Page 43 of Some Like It Wild
“I was,” Connor said, a smile curving his lips as he watched Pamela go scampering across the dew-drenched grass like some fey creature from his boyhood fantasies. “But a dream woke me up.”
Ignoring the gawking footmen stationed at each end of the cherry sideboard, Connor added three coddled eggs, four rashers of crisp, juicy bacon and an entire school of kippers to the already heaping portions on his plate. He hesitated, eyeing each of the silver serving dishes in turn, then topped off his plate with a pair of steaming rolls and a slab of plum cake big enough to choke a horse.
Breakfast was the only meal where he was allowed to load his own plate and he had every intention of making the most of it. There were also more foods he could eat with his fingers instead of having to mince off tiny portions with one of those ridiculous forks. He was beginning to understand why Esau had traded his birthright to Jacob for a mess of pottage. He’d been so famished since their arrival at Warrick Park that he would have gladly traded the duke’s wealth and title for a hearty bowl of Scotch broth or a steaming portion oftatties and neeps.
After exchanging an amused glance with his fellow servant, one of the footmen dared to address him directly. “We were just wondering, my lord, what one eats for breakfast in Scotland.”
“Babies,” Connor replied without cracking a smile. “Plump, juicy English babies. Oh, and haggis, of course.”
Leaving them with horrorstruck expressions, he carried his plate to the oval table beneath the windows where the duke and Lady Astrid were breaking their own fast.
As he sank into his chair, he stole a surreptitious glance at the mantel clock, then the door, knowing very well that he’d been doing so every three minutes since he’d entered the sunny morning room where breakfast was served.
He should have known his vigilance wouldn’t escape the duke’s sharp eyes. “Eager to lay eyes on your charming fiancée this morning, are we? Don’t be so impatient, son. Once the two of you are wed, you can keep her abed in the morning for as long as you like.”
Lady Astrid glanced up from buttering a roll. “Really, Archibald. There’s no need for vulgarity, is there?”
“On the contrary, Astrid. If a man is to keep his young bride satisfied, there’s every need for it.” He waved a fork in Connor’s direction. “I recommend vigorous vulgarity, son, at least once a day and twice on Sundays.”
Connor dabbed at his lips with his napkin to hide his smile. There were times when he found the old man almost tolerable. “I’ll take great care to heed your advice, your grace.”
If Pamela really was to be his bride, such counsel would be a pleasure to follow. Except he would prefer it to be at least twice a day and thrice on Sundays. Judging by her eager response to his touch, he didn’t believe Pamela would object.
“Ah, yes, my brother is a fount of wisdom on all matters matrimonial.” Astrid turned her acidic gaze on Connor. “It’s a pity you can’t ask your mother about that, isn’t it?”
The duke snorted. “And just what would you know about pleasing a mate? Your poor Sheldon burned himself to death in his bed just to escape your nagging.”
Connor felt the tiny hairs at the back of his nape prickle to attention. He took a leisurely sip of his chocolate, keeping his face carefully bland to hide his keen interest in their exchange.
“MypoorSheldon was a miserable sot! If he had heeded my nagging, he wouldn’t have been swilling brandy as if it were water or smoking those foul cigars of his in bed. Papa knew he was a hopeless bounder when he forced me to marry him. He just didn’t give a—” Astrid froze, choking back whatever unladylike pronouncement she was about to make.
She inclined her head, the skin around her mouth going pinched and white. Connor felt a flicker of reluctant pity. Her hair might be going silver and her chin soft, but a hint of tarnished beauty still hovered about her like the ghost of the girl she had once been.
The duke dismissed her outburst with a contemptuous “harrumph” and turned his attention back to Connor. “I’ve arranged for you and Miss Darby to attend a soiree tomorrow evening at Lord Newton’s town house. The tailor assured me that he and his assistants would be working around the clock and could deliver the first installment of your wardrobe in the morning. I’m afraid I won’t be able to accompany you. I want to save all my strength for the ball I’ll be hosting next week to celebrate your official reintroduction into society.”
Connor frowned. “A ball? I don’t suppose that would involve dancing, would it?”
Amusement sparkled in the duke’s eyes. “It is customary to take a turn or two around the floor with the lady of your choice in your arms.”
The lady of his choice. Connor stole another look at the clock to discover it was nearly ten o’clock. His frown deepened.
Perhaps Pamela was simply languishing in bed, exhausted from her midnight visit to his bedchamber. And his bed. His gaze flicked from the clock to the door. During their journey from Scotland, he had discovered that she was an early and cheerful riser, eager to face each new day and the adventures it would bring.
What if she wasn’t languishing in bed but cowering in her bedchamber, too mortified to face him? He couldn’t bear the thought that he might have shamed her with his touch. That she might have already come to regret the pleasure he had given her.
He shot to his feet, giving his overflowing plate one last yearning look.
“Where are you going?” Lady Astrid snapped as he strode toward the door. “Surely you’re not going to drag poor Miss Darby out of her bedchamber. That would hardly be appropriate.”
He made an abrupt about-face and marched back to the table. He retrieved a warm roll, then proceeded on his way, leaving the duke chuckling and Lady Astrid opening and closing her mouth like a beached herring.
By the time Connor reached the door of Pamela’s bedchamber, the roll was long gone but his misgivings were not. He pressed his ear to the door, half afraid he would be greeted by the sound of Pamela’s heart-wrenching sobs.
But all that greeted him was silence. He lifted his fist to knock, then lowered it. This was one time when he had no intention of giving Pamela the opportunity to refuse him.
Setting his jaw to a determined angle, he boldly threw open the door.
Pamela had been gazing down at the heaps of taffeta and muslin scattered across the unmade bed, but when the door flew open, she whirled around to face him.
