One Scandalous Night: Three Historical Romance Novellas Page 2
Bright sunshine lit the carriage.
Morning, then.
She glanced around without moving. She lay on horrid Mr. Mortimer’s chest, and—she raised her head a little to check past foreshortened chin and nostrils that yes, he still slept. She let her head fall again. Good. The man might be egregiously rude and horribly foulmouthed, but she was rather comfortable, despite the scratchy wool of his waistcoat.
Actually, now that she thought of it, it was probably because of his egregious rudeness that she had been able to relax at all. She’d been almost hysterical when he’d grabbed her so suddenly last night—naturally so, after hours running from the Duke of Montgomery and all he meant to do to her. It hadn’t been until Mr. Mortimer’s blunt comment that he wouldn’t bed a pox-ridden actress that she’d been shocked out of her fear. Because it had made sense, if nothing else—what man would want to risk disease and death for a simple tumble?
A flake of dried mud fell off her nose and landed on the gray cloth in front of her.
Hippolyta sighed. She’d never been so very filthy in all her life. She could feel her hair matted by…something, stuck to the side of her head. She could feel dried sweat and a sort of oiliness all over her body and she very much feared that she did indeed reek to high heaven. She was a stew of almost Olympian foulness.
No wonder Mr. Mortimer had mistaken her for a pox-ridden whore.
Last night Bridget had given her a small purse of money with which to pay her way to London. It was a solid, comforting weight against the outside of her right thigh, tied tightly by a stout garter. Perhaps if they arrived at an inn with enough time before the mail coach’s departure, she could count her coins and if she had some left over she could rent a room and have a bath.
Hippolyta raised her head at the thought, glancing out the window to see where they were. But the view told her little: hedges, frost-covered hills, and oblivious sheep.
She turned back to the carriage, wondering if she should move, and for the first time got a full look at Mr. Mortimer’s face in the daylight.
She blinked.
Oh.
He was…
Well.
He had the thickest, most lush eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man. That was her first thought. They lay black and silky against his tanned cheek, and if he’d been a woman she’d suspect him of using paint. His hair was long, a wild tangle of dark brown around his face with lighter tawny streaks from the sun. His cheekbones were high and blunt and below he had more than a day’s stubble, making him look like a sleeping pirate, napping between raids. But it was his mouth that made her glance linger.
Those lips…
Had these sensuous, beautiful lips said all those awful things to her last night?
Soft and pale pink against his tanned skin, the upper one sharply cut into a cupid’s bow, the lower languidly curved and plush, slightly parted in sleep. Soft and beckoning. If she leaned just a little forward she could lick those lips and somehow she had a dizzying, spiraling feeling that they would taste tart.
Hippolyta jerked her head away.
Her breath was coming fast for some reason, and she realized suddenly how very inappropriate her position was. She was lying right on top of the man as if he were a large, not very soft featherbed.
She began hurriedly backing off him. But she became entangled in the pile of blankets covering them both. Her elbow caught, she wavered, swaying precariously on three limbs, the carriage bumped around a curve, and she lost her balance.
She fell hard against him. “Oof.”
“Sodding—!” His eyes flew open, grass green, outraged, and only inches from her face. Oh, and still surrounded by those ludicrously lush eyelashes. “Are you trying to unman me?”
“I was attempting to rise,” Hippolyta snapped back with as much dignity as possible, considering her position.
Another flake of mud fell off her face and landed on his chin, which rather ruined the whole thing.
“Next time”—he clamped hard, firm hands around her waist—“rise”—he lifted her, blankets and all—“without shoving your knee into my bloody bollocks.”
He deposited her on the seat opposite him and sat back down again, next to the only remaining blanket wadded in the corner of the seat.
Hippolyta blinked, feeling a bit breathless. She was in no way a petite woman and Mr. Mortimer had just lifted her as smoothly as he would a tankard of ale. It was a rather…disconcerting show of strength, one that made her feel a bit trembly in her belly.
