A Perfect Lady Read online

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  A Perfect Lady

  The McKenzie Brothers

  Book Three

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  Kimberly Nee

  ...

  An imprint of

  Musa Publishing

  Copyright Information

  A Perfect Lady, The McKenzie Brothers Book Three, Copyright © Kimberly Nee, 2011

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

  ...

  Musa Publishing

  633 Edgewood Ave

  Lancaster, OH 43130

  www.musapublishing.com

  ...

  Published by Musa Publishing, October, 2011

  ...

  This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

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  ISBN: 978-1-61937-020-3

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  Editor: Erica Mills

  Cover Design: Kelly Shorten

  Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

  Warning

  This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.

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  Chapter One

  West Indies, 1790

  July

  There was a fine line between daring and stupid, and as Rebecca stared in horror at the man lying beside her, she realized she’d crossed it. No. Crossed was too mild a term. She’d leaped over it.

  Pain slashed through her temples as she leaped up from the bed and promptly stumbled over one of his boots. Her ankle twisted sharply, but she ignored it as she tried to will her eyes into seeing in the still-dark room. What time was it? Had anyone noticed her absence?

  And where the deuce was her chemise?

  She didn’t take the time to ponder how it had found its way atop the canopy. It didn’t matter. She wriggled into the chemise and then dove into the darkness on the far side of the bed for her gown. As she knelt, feathers in one of the pillows made a crushing sound, and the man in the bed mumbled, “You are welcome to stay, love.”

  Rebecca froze, her hand halfway to the crushed silk gown she’d worn to the Sheratons’ ball. She could pretend she hadn’t heard him. If she did, maybe he would think she’d already left.

  But what if he didn’t fall back to sleep right away? She couldn’t possibly sneak from the bed to the door, in an unfamiliar room, with only moonlight to guide her, without giving herself away. Instead, she’d be trapped there, crouched in the darkness, her feet number by the moment, for God only knew how long. No, it would be best to just answer him. “No. I apologize, but I really must be going.”

  Linen and feathers rustled again, and this time his head appeared over the side of the bed. “Are you certain?”

  Although the noise gave away his movement, his sudden appearance still startled her. There was a full moon, its silvery beams stretching in through the French doors to bounce across the bed and into the shadows where she crouched. A beam glinted off his dark hair. Yes, he had dark hair. And dark eyes.

  He was a sea captain. From America. It all came back as she gazed up at him. He was an accomplished dancer, and when he kissed her in the shadows of the unoccupied sewing room, the bit of champagne she’d imbibed scorched her brain. Apparently it had seared the part of her brain that controlled common sense, as that one kiss led to this…

  “Y-Yes. I’m very certain.” She bit down hard on her bottom lip as his long-fingered hand swept over her cheek. The caress was heady, making her forget her splitting headache, all the while bringing back the very pleasant memories of rolling about in a monstrous sized bed with a man who possessed such skilled hands and lips.

  His forefinger traced lightly over her lower lip. “I wish you would reconsider. We still have a bit of night left.”

  “And I have a father whose main mood is utter hostility toward me and dogged determination to marry me off to Peter Taggert. And I will not be married to that simple muffin head.”

  The light faded, sinking them into night once more. His surprisingly white teeth flashed in the darkness. “Then perhaps you should leave. I’ve no intention of marrying any time soon.”

  “Yes, you made that perfectly clear, Captain — ”

  “McKenzie. Although I prefer James, sweetheart. And may I say, this has been the most memorable an evening I’ve had in a long time.”

  As he spoke, he crept closer to slip his arms beneath her. A sharp, airy squeak rent the air as he lifted her from the floor. With very little effort, he pulled her from the darkness, into the bed, where he caught the blue ribbon of her chemise between his thumb and forefinger.

  “No, please don’t.” She pulled away, slapping at his hand, and scuttled to the edge of the bed. “I really must be going. If anyone finds out about this — ”

  He didn’t answer, but his gaze never left her as she lifted her deep blue gown from where it had gotten crammed between the bed and the table alongside it. It took several long minutes of fumbling before her fingers brushed the cool linen of her stays. Her stockings and garters lay crumpled beneath it. Those she could put on, but her corset? Impossible without help, and since her maid Agnes wasn’t there…

  Without a word, James slid from the bed to assist, and she stiffened at the first brush of his fingers against her bare skin. She held her breath as he laced the corset as if he’d been doing it all his life, and a flurry of tingles skittered through her.

  Oh, that is nice. Her eyelids grew heavy at the delightful sensations. Falling back into the bed with him would be so easy, as desire teased her, urged her to give in. No doubt she’d forget all about her headache at the first touch of his lips, the first caress of his hand on her —

  Stop that.

  James’s thoughts must’ve traveled the same path, for one hand lingered at her nape. “I could probably change your mind, sweetheart. As I said, dawn is still a few hours off.”

  “No!” She twisted free of his grasp and hurried toward the door, slippers in her hand. “Thank you, but I cannot take that chance.”

