A Perfect Lady Read online

  “Well, they will once they meet you. I will send invitations out for a nuptial ball in the coming days, and then they will see for themselves. You may not be a beauty, as Regan was, but you’ve a good head on your shoulders. Taggert will no doubt be fascinated by your interests in reading and politics, no matter how odd he might find it.”

  It wasn’t anything he hadn’t pointed out to her before; her obvious shortcomings were one of his favorite topics. Regan was beautiful. Regan was popular. She was fashionable and a spirited dancer. Men fell all over themselves to get her to smile at them. Regan. Regan. Regan.

  Regan was everything Rebecca was not, and Rebecca had always been comfortable with that. Men didn’t seem to show any interest in women who read, or discussed the latest politics, or who even appeared to have a functioning brain inside their heads. Perhaps men didn’t, but she quickly learned to prefer her own company over that of someone who wished to mold her into something she could never be.

  “Father, do you remember the evening of the Sheraton masquerade ball last month?”

  “Yes. Of course. I won two hundred pounds from Judge Havilland that night.” He twirled the quill through his fingers. “But what does a party have to do with Taggert? He wasn’t even at that party.”

  “No. But another man was. A very — ah — friendly American sea captain. McKenzie was his name. Perhaps you saw him when I was dancing the minuet. He was my partner.”

  “‘Fraid I didn’t, daughter. Rather heated game of whist started that ran clear through until dawn.”

  As he spoke, his eyes narrowed, and her back stiffened as he added, “And where was Mrs. Whitmore during all of this?”

  “From what I understand, she was far into her cups in the music room.” Her fingers crushed, then smoothed, the bow in her grasp. How was it her father hadn’t heard about her drunken chaperone? “Remember the harp?”

  “Mrs. Whitmore was drunk when she fell through it? Sheraton never mentioned that. He seemed to think she simply swooned.” He tapped his forefinger against the desk. “And where were you while this was going on?”

  And this was the moment she dreaded so badly since discovering she was with child, that her stomach actually hurt. This moment was going to change her entire world, either for the better or for the worst. But it would change.

  “Where was I?” Her throat tightened. Since her mouth was still as dry as the beach just beyond the house, words were so difficult to form and push out. She couldn’t sit still, releasing the bow to bring both hands up to rest on her belly, one on each side. There was only the slightest of bumps, and she wasn’t even certain whether it was simply from her mind playing tricks on her. “I was…Father, I cannot go to Mr. Taggert and be his wife, when I am — ”

  The words died on her lips. Died and turned to dust. She drew in another deep breath, bracing herself for the onslaught of fury and disgust that was sure to explode from her father when she finally confessed her scandalous secret.

  “When you are what, daughter? I am not about to begin playing games about this. Unless you can compel me otherwise, you will wed Taggert. And I feel it only fair to warn you, I highly doubt you can compel me.”

  “I am with child, Father,” she blurted before she lost her courage. “The sea captain’s child.”

  Lord Windemere stared in mute horror. “What did you just say?”

  How she wished she didn’t have to answer him, didn’t have to repeat herself. Hot shame stung her insides as she forced herself to meet her father’s furious glare. But the longer she hesitated, the icier that glare grew. She dragged in a deep breath, one that did nothing to calm her or ease her queasy belly, and slowly nodded. “I said — ”

  “I heard what you said!” he snapped, his cheeks practically scarlet and growing redder with each word. “I never once — not even in my worst nightmare — dreamed that you — that my daughter — would debase herself…that you would become such a…” He shoved the desk blotter with such force, it flew off the desk and crashed to the floor. She jumped as he added a snarled, “A whore, it would seem.”

  She flinched and jerked back as he came around his desk, toward her. “I am not — ” Her voice cracked “ — not a whore.”

  “Is that so? What would you call it, then, Rebecca? You are not married. He is not your husband.” His voice rose to a shout. “You are a whore and you carry a bastard!”

  Lights exploded inside her skull as the back of his hand slammed into her cheekbone. The blow sent her reeling back, crashing into the row of shelves by the window. Two vases and three books toppled to the floor, the vases shattering into thousands of pieces. Tears clouded her vision, and she sucked in a sharp breath as she pressed three fingers to her cheek. Pain burst from the doughy swollen knot. It was warm and sticky. Blood. He’d split her skin against the bone. She curved her fingers gingerly over the hot swelling. Tears blurred her vision. Even after she blinked, her right eye continued to sting and water.

  Windemere loomed over her. “What is the bastard’s name?” he said, punctuating his words by tapping his cane against the floor.

  “Father, please — ” She pushed herself up from the now-crooked shelf, wincing as another piece of pottery smashed against the floor. Her entire arm trembled as she held out her hand to ward off another blow should he decide to strike her again. “I am so — ”

  “His name! I want the son of a bitch’s name. Now!” He raised his hand, now balled into a fist.

  The shelf’s lip dug into her back as instinct pushed her up against it. “James, Father. His name is James McKenzie.”

  Her arm wobbled as he stared long and hard through cold little eyes. Then he turned, and relief tore through her, making the wobble even worse. She sank into the shelf, closing her eyes to hold back the tears. If she’d kept them open, she would have seen him whip back to her.

  The inside of her head lit up and fire tore through her already burning cheek. His fist caught the same spot, splitting the skin further, and as she clapped her hand over the gushing wound, he spat, “Take yourself from my sight. You will remain in your chambers until I come for you.”

  Tears flowed freely now. Although her right eye was somewhat puffed, she still managed to open both and nod miserably. “Yes, Father.”

  “Go.”

  She stumbled toward the door, half-blind and holding her breath as she waited for him to attack again. She paused in the doorway, her head throbbing. “What are you going to do, Father?”

  “Find the bastard who put that baby in your belly. He is going to right this. And you’d best hope he is still in port. I will not have a whore beneath my roof, nor will I allow an American bastard to be born beneath it.” He stumped past her, shoving her aside as he bellowed, “Miss Bertrand!”

  His shouts rang all along the corridor, more impatient with each repeat. Then finally, Agnes appeared. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Take her to her chambers and lock the door. She is not to leave under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

  Agnes’s dark eyes widened as she slowly nodded. “Yes, my lord.” She shot Rebecca a queer look over one shoulder as she said, “Come, Miss Alexander.”

  Her palm sticky with blood, still pressed to her cheek, and tears still leaking from her eyes, Rebecca fell into step beside her maid, waiting for the inevitable moment when Agnes would ask her what happened.

  The moment never came. At Rebecca’s door, Agnes paused. “Is there anything you need?”

  Rebecca shook her head numbly. “No.”

  “What was that crash? Did you fall?”

  Rebecca jerked away as the maid brought her hand up, as if to catch her by the chin. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I’m fine, Miss Bertrand.” She sniffed as her nose began to run. “And I think I would like a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.”

  “Miss Alex — ”

  “Tea, Miss Bertrand.” Rebecca didn’t give her the chance to protest further;
she crossed into her room and closed the door.

  She half expected Agnes to pound on the door, or at the very least keep pestering her with questions. However, thick silence filled her ears. Agnes was still there, but not moving. Then, the floor creaked, linen swished, and there came the pad of slippers on the wood. A soft sigh slid through her lips as she turned toward the terrace doors, opened to let the ocean breeze wander through.

  The terrace was her favorite spot, overlooking the ocean and golden sand beach. Normally, tranquility bloomed along with the brilliantly colored hibiscus that grew in large clay pots all along the gray stone rail. There was no tranquility to be found there today.

  Her head ached, pain pulsated through her cheek, and she tore off a swatch of fabric from the hem of her skirt to press against the knot in the hopes of staunching the blood flowing from it. It stung with the gentlest of pressure, but it slowly ebbed as she held the cloth against her skin. She leaned against the rail with a heavy sigh. What if Captain McKenzie was no longer in port? And even if he were, how was her father going to get him to Windemere? What would happen if he couldn’t, or if the captain was long gone?

  The tangy salt air made her belly roll slowly. She loved the ocean’s smell, but lately it nauseated her, and today was no different. Still, the warm breeze felt heavenly, and the hibiscus filled the air with their spicy-sweet perfume. They bloomed in a riot of color from the palest yellow to the fieriest red.

  Her cheek stung mercilessly, and what had been a small swelling now felt as if half her face puffed up. Disbelief rushed through her. Her father had never raised an angry hand to her before. Not ever. And yet, there she sat, bruised and swollen, filled with shame at her ruination.

  Most of the masquerade ball was a blur — most likely a wonderful blur, as she loved parties, but a blur nonetheless. However, no matter how dulled her senses, no matter how much champagne she sipped, nothing would ever take away the moment she first saw the man responsible for her downfall.

  James McKenzie leaned against the wall. He was chatting with a few other men, but his easy repose — arms crossed, one foot braced against the wainscoting — suggested his mind was anywhere but the Sheraton’s ballroom.

  She couldn’t help but stare. She wasn’t the only female in the room with that affliction. It seemed there was plenty of staring, followed by ladies clumping together to whisper and giggle amongst themselves. The giggling and whispering only intensified when she found herself across from him as the minuet began. They were the second couple, following only Lady Christina and her husband. A slow grin lifted the corners of his lips and he caught her by the hand to whirl her through the complicated steps.

  She thought she’d seen the last of Captain McKenzie when the minuet ended. However, when she saw Mrs. Whitmore stagger out of the ballroom, oblivious to the absence of her charge, Rebecca succumbed to the temptation to sneak out of the overheated ballroom into the cool night air in the rose garden. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs as she ducked out of sight of any partygoers, cooling off on one of the small iron benches, where she prayed no one spotted her.

  Captain McKenzie appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It all happened so quickly: her nervous laugh at the sight of him, his arm snaking out to stop her as she tried to dart by him, his arm tightening about her waist. As it did, he bent toward her. Then he was kissing her. A slow kiss. A deep, slow kiss. The kind that made her toes curl and her blood scorch, making her hope like mad no one noticed her absence —

  Thunder rumbling in the distance jolted her back into the present. The wind picked up to blow fat black clouds in from over the water, bending the hibiscus branches, rustling palm fronds all around her. It tugged on her hair, pulled it free from the pins holding the heavy dark mass in a knot at the nape of her neck. As the first drops of rain fell, she sank back against the stone railing and took the torn cloth from her cheek. It had stopped bleeding.

  “Miss Alexander?” Agnes called, her voice faint. “I have your tea.”

  “I’m on the terrace, Miss Bertrand.” Rebecca lifted her face to the rain and let the wind tug and pull at her hair to pry it free from its pins and moorings. The rain felt wonderful against her clammy skin, and it did much to calm the roiling of her belly.

  Agnes paused at the threshold to the terrace. “Miss Alexander, it’s raining.”

  “I know it’s raining, but I won’t melt.”

  Folding her arms over her chest, Agnes gave her a level look, but then joined her. “Why are you standing in the rain?”

  The warm droplets soaked into Rebecca’s hair, pasting it to her forehead, and rolled along her temples as her face remained upturned. She closed her eyes. The rain stung against her cheeks as the wind swept it sideways. “Miss Alexander?” A note of concern wove into her words. “Why are you standing out here in the rain?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

  “Has it anything to do with the bruise on your face? That ugly cut, perhaps?”

  “It might.” Rebecca jerked back as Agnes reached for her. “I told you before, don’t touch me.”

  Thunder rumbled and Agnes cast a wary glance at the sky. “Please come inside. You know I don’t like being out here in such weather.”

  Rebecca bit back another sigh and pushed away from the wet marble to pacify Agnes. The maid meant well, but her worrying could be so tiresome. Shoving the wet strings of her hair away from her eyes, she allowed Agnes to escort her back inside, where she dripped rainwater onto the carpet beyond the doors.

  “Now, do you wish to talk about it?” Agnes pressed a dry towel into her hand.

  A tall, cherry-framed screen stood in the far corner of the room. Rebecca padded behind it, where she stripped off her wet gown and chemise, her stays and stockings. They squelched as she slapped them over the screen’s top before tugging down the linen dressing gown she kept draped over it. “Not particularly.”

