Teresa Medeiros - Nobody's Darling

Guilty as charged……

He came into her jail cell and stopped near enough for her to divine the dark gold hue of his hair, the sun-burnished strands that brushed his shoulders, the tawny stubble shading his jaw. But his eyes continued their maddening shift between gray and green. He was taller than she’d realized, lean and lanky without an ounce of wasted fat on his broad-shouldered frame.

She held her breath as he reached out his hand. But instead of throttling her as she’d feared, he caressed a fallen curl from her cheek. His calloused thumb lingered against her smooth skin.

“Holler,” he said.

“Pardon?” she whispered, believing she’d misunderstood him.

“The sheriff promised to come running if you hollered. I think it might be a good idea.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “I may have swooned beneath the weight of extreme duress, sir, but surely you haven’t mistaken me for the hysterical sort of female who screams at the slightest provocation.”

His lashes swept down to mask his eyes as he lowered his lips toward hers.

Esmerelda screamed.

BANTAM

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Nobody’s Darling A Bantam Book / April 1998

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1998 by Teresa Medeiros.

Cover art copyright © 1998 by Alan Ayers.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN 0-553-57501-5

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

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OPM 10 9 8 7 6

For my grandfathers, John Hatcher and Clarence Dame, who always appreciated a good western yarn. Wish you were still around to read this one.

For Zerelda James and all the other outlaw mothers who loved their boys.

And for Michael, whom I will always adore for making me watch McLintock ! seven thousand times.

London, 1878

The duke of Wyndham’s outraged bellow echoed through the cavernous halls of Wyndham Manor, throwing his household into utter chaos. Two underfootmen came rushing through opposite doors in a blind panic, colliding with a painful thud. In the basement kitchen, a startled cook threw a tray straight up in the air, raining fresh biscuits down upon her head. One of the parlor maids dusted a priceless Ming vase right off of its terra-cotta pedestal while old Brigit, who had served the lords of Wyndham for longer than anyone still alive could remember, crossed herself as if she’d just heard the wail of a banshee arising from an open grave.

In truth, none of them had ever heard their master’s voice raised above a scathing murmur. Which only made its current volume more alarming.

The duke’s servants came scurrying from all corners of the massive estate. Half running, half stumbling, they skidded to a halt in the marble-tiled foyer outside the smoking room’s towering teak doors and congregated in a nervous huddle, transfixed by the unintelligible howls coming from inside the room.

Not a single one of them dared to intrude upon His Grace’s private domain until his normally imperturbable sister, Anne, came flying down the curving staircase, her trembling hands struggling to fasten a brocaded wrapper at the waist. Having never seen her hair in anything but a tidy chignon, most of the servants gaped to realize the iron-gray mass tumbled nearly to her rump.

“Dear God, Potter,” she gasped, yanking a knot in the wrapper’s tasseled sash. “What happened?”

The butler sniffed, as if Lady Anne’s frantic question somehow implied that he was to blame for this debacle. “I can’t possibly say, my lady. I brought the duke his buttered scones and his Morning Post, which I had just finished ironing because he does so love the pages to be nice and crisp. I folded his napkin and salted his porridge for him, then I—”

“I’m well aware of my brother’s daily habits,” Anne snapped. “He hasn’t varied them since Victoria came to the throne.”

“Oh, and there was a letter,” Potter added, wrinkling his patrician nose with visible distaste. “From America.”

Anne paled. An inexplicable silence fell within the room, somehow louder and more disturbing than the cacophony that had preceded it. Dragging her apprehensive gaze away from Potter’s, Anne closed her icy hands around the crystal knobs and threw open both doors at once.

The servants cowered behind her, plainly expecting to find their master sprawled facedown on the Persian rug, felled by a fatal bout of apoplexy.

Anne peered through a jungle of potted palm fronds, thinking rather uncharitably that if Reginald were dead, her first act as mistress of the house would be to turn this Turkish-decorated monstrosity with its leering Oriental masks and grim leather furniture into a nice sunny sewing room. Stale pipe smoke assailed her nostrils, making her eyes water. Potter rushed over to the window and threw open the velvet drapes.

Morning sunlight flooded the funereal gloom. Anne and the servants recoiled as one at the shocking sight that greeted them.

Contrary to their fears, their master did not lie prone on the carpet, a final sigh seeping from his lungs. Instead, the duke of Wyndham, whose dignity had been unimpeachable for nearly three-quarters of a century, appeared to be having a full-blown slipper-stomping, cane-banging tantrum. This was no minor bout of pique or flare of annoyance that might result in a withering rebuke or a stinging lash of his acidic tongue, but a genuine temper fit. His square face ruddy with rage, he sputtered and coughed like an overgrown toddler, literally choking on his fury.

Anne clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a horrified laugh. She’d never seen her brother in such a snit. As a child he had only to hint at his vaguest wish to have his every desire granted. Their parents had found it far easier to give extravagant gifts than affection. Except to Anne, to whom they’d given neither.

Finding himself the object of fascination for a gaping audience did little to improve the duke’s disposition. He leaned forward in his wheelchair and brandished his cane, his face darkening to a striking shade of purple.

Alarm banished Anne’s amusement. Guilt and panic assailed her as she realized her brother might actually work himself into a stroke.

Scandalized by her lapse of Christian compassion, she swung toward the servants. “Stop gawking like a flock of dim-witted sheep and return to your posts immediately. If any one of you breathes a word about what you’ve seen here this day, you’ll be dismissed without so much as a farthing.”

“Aye, mum.”

“As you wish.”

The servants dutifully filed out, the bolder ones casting curious glances over their shoulders.