The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection Read online

  Which was exactly why his brother’s renewed interest in Miss Darly chilled Nathan’s blood.

  After Edward left London—leaving behind a brokenhearted, pregnant actress—it had taken a handsome sum of money from Nathan’s own bank account to keep her from entreating some lovelorn swain to ride out to Callaway Abbey and put a bullet through Edward’s thoughtless heart on her behalf.

  Nathan had run himself ragged while trying to keep the news of his brother’s cruel treatment of one of London’s beloved actresses from reaching any of the gentlemen’s clubs or ladies’ tearooms. And he hadn’t been able to accomplish the thorny task without further tarnishing his own name in the process.

  In the end, everyone assumed Miss Darly’s child was Nathan’s and that Nathan had wooed the beautiful Miss Darly away from his own brother. Only Edward and Miss Darly knew the truth.

  “Leave the poor actress alone,” Nathan warned. He’d tie his brother up and stuff him into a carriage heading back to Callaway Abbey before letting Edward put him through such a harrowing experience again. “Her popularity is greater than ever. A host of young gentlemen, all vying for her attentions, have followed her to Bath from London. Let one of them have her.”

  “Why should I?” Edward stomped his foot like a spoiled child. “Are you jealous of my ability to attract the cream of the ladies? Is that why you’re trying to dissuade me? Why shouldn’t I take a mistress? Every bloody gentleman in England has a mistress.” Baring his fists, he advanced on Nathan. “I won’t be the only one doing without!”

  “Father ruthlessly hammered into our heads that we should rather die than allow a scandal to stain the immaculate Portfry name.” He smacked his brother on the forehead. “How in blazes did that lesson not take?”

  Edward stumbled backward, tripping over a tree root. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  “You and mistresses and scandal seem to go hand in hand, that’s what. I’m tired of tidying up your messes for you…and protecting the Portfry name.”

  “Is that what has you acting like a prig of a lady with a bee buzzing in her bonnet?” Edward barked a laugh, a deep-bellied, thick laugh that bent him over and had him grabbing his knees. “Such indignation! It sounds ridiculous coming from your lips. Everyone knows you’re the bad seed, Nat.”

  “But you know the truth.”

  “The truth?” Edward choked a little as he laughed some more, sounding as if he’d just heard the cleverest joke ever conceived. “And who do you fancy yourself to be? The sanctimonious younger brother or the martyred prodigal son? Or…or perhaps both?”

  “Neither. Tell me, Brother, are you going to do the reasonable thing and leave Miss Darly alone?”

  Edward started to walk away. “You have no right telling me how to live my life. I am the heir to the Portfry title and I am free to do as I please.”

  “Very well,” Nathan had to trot in order to catch up to his brother, “perhaps instead of talking about your recklessness with mistresses you can tell me about this missing money from the accounts that Maryanne believes you have been giving me. What’s the truth behind that lie?”

  Edward stopped. “Ever since Father’s illness, I have been doing an exemplary job handling the estate accounts. Oh, you may think yourself so clever, having spent your childhood following the estate manager around and asking all those inane questions as if you were in line to inherit the property. It eats at you, doesn’t it? You will never have an estate to call your own and I will.”

  It was true. Nathan did harbor an ache, a longing to manage a working estate. Numbers and measures and the day-to-day lives of the common workers had always fascinated him.

  “Is it jealousy that makes you think you could manage the lands better than me?”

  “Jealousy has nothing to do with my noticing that for the past two years, the income from the estate’s wheat crops has been half of what it should be and that you’re letting the miller charge twice the price he does our neighbors. And the back fields at Holme Crossing fell fallow even though there were willing hands to till them. You need to be more careful. If you’re having trouble, at least rethink my suggestion that you consult with Father or his man-of-affairs regarding—”

  “You have no right to question my decisions!”