She placed her hand against that part of her anatomy as if to brace herself as she met his black scowl. “I’m sorry. You needn’t be so rude. I didn’t intend to…er…”
He snorted as she stumbled over her apology and abruptly leaned over to open the window. “Josiah! Charlie!”
“Aye?” came the shout from the box in front.
“Stop the carriage.”
The carriage rolled to the side of the road and then jerked to a stop.
Mr. Mortimer opened the door without looking at Hippolyta.
“Where are you going?” she hissed at him. There was nothing in sight but rolling fields.
He glanced back at her. “To piss.”
The door slammed shut and then she was in the carriage alone.
Hippolyta folded her hands in her lap under the blankets, aware that her own bladder needed seeing to. When he returned she’d have to get out and perhaps find a bush or…
The remaining bundled blanket on the seat opposite moved.
She froze.
What?
A small pointed gray nose stuck out of one of the folds, twitching in interest.
Hippolyta had inhaled to scream when the door was flung open.
She glanced wildly at Mr. Mortimer.
“What?” He frowned, peering around the carriage as he climbed in.
She pointed at the blanket. “A rat!”
He actually rolled his eyes. “That’s not a rat.” He shoved the blanket on the floor without ceremony, revealing a small gray animal, long and lean, with a fluffy tail that narrowed to a point. It had a tiny pink nose, neat round ears, and clever slanted eyes. “That’s a—”
“Mongoose,” Hippolyta breathed, enchanted.
Matthew looked sharply at the little beggar. Few Englishmen knew what a mongoose was let alone could recognize one. In the daylight flooding the carriage she was a sorry sight indeed. Her hair hung mostly down, clotted with mud. The feet that stuck out of the blankets she clutched were shod in rough woolen stockings and ugly buckle shoes. Above she wore a too-large gown that might once have been black but was now the color of dirt. The bodice gaped, revealing a filthy chemise beneath. And he knew after putting his hands around her waist and feeling only thin layers of pliable cloth that she wore no stays. Those plump breasts would bounce when she walked, wild and wanton.
In the light of day, her claim to be a kidnapped heiress was even more ludicrous than on the night before—save for the regal way in which she held herself. She sat there, bundled in old blankets, dried mud streaks on her face, small chin tilted up, like a queen deigning to ride with some pauper.
As if she were doing him the favor.
His upper lip curled up. “How do you know what a mongoose is?”
She widened her eyes mockingly. “Perhaps I was born and raised in India, Mr. Mortimer. Perhaps I used to watch the snake charmers with their mongoose helpers. Perhaps I used to beg my papa for one of my own when I was a little girl. Oh, but I forgot—I couldn’t possibly be who I say I am.”
He scowled. “India.”
Her smile was serene and unsettling. “India.”
His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward across the carriage to growl, “Look, Princess, I’m not buying what you’re selling this morning any more than I was last night.”
“Naturally you know what’s best.”
“I do.” He crossed his arms and sat back, ignoring the disappointed little crimp of her lips.
 
; “What’s his name?” She held out her fingertips—grubby, the nails ragged and broken—to Tommy, who, flirt that he was, chirped and leaped to her side of the carriage.
“Tommy Teapot,” he replied drily, watching as his mongoose stood on his hind legs to sniff up her arm and to her ear before sneezing and dropping down to all four paws again.
“Teapot?” She was smiling, her voice soft for the damned mongoose as Tommy investigated her bundled blankets.
“There was a big copper teapot on the ship. He liked to curl up to sleep in it for some reason. The sailors started calling him Tommy Teapot and”—he shrugged—“the name stuck.”
“A ship?” She glanced up at that. “You’re returning from a voyage?”
“To India.” He sat back, letting his legs sprawl. “Where you were raised, apparently.”
