Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

The tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Her instincts, finely honed from living by her wits for so long, warned her that this was not a man with whom to trifle.

"At least Simon should be pleased at the way you've been received socially. With half the hopeful mothers in London pushing their unmarried daughters at you, you've become the catch of the season," Thomas remarked, not without envy.

Noelle looked at Quinn more sharply. She tried to imagine why rich ladies with beautiful clothes and plenty to eat would possibly want to marry this menacing stranger. He was undoubtedly handsome, but couldn't they sense the savagery in him? Wives were property, owned by their husbands. They would have to be daft to put themselves under this man's control.

"Believe me, Thomas, it's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy!" Quinn took a thin cheroot from his pocket and lit it. "All those overdressed, overstuffed matrons pushing their whey-faced daughters at me. It's enough to turn a man against women!"

"By Jove!" Thomas hooted. "Quinn Copeland a misogynist! That'll never wash, old boy. No, from what I've seen, you're a marked man, marked for the parson's mousetrap!"

"Shut up, Tom," Quinn growled. He pulled deeply from the bottle, swallowing the rum as though it were water.

Thomas grinned, enjoying Quinn's discomfort. "You can tell me. Which one of our high-steppers are you going to choose as your bride?"

"Dammit, Tom, not you too!"

"Oh, Simon's been at you, has he?".

"For years," Quinn responded, leaning indolently against the lamppost, the smoke from his cheroot curling around his black hair. "At one point he told me he was no longer requesting that I marry, he was ordering it."

"That's rather heavy-handed, even for Simon, isn't it?"

"I thought so," Quinn replied sardonically.

Even in his befuddled state, Thomas sensed there was more to the breach between Simon and his headstrong son than disagreements over either the management of Copeland and Peale or Quinn's marital status. "If he wants a Copeland bride so much, why doesn't he marry again himself?"

"You miss the point, Tom. Simon, like many Americans, is a self-made man. He rose from being a carpenter's apprentice when he was thirteen to one of the greatest shipbuilders in the world at forty. Now, at fifty, he wants to forget that he was ever a carpenter's apprentice. He wants the name Copeland to be as respected as Winthrop or Livingston or Franklin. Although he won't admit it, he has visions of a Copeland dynasty, oldest son to oldest son. But for this dynasty, he needs a woman. Not any woman, naturally. Only someone of impeccable breeding can be the next Copeland bride." Quinn flicked the last of the cheroot into a puddle where it hissed sibilantly as it went out. "Of course, he also believes the right wife will settle me down and make me respectable."

Thomas snickered, his words beginning to slur together. "See it all now. Quinn Copeland, august citizen, pillar of the church, cornerstone of the Copeland dynasty, arrives home promptly at six o'clock. Kisses the pudding-faced wife at the door."

"Pinches the maid," Quinn interjected, grinning lecherously.

"God's life, no, man!" Thomas exclaimed with mock horror. "Not in front of the children!"

"All six of them," Quinn said piously.

"Six! You forgot the twins!"

"Eight?" Quinn roared, pitching the now-empty bottle into the overflowing gutter. "Damn it, Thomas Sully, you've gone too far!"

With an unsuccessful attempt at dignity, Thomas raised himself from the stoop. "I'm not the one who went too far. She's your potato-faced wife!"

"You said pudding-faced. Make up your mind!"

"Pudding, potato-either way you'll only be able to make love to her with her nightgown covering her ugly face!"

"You're talking about my wife, you bastard," Quinn bellowed as he playfully cuffed his already staggering companion.

Noelle observed the two of them trading friendly obscenities and throwing harmless punches at each other. They were oblivious to the damage the drizzle was inflicting on their beautifully tailored garments. Could feed a family of six for a year on what those clothes must have cost, she thought. The Englishman was as drunk as a blacksmith on payday.

She studied the American again, his head thrown back in laughter, rain glistening on his chiseled face. Her uneasiness would not leave her. Then she thought of the solitary room she desperately wanted to keep and the money she needed to do so.

Noelle made up her mind. She would give the American wide berth; Thomas Sully was her mark.

Drawing two breaths to calm herself, she stepped out of her hiding place and walked toward them, wiggling her scrawny hips provocatively and smiling seductively in perfect imitation of the women she had watched so often.

The two men, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, had broken into a lively, if somewhat bawdy tune:

"What is a friar wi' a bald head?

A staff to beat a cuckold dead?

What is a gun that shoots point blank,

And hits between a maiden's flank?"

They broke off their song as Noelle approached them, stopping several feet in front of Thomas. Resting her hands brazenly on her narrow hips, she smiled boldly at him.

"Evenin', Guv'nor. 'Ow 'bout a bit of fun?" She broadened her vowels and dropped her consonants with ease, a practice she had astutely adopted so that she did not stand out from the rest of the prostitutes.

"Well, well," Thomas slurred drunkenly, "if it isn't one of London's fairest flowers, a fashionable impure, gracing us with her presence." He doffed his tall beaver hat and bowed deeply in front of her. The movement would have been gallant had he not spoiled it by belching loudly at its conclusion.

Noelle giggled coquettishly. "Gor, sir, ain't you the one." Looping one of her arms through his, she moved closer to him, preparing to pick her moment carefully. He smelled of tobacco and rum, a not altogether unpleasant combination. Deliberately she pressed her body next to his, tilting her shoulders forward to reveal more of her breasts.

Looking at him through partially closed lids, she whispered seductively, "Yer a fine lookin' cove, y'are, Guv."

Quinn snorted with amusement.

"What the devil are you laughing at?" Thomas challenged, shooting Quinn a superior glance. "This young lady is undoubtedly one of the more experienced judges of men in London."

"I don't doubt she is experienced, Tom," Quinn retorted, a smile playing lazily at the corners of his lips, "but I question how discerning she is."

Noelle felt a small stab of shame at their jests. What do you expect? she chided herself. You want them to believe the worst.

The American's eyes raked over her impersonally, taking in the tawdry ostrich plume stuck in her frizzled hair, the painted cheeks, and her partially exposed breasts.

Noelle's face burned under his gaze. I must ignore him, she told herself; do what I'm here to do and get away quick as I can.

She squeezed Thomas's arm to distract him. "Oh, ain't you the strong one. There are them that says yer can tell a lot 'bout a man from the size of 'is arms."

She flirted outrageously as, with lightning speed and a feather touch, she extracted a heavy watch from his pocket and unobtrusively slid it into one of the large pockets she had sewn into her gown for just such a purpose. Keeping her eyes on Thomas, she continued her charade, all the while looking for any sign that he was aware of what had happened. He was grinning drunkenly at her, obviously enjoying her flattery. Conscious of the comfortable weight of the watch deep in her pocket, Noelle began to feel easier about the encounter. Still, she cautioned herself, she must do nothing to raise his suspicions.

"I can tell yer a flash cove with the 'igh-flyers, I can," Noelle bantered, tickling his lapel with her forefinger. "I don't mind sayin' I've earned my fair share of compliments too, ducks." Her pink tongue flickered across her vermilion lips. "Let me show yer wot I mean."