  “Miss Alexander.”

  “Oh, very well.” She emerged from behind the screen. “You’ll learn soon enough when Father returns with Captain McKenzie.”

  A furrow appeared between Agnes’s eyebrows. “Who is Captain McKenzie?”

  Sinking onto the edge of her bed, Rebecca draped the towel over her head. “The father of my child, who is most likely also soon to be my husband.”

  Chapter Three

  This had to be a mistake.

  It wasn’t the first time James McKenzie ever looked down the barrel of a pistol. It didn’t happen often, but it had happened before.

  What hadn’t happened before were the words that accompanied the barrel of that pistol just before it poked into his chest. “You’re coming with me, boy. I’ll not let you shirk your responsibility and leave my daughter to raise your bastard.”

  Ignoring the stares of his crewmates, all seated around the same table with him, James leaned back in his chair. He returned the man’s glare easily, brushing the pistol’s nose to the side as if it didn’t trouble him in the least. A good act, really, considering how hard his heart crashed against his ribs. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, old man.”

  “Oh, you’ve no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” The older man lowered the pistol and then brandished a walking stick of gleaming black ash in its stead. “Don’t suppose you recall being at Lord Sheraton’s ball with a three-legged man in attendance. A Lord Windemere, perhaps?”

  Lord Windemere. The name was vaguely familiar, but he shook his head as he lifted his tankard of ale. “I don’t. But then, I’ve been to several parties in the eight weeks I’ve been on the island. I’ve many friends here.”

  “And have there been many women you’ve bedded as well?”

  Hoots and jeers rose from the group and James couldn’t help the smug smile tugging up his lips. “I’m not normally one to boast, but — ” Pain tore through the hand in which he held his tankard. Windemere’s walking stick slammed into the tankard next, tearing it from his grasp. It clattered to the
floor, showering him with ale. It dripped from his hair and soaked into his shirt, and he calmly lifted his gaze to Windemere.

  “I suppose you think I won’t take a swing at you because of that.” He gestured to the walking stick, and then sat forward, bracing his hands on the table. “And if so, you’ve thought wrong.”

  As he made to rise, Windemere bent across the table, almost right in his face. “No more games, boy. You are coming with me.”

  James didn’t flinch. Not at Windemere’s foul, tobacco-laced breath, nor at the spittle that flew from his thick lips. He remained as he was, heartbeat slowing, staring hard at the man without blinking. “And why would I want to do something so foolish? My ship is being readied for departure and I fully intend to be on board and at the helm come tomorrow eve, when the tides are favorable.”

  “Because if you do not come with me, I need only alert a cheeky little fellow, Robert Codgington.” A self-satisfied smirk curved his thick lips. “Ah, I see by that look of horror, you know exactly who Captain Codgington is. Been nabbed by a press gang before, have you?”

  James’s spine stiffened and a chilled dread crept over him. He had the feeling he would not be walking away from this battle of wills as the victor. “So, you’ll hand me clear off to the Brits, even though I carry equally binding and totally legal papers of my own proving I’m not one of them.”

  “You know ol’ Codgington doesn’t give a damn about your bloody American papers. He uses them to wipe his arse after takin’ a shi — ” Windemere caught himself, pressing a thick-fingered hand to his lips.

  James’s knees buckled, but he sat as nonchalantly as he could manage. Why let Windemere consider him intimidated? Even with his darkly foreboding feeling, James was not about to give the impression that he was anything other than nonplussed.

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted his legs to cross his booted feet on the tabletop. “What makes you so certain I even know your daughter?”

  “My daughter, and every bloody guest at that bloody ball. You seduced her, tumbled her well and good, and planted your seed in her belly.” More snickers rose from the group. Some of the cocky self-assurance oozed out of James’s body. He certainly remembered the temptress who shared his bed the night of the Sheratons’ masquerade ball. Remembered the hints of cinnamon woven through thick dark curls. Those dark curls spilled across his chest, caressed his bare skin like silken ribbons.