  Her heart hammered against her ribs as she hurried silently down the stairs. She slipped on the way out — but regained her balance before she landed on her backside — and noiselessly let herself out of the house without a backward glance.

  Chapter Two

  Six Weeks Later

  The door to her father’s office was closed, so Rebecca gingerly leaned against it, her ear pressed flat. It didn’t help much, as her father and Mr. Taggert’s voices were still too muffled to make out many words. That the door was carved of heavy teak didn’t help.

  “Miss Alexander?”

  She jumped, whipping around to find her maid, Agnes Bertrand, scowling at her. “Shhh…I’m trying to listen to them decide my future. That’s what they’re doing in there, isn’t it?”

  Agnes shifted the porcelain bowl in her arms. “Were you ill this morning?”

  Reb
ecca stared at the chamber pot as the churning in her belly started up again. “I think the fish last eve was spoilt.”

  Agnes peered into the chamber pot, her nose wrinkling, and she coughed to smother a gag. “And yet, you are the only one who was sick. Odd.”

  Rebecca bit the inside of her cheek as Agnes resumed her stride. As soon as the maid rounded the corner, Rebecca sank against the wall. If she didn’t believe her — and Rebecca wasn’t foolish enough to believe she did — all Rebecca could hope for was that she would not bring her concerns to Lord Windemere. Her father was the last person she wanted to know the true reason for her sensitive belly.

  Of course, she was going to run out of time, and soon. And she had not an inkling as to how to tell him. The thought alone was more terrifying than her scandalous secret.

  The nausea and the retching began four days earlier. Although she only vomited in the morning, the nausea persisted through the entire day. It took every bit of effort to force herself to move away from her bed, to go about her daily routine. Even something as simple as standing outside her father’s office, with her ear pressed against the wood, required her every effort to focus. She needed to know if the discussion was about Peter wishing to ask for her hand.

  She shivered at that, her belly twisting sharply. Not him, Father, please not him. Taggert was enough to make her eyes glaze over and the thought of being trapped in a marriage with him was enough to bring the sour taste back to her mouth. She wouldn’t have wanted to marry him under normal circumstances, but now? Certainly not.

  However, her father needed to find a suitor she could tolerate, and he needed to do it quickly. Otherwise it would be too late and everyone on St. Kitts would know the truth about Miss Rebecca Alexander.

  She was pregnant.

  The groan that rose to her lips had become automatic. Oh, yes. Her one night tryst with the American sea captain — what was his name again? — would lead to her complete ruination. Of all the men on St. Kitts, she had to topple into bed with the most virile of them all. Bloody hell.

  The now-familiar taste flooded her mouth. She swallowed hard, jumping back as the key sounded in the lock. Trying to look as innocent as possible, she traced a careful finger along the curve of an orchid blossom from the spray on the piecrust table outside the office.

  “What are you doing, Rebecca?” Benjamin Alexander, Baron of Windemere, frowned down as he tapped his polished ash cane against the floor.

  “Seeing if the orchid needs water.” She looked from her father to Taggert, the man who seemed to have made it his life’s mission to convince her to marry him.

  A mistake. One look at his hangdog expression and moist, sad puppy-dog eyes, and she wanted to bolt from the room. No. She was not going to have him, even if he was willing to overlook the fact of her carrying another man’s child.

  Heat burned through her, from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. She turned back to the orchid to prevent the flush from giving her away. It was hard to decide which was worse: knowing what she knew, or Lord Taggert’s foolish grin. The man was a simpleton. Beyond a simpleton, really — interested in only bird watching and aging port. Dull.

  “I think the water in the vase is sufficient,” Lord Windermere chided with another tap of his cane. “Mr. Taggert here and I have been discussing your woeful lack of marital status and — ”

  “Lord Windemere has graciously offered me your hand!” Taggert broke in, bouncing around to stand beside the table, his eyes wide and bright. “So if you’ll just say the word, I would love to claim you as mine.”

  With that, he grabbed her hand. “Will you have me, Miss Alexander? Will you?”

  Rebecca tried not to notice how soft his hand was, how damp it felt. It reminded her of a sunfish she once found washed up on the beach during one of her strolls, limp and cold. He must have sensed her desire to slide her hand free, for he tightened his hold on her. Forcing a smile to her lips, she said, “This is hardly the way you propose to a lady, Mr. Taggert.”

  “Nonsense!” Lord Windemere bellowed, clapping Taggert hard enough on the back to force him closer to her.

  “Father, might we discuss this first?” Despite his grip, she managed to slip her hand free as she shot her father a pointed look. “Please?”

  “Discuss this? There is nothing to discuss, daughter.” A low chuckle rumbled through his lips. “Mr. Taggert is a fine young man, from a good family. He will make a fine husband.”

  A pleased flush swept up Taggert’s face, toward his hairline. He bobbed his head, his golden curls bouncing. “I will make you happy, Miss Alexander. You will see.” He turned to her father. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

  “No need, my boy.”