He didn’t bother hiding the disbelief in his voice. Yes, mongooses were rare things in England, but any sailor who had been to India or Arabia might’ve seen one and brought back the tale.
Sailors and prostitutes tended to keep company.
Her lips pressed together into a thin line, making the mud on her chin crack. “I was, actually. Until the age of two and twenty, when my papa took me to Venice.”
He snorted. “Oh, and now you’ve been to the Continent.”
She smiled sweetly. “Quite. But tell me of your voyage, Mr. Mortimer. What were you doing in India of all places?”
“I already told you: mapping and collecting scientific samples. We brought back dozens of plants, scores of preserved bird skins, animal skins, and insects. Books of pressed flowers and leaves, not to mention our notes and sketches. I left our expedition naturalists still debating with my old professor in Edinburgh over the samples we brought back. And the maps we were able to make.” Matthew grinned at the memory. “We were able to map—in detail, mind—from Calcutta all the way to the Himalayas. Rivers, roads, altitudes, everything. Bloody grand, it was.” He scowled. “Until the damnable skirmishing with the French made it nigh impossible to do anything there. It’s just as well I was called back home.”
“It must’ve been a disappointment, though,” she said softly. “You sound as if you enjoyed your work.”
“I did.” He shrugged, glancing away, and thought of the earldom and the debts that awaited him. No more traveling round the world for him now. No more dusty treks, indigestible native food, and near-death experiences. He’d probably have to marry some whey-faced heiress whose most pressing worry was the color of her bloody gloves. “But now I have other matters that will concern me.”
“Oh? What?”
He smiled lazily at her eager little face. “That’s not really your concern, is it?”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.” She sat back, looking irritated. “If you don’t mind, I’ve the call of nature to see to.”
“Not at all.” He swept out his arm in ironic gallantry.
She stood and stepped down from the carriage.
He was right behind her, which seemed to startle her. She whirled, peering up at him anxiously. “What are you—?”
“Don’t fret, Princess.” He pointed to a hedge. “You can do what you need to over there. I’m going to talk to my men—on the other side of the carriage.”
He turned without waiting for her answer and walked around the carriage. He found his men by the horses. Josiah, the older of the two, was leaning against the carriage, his gray hair straggling out from under his tricorne and over the collar of his still-damp greatcoat. Josiah was a short, bowlegged man in his fifties with a face like leather from having spent most of his life at sea. Charlie, on the other hand, was barely eighteen, fresh-faced, and black-haired. The boy was nearly as tall as Matthew, but as gangly as a stork. At the moment he was bent over, inspecting one of the horses’ hooves.
Matthew frowned. “Has she gone lame?”
“What?” Charlie looked up, his cheeks reddened from the wind. Someday soon he was going to start breaking girls’ hearts with that innocent face. “Oh, no, my lord, I was jus’ checkin’ to be sure.”
“Fine.” Matthew jerked his chin to the boy.
Charlie straightened and came over to where he and Josiah stood.
“It’s ‘Mr. Mortimer’ for now.” Matthew looked between the older man and the youth. “I’d rather she not know about my title.”
Charlie’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
But Josiah chuckled deeply before hawking and spitting on the ground at their feet. “Don’ want th’ lass t’ cling and beg if’n she finds out what a fine name ye ’ave, eh, Mattie?”
“Let’s just get to the next town so we can rid ourselves of her,” Matthew growled.
“An’ are ye sure ye’ll be wantin’ t’ now?” The older man made disgusting kissing noises.
Josiah nearly choked with laughter when Matthew’s only answer was one-fingered.
He strode back around the carriage, ignoring the creeping sensation at the nape of his neck. That sense had saved him more than once during tense situations in his travels. Right now it was telling him to heed old Josiah’s words, despite the teasing. Think twice about dumping Her Highness at the next inn. This time, though, his prickling sense of uneasiness was wrong. The little vagabond was capable of taking care of herself.
Besides, her safety was no concern of his.
Chapter Three