  Nathan shrugged. “If you are covering your losses by telling others you have been paying debts for me, I would merely like to know—”

  Edward circled his brother like a hawk closing in on his prey. “You are ever the pleasant fellow, are you not? Gathering friends with that benign smile of yours.”

  “And you are dancing around the issue. What is happening to the estate monies, Edward? Since you’re sullying my name, I have every right to know.”

  “You have no rights when it comes to this family. Or have you forgotten, you’re not welcome within our ranks anymore.”

  Good God, Edward should be grateful for what Nathan had gone through and the sacrifices he’d made. Instead his brother only appeared willing to spew malice.

  “I understand only too well my position and how I came to it,” Nathan said, tamping down an urge to beat some sense into his brother.

  “I never asked for your interference in my life.” Edward’s cheeks bloomed bright red. “Never wanted your damned—”

  “I was protecting our family’s reputation!”

  “No!” Edward roared as he stalked back toward the house. “You were doing what you always do. You were trying to steal Father’s love!”

  Chapter Eight

  If she were indeed holding out for love—as her mother had suggested that afternoon—she wouldn’t be planning a skulk through Bath dressed like this. No, Iona thought to herself, she would be doing something vastly different.

  Yet, considering how none of the gentlemen vying for her attentions had ever seen beyond the glitter of her father’s title and wealth, she supposed those swains wouldn’t notice if she were to appear at a tea dressed in these gentlemen’s fineries, sporting a bushy blond mustache.

  She peered into her bedchamber’s cheval glass mirror and adjusted the stiff hairs stuck to her upper lip. The thick paste she’d used smelled faintly like gooseberry cake, a dish the family cook liked to bake for special occasions. Smelling it made her stomach growl.

  There hadn’t been time for food. The mustache, paste and set of gentlemen’s evening garments had been tucked up in a paper box that had appeared on the family’s back door late that afternoon along with a scrap of foolscap with nothing more written on it than the words eight o’clock.

  More thrilling than the most flowery, heart-wrenching love note, those two words promised to fulfill all her desires.

  An adventure.

  A rogue’s lesson.

  And the chance to demand that Nathan explain away those horrid rumors that seemed to follow him everywhere lately.

  Not one of these desires suggested she harbored some secret longing to find a man to love her. Her mother had been wrong.

  Love would bind her and would trick her into marriage. And marriage would stand in the way of her independence. Without her independence, how in blazes could she hope to pursue her life’s passion—sculpture?

  Becoming her cousin’s wife would only lock the door to the gilded cage she’d lived inside all her life. She’d be expected to go from playing the part of dutiful daughter to taking on the role of content and dutiful wife. She’d be forced to tuck away her daring spirit beneath her husband’s title and wealth, to be forever hidden away.

  But that was the future. Tonight, she would slip free from the bonds of dependability and caution…with Nathan.

  Her parents were out for the evening, dining with friends. Lillian and Miss Amelia Harlow had closeted themselves in the upstairs drawing room where they were steadfastly practicing a duet they planned to sing at the next musicale.

  Which left Iona blessedly alone and her mind racing with the delicious possibilities the evening might bring. Would there be danger at Goldsm
ith’s? She hoped the establishment proved to be worth the trouble. She gave the pantaloons she was wearing a tug. They didn’t seem to fit quite right.

  The outfit Nathan had sent over was small enough for a gangly boy. The crisp white shirt, the creamy silk waistcoat and the white muslin cravat hadn’t given her any trouble. But the dark blue form-fitting coat didn’t quite fit Iona’s form. Even though she was tall for a woman, the top of her head barely reached Nathan’s nose, making a boy’s outfit—instead of a man’s—necessary. And still, despite the small size, the clothes looked odd on her. Most likely because she was curvy in many of the places boys weren’t—mainly in the chest area.

  With the help of her maid, who’d vowed an oath of silence, Iona had bound her breasts as tightly as possible and stuffed padding in all the appropriate places, including the legs and crotch areas of her black pantaloons, which helped a little.

  An old-fashioned wig had been scavenged from the back of her father’s wardrobe. With a mixture she’d concocted from boot polish and tea, she had dyed the wig a burnished brown and then trimmed and combed it as best as she was able to resemble a gentleman’s modern-day style.

  “My lady.” Her maid, her wide eyes as jumpy as a rabbit’s, appeared at the bedchamber door and announced, “A carriage has arrived.”

  “Thank you, Gracie.” Iona took one last peek in the mirror, adjusted the beaver hat propped precariously on the top of her wig and wiggled her itchy nose.

  Heaven’s, she should be sent directly to Bedlam. The men at Goldsmith’s were going to take one look at her and see straight through the disguise. In less than a day’s time, news of her mad attempt to pass herself off as a man would reach every parlor in Bath. It wouldn’t take long before she would turn into the ton’s latest joke and be dubbed as odd as Lady Caroline Lamb.

  Lady Caroline, a married lady of considerable wealth, had done the most outrageous things—including wearing men’s clothing—while shamelessly forcing her attentions on that handsome poet, Lord Byron, a few seasons ago. She had so embarrassed her family that they’d banished her to their country estate in Ireland.

  Iona’s family split their time between London and Bath, never spending more than a couple of weeks out of the year at the country estate. Being sent away to her father’s country estate would separate her from those she loved the most, her family. Was she really prepared to risk everything in exchange for her freedom?

  She adjusted her hat and pinched her lips together, hoping to make herself look more like a man. But no matter how contorted her expression, it was still her own face that stared back at her in the glass.

  “Ah well,” she muttered, remembering Nathan’s challenge in the park, “a true rogue wouldn’t give a fig about what her family or society thought of her, or the possible repercussions, no matter how dire.”

  “My lady?” Gracie wrung her hands nervously. “Begging your pardon, but if you hope to pass yourself off as a lad, shouldn’t you make your voice a mite deeper?”

  “Yes of course, Gracie. I will.” Iona cleared her throat and deepened her voice a full octave. “I mean, I will.”

  Gracie shook her head and looked more worried than before. “Please be careful, my lady,” she called as Iona dashed down the stairs and darted out the front door before the rest of the household staff managed to take a close look at her.

  A shabbily dressed coachman, with crooked yellowed teeth and great tufts of silver hair growing out of his ears, helped her into a battered old carriage where she settled onto a hard bench. Before she had any time to object, the carriage jerked into motion, leaving her sitting in the dark compartment—alone.

  And at the mercy of this hired hack.

  She’d never traveled alone before. Men did it all the time she supposed. It was natural, expected even. Being jostled about within such a poorly sprung contraption should be considered a bit of fun. There was no reason to panic.

  Even if she had no idea where Nathan could be or why he would send a rather unsavory-looking stranger to deliver her to Goldsmith’s rather than come for her himself, there was absolutely no cause for panic. She simply needed to catch her breath.

  No use worrying that someone other than Nathan might have sent the box of men’s clothing along with that cryptic and unsigned note. And there was no reason why her mouth should be turning dry or her stomach should be dancing with butterflies at the thought of spending more time alone with him. He was nothing more than a friend.

  Of course she’d never been kissed so thoroughly by any of her other friends. But that was beside the point. It would be wrong to think of him in any other way.

  Lillian was mistaken. Nathan was not the kind of gentleman who would trifle with a lady’s affections. And he certainly wasn’t a danger to a lady’s virtue as her mother had suggested.

  No matter what others said about him, Iona considered him a very dear and close friend. Who also happened to have the ability to steal her breath with a mere brush of his lips and whose absence had made her absolutely miserable. Well, that certainly shouldn’t be happening.

  Although…

  Her heart had ached fiercely these past three days while she fretted over his absence. But that shouldn’t mean that she… No, she would not accept it.

  She was not falling in love with Lord Nathan.