  Rebecca shifted her weight as the gushing between her father and Taggert continued. The nausea crept over her, her stomach rolling harder. With each twist, her muscles tightened further. Why couldn’t they stop congratulating each other on what a fine match they made so that Taggert could be on his way?

  Her fingers, curled about the table’s edge, went white at the knuckles as bile flooded her mouth. Oh, please, God, no.

  She clenched her jaw, her teeth grinding painfully against each other. No amount of swallowing could rid her mouth of that foul taste. A hazy mist seemed to settle over everything in her line of sight. Cold sweat prickled along her back and across her upper lip. In the distance, the church on the hill up behind the manor chimed.

  But wait…it was only about half past the hour. The bells shouldn’t be ringing. And were they getting louder?

  Before she could ask, blackness rushed at her and engulfed her without a sound.

  “Rebecca?”

  Her eyelids felt weighted, it took such effort to open them. When she finally managed to lift them, the sunlight streaming in through the wide windows of her father’s office stung. Her head ached.

  “What happened?” The words were fat and lazy, resisting as she pushed them out.

  “You fainted. Your father had to pour almost an entire bottle of rum down Mr. Taggert’s throat to calm him.” Agnes gently swiped at her cheeks with a warm, wet cloth. Water trickled along her temples and slid up into her hair. It felt wonderful against her sticky skin.

  Her eyes shut again. The ivory damask sofa was comfortable, the sun like a light blanket wrapped around her, and sleep beckoned. Agnes swept the cloth across her forehead, over her nose, along her cheek, and murmured, “The fish?”

  Tears pricked the insides of Rebecca’s eyelids. “No.”

  “Then what is going on, Miss Rebecca? In the two years since I’ve been with your family, I’ve not seen you so much as have a cough. And now, you’re fainting and vomiting?” Water sloshed as Agnes dropped the cloth into the small bowl. “Perhaps I should fetch a doctor?”

  A maternal note wove through Agnes’s words, one Rebecca hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime. Two years. Had so much time passed already? As Agnes’s gentle hand swept her hair back from her forehead, Rebecca swallowed a rising sob and opened her eyes again. “No. I need no doctor. But I do need to speak with my father. However — ” her throat closed and she had to clear it to continue “ — not until after Mr. Taggert takes his leave. I do not wish to be overheard.”

  Agnes’s brown eyes were tender. “Of course, Miss Alexander. I will go tell your father and see Mr. Taggert to the door.”

  As she awaited her father and the firestorm that was certain to follow her confession, Rebecca’s nausea returned. Her heartbeat sped up, sending her pulse thundering through her temples. Her mouth went dry, her parched throat sore and scratchy. Just when she thought she might lose her mind, the door opened, and Lord Windemere clumped his way in.

  Although he was barely over five and a half feet tall, her father cut an imposing figure. So imposing she’d seen men a foot taller stammer and stutter in his presence. Those who mistook his limp and need for the cane as weakness quickly learned the error of such thought. His blue eyes were sharp, his manner sharper, a
nd she swallowed hard as his gaze alit on her.

  “What is going on, Rebecca?” Wood met wood as he settled into his chair and let the cane rest against the desk.

  It took some effort to sit still, but she managed, and she smoothed her palm over her skirt to press out the wrinkles. It also served to help keep her hands quiet, to keep them from trembling. Now, if only she could halt the shaking that slowly crept up from her knees. “There is something we need discuss. Ab-b-bout Mr. Taggert’s proposal.”

  “A good man, he is. And a fine husband he’ll be. You’ll thank me one — ”

  “I cannot marry him.”

  His eyes narrowed, his bushy, iron-gray eyebrows pulled low. “What do you mean, you cannot marry him? Of course you can. And you will.” He jabbed his forefinger in her direction. “You don’t have the luxury of an endless line of suitors, as Regan did. Since we arrived, Mr. Taggert’s been the only one who’s shown even a whit of interest in you. A pretty lady never has to worry about landing a suitor. You, on the other hand — ”

  Her fingers curled around one of the lace bows dotting the skirt’s hem, crushing it in her grasp. “I am well aware of my lack of suitors, Father. You needn’t remind me.”

  “You should consider yourself fortunate that Mr. Taggert has asked for your hand. His is a fine family. They have holdings here, in America, and in France. You will want for nothing.”

  “I understand that, but — ”

  “And you are very nearly too old for any man to consider marrying you. A score and three and still unmarried? A travesty, that.”

  His words stung. Still, she shook her head. “That’s not entirely true. Mr. Buckley wished to court me. But you and Mother wouldn’t allow it.”

  “He was a fool.” Windemere lifted his quill from its holder to dip into the inkwell. “There will be no discussing it. You will wed Mr. Taggert. And that is the end of it.”

  “No, Father. That is most certainly not the end of it.” Her gut roiled as she got to her feet. “That Mr. Taggert is from a good family is exactly why I cannot marry him. His family will not have me, Father. Nor will he.”