.
But then she’d seen that wicked sparkle in his eyes and remembered that she was not her mother. Or even Sophie, for that matter. She would never be the sort of woman who inspired such passion in a man. Connor’s earnest words were meant to mock everyone in that room, including her.
She sat up straighter on the stool. “I can assure you that Connor Kincaid loves only himself and what he stands to gain from our unholy little alliance.”
“Well, if you don’t want to marry him, then I will. Or at least I would if he knew I was alive.” Sophie sighed. “I’ve never met a man so immune to my charms. You’d almost swear his heart already belonged to someone else.”
“Perhaps it does,” Pamela replied softly, remembering the gold locket he had handled with such tender care and still wore next to his heart. “Ow!” she added as Sophie yanked another coil of her hair into submission. She rubbed her smarting head, glaring at her sister in the mirror. “I can’t believe Mama allowed you to dress her hair for all those years. It’s a miracle she didn’t end up bald.”
“Mamandidn’t wriggle nearly so much or have such impossible hair,” Sophie retorted, stabbing a hair pin into Pamela’s tender scalp. “And you shouldn’t be complaining. After all, you get to go have a proper supper while I’m left to languish here all alone.”
Although Sophie made it sound like the foulest of dungeons, their elegant suite with its cozy sitting room, dressing room and adjoining bedchamber was more spacious than any lodgings they’d ever shared with their mother. In truth it was Pamela who envied Sophie. She would have liked nothing more than to crawl into the charming hand-painted half-tester and pull the sumptuous bedclothes up over her head.
“If you don’t stop whining,” she said, “I’ll demote you to scullery maid and you can go gnaw on a chicken bone in the kitchens.”
When her sister failed to laugh at her jest, Pamela sighed and swung around on the stool to face her. “I’m truly sorry about all of this, darling. If I’d have known we were going to be staying for more than afternoon tea, I’d have told them you were my sister, not my servant. I know this role won’t be an easy one for you to play, but at least I’ll know you’re safe and not at the mercy of some leering nobleman. I promise you that I’ll reveal your true identity just as soon as…” She hesitated, still determined to shield Sophie from the truth about their mother’s grim fate. “As soon as it’s prudent.”
Although she appeared to be somewhat mollified by Pamela’s sympathy, Sophie’s nostrils still flared in a wounded sniff. “You could have at least had the decency to tell them I was aFrenchmaid.”
Pamela swiveled back around on the stool, grinning at Sophie in the mirror. “You know, there are ladies who beat their maids regularly with a hairbrush to improve their dispositions.”
Sophie tossed her head, her less than genteel snort telling Pamela what she thought of that idea. But she finished dressing Pamela’s hair with a minimum of yanking and poking, finally stepping back from the stool with a flourish of the hairbrush and a triumphant, “Voila!”
Pamela touched a hand to her hair. She had to admit her sister had worked wonders with the scant resources at her disposal. Sophie had laced one of her own pink ribbons through the heavy coils before twisting them into a graceful Grecian knot at Pamela’s nape. The look might have been too severe if not for the clusters of glossy ringlets she’d coaxed forward to frame Pamela’s face.
Gripping the edge of the dressing table, Pamela drew in a shaky breath. Her face might be too pale and her eyes too bright, but at least her hair was perfect.
Now all she had to do was go downstairs and face her treacherous fiancé—and possibly the villain who was going to try to kill him.
Connor restlessly prowled the length of his extravagant suite, waiting to be summoned for supper. Although the towering mahogany four-poster that dominated the bedchamber was larger than some of the jail cells he’d frequented over the years, he still felt as if the walls were closing in around him. At least each time the law had tossed him in jail, he’d known there was some chance of escape. He slipped a hand beneath his collar, rubbing the scars left by the hangman’s noose.
He’d spent too many years roaming the mountains and moors, wild and free. He could barely breathe in here.
It was the perfect den for a gentleman. The plaster walls had been painted a warm burgundy and were trimmed in forest green wainscoting. The furniture was all carved from rich warm cherry or gleaming mahogany the exact shade of Pamela’s hair. A pair of comfortable chairs upholstered in buttery brown leather sat in front of the black marble hearth.
The air was redolent with the masculine scents of wood and leather, and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. It was almost as if the suite had been waiting for him.
Not for him, he corrected himself grimly. For the duke’s son.
When the duke had touched his cheek and gazed at him as if he was the answer to the man’s every prayer, he had expected to feel a rush of triumph, not an overwhelming wave of pity and guilt. In that moment he would have given anything to be back in the Highlands, thundering across the moor on his horse with the law fast on his heels.
His clansmen had once looked at him the same way—as if he had the power to make all of their dreams of reuniting Clan Kincaid come true. For almost a decade they had ridden by his side, thwarting the redcoats at every turn. They had been closer than brothers, the cords of loyalty that bound them thicker than blood. But eventually Connor had realized that the only place he was leading them was straight into a noose. So five years ago, on a misty Highland morning, he had mounted his horse and ridden away, leaving his men and his dreams far behind.
Wheeling around, he strode to the window overlooking the gardens, desperate for a gulp of fresh air to fill his starving lungs. He grasped the window sash in both hands and tugged it upward. It did not budge. Judging from the thick layer of white along its seam, the window had been recently painted.
Cursing the careless handiwork, Connor looked around for something to help him pry it open. He strode to the hearth and returned with an iron poker. He was on the verge of loosening the paint’s grip on the sash when the poker slipped in his sweaty hands. Its tip went crashing through one of the lower panes, sending tinkling shards of glass raining down on the cobbled walk far below. A cool rush of night air came pouring into the room. Connor swore, staring in dismay at the destruction he had wrought.
“Ye’re supposed to use the poker on the fire, lad, not the window.”