  She simply couldn’t!

  The carriage lurched as it came to an abrupt stop. Before she had a chance to untangle her thoughts or straighten her suddenly dislodged beaver hat, the door swung open.

  “What a funny-looking fellow you make,” Lord Nathan said, poking his head in the opening. The sparkling gleam in his eyes brightened the gloomy interior. The smile playing on his lips gave her heart a jolt. “Let’s see what we have to work with here.” He gave Iona a thorough look-over, starting from the tips of her toes and following all the way up to the top of her head.

  “You don’t set a hat on your head in the same manner as you would a bonnet,” he said and jammed her hat down until the rim banged up against her ears, making them jut out at odd angles. “There,” he said, his smile widening enough to reveal a row of pearly white teeth, “now you look like a proper elf.”

  “An elf?” she cried. “What do you mean an elf? I suffered all afternoon, tucking in here and padding there.”

  “Oh dear,” he said, putting a hand to his brow, “you had to experience firsthand the torment gentlemen must go through every day in order to present their handsome best for the ladies in our lives.”

  Iona rather liked how that sounded. Nathan spending extra time at his toilette, biting his lower lip as he concentrated on getting his cravat to flow with a waterfall’s grace was quite an endearing image. It made her wonder what it would feel like to become one of his beloved garments. To have his fingers lovingly fit her against the hard planes of his body.

  His gaze brushed over her again, warming her cheeks. “Tonight, I think an elf is the best you can expect,” he declared. “Your gentle proportions and curvy shape hardly resemble a man’s form.” He took her hand to help her step down from the carriage.

  “You shouldn’t treat me as you would a lady,” she reminded him and leapt down to the pavement without his assistance or the use of the steps. She immediately recognized her surroundings. The carriage had deposited her on Cheap Street in the middle of town. A few gentlemen were milling about. No one appeared to be interested in either her or Nathan.

  Bolstered by this, she propped her hands on her hips and struck the manly pose she’d been practicing all afternoon. “I am Sir Percival Crumps,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could manage, and then whispered, “He’s a cousin of mine who never leaves his tiny country shire. No one in Bath should know him personally.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sir Percival,” Nathan said and gave her a bruising handshake. “And you only arrived in town this evening?”

  “Did I?” She hadn’t thought to come up with a history for Sir Percival.

  “You did,” he assu
red her. He took her shoulders and steered her toward a massive two-story stone building looming up at the corner of the street where a pair of Corinthian columns framed a tall, highly polished oak door. “Perhaps you should let me do all the talking once we are inside. You don’t sound very…um…male.”

  She stopped at the edge of the walkway that led up to the building. A vine-enshrouded iron picket fence surrounded the building’s yard. Two menacing stone eagles stood as imposing guards perched above the entrance’s ornate canopy. “So this is Goldsmith’s?” she asked, striving to pitch her voice deeper still.

  Two gentlemen with their eyes fixed on the ground brushed past them and hurried up the steps and inside.

  “The one and only.” Nathan crossed his arms and looked content enough to stay where they were, standing a few steps away from the gaming hell’s front entrance.

  Since he wasn’t in any rush, Iona supposed she didn’t need to be either. “Why did you send a carriage for me? Why didn’t you come for me yourself?” she asked, assuring herself mere curiosity drove her to ask the question. Not some numbing fear of breaching the walls of this very male establishment.

  A range of burgundy shades from deep reds to blackish violets spread across the sky as the day gave way to early evening. Nathan leaned against the iron fence and smiled at her.

  It was most distracting.

  “I sent the carriage—and was kind enough to save you from the rigors of a sedan chair—because you have only just arrived in Bath while I have been here for several weeks and would know well enough that no one hires a carriage to convey them to Goldsmith’s,” he said. His hussar boots shimmered in the waning sunlight. The starched cravat hugging his neck had been tied into an intricate design Iona had never seen before. His shiny hat pitched at a daring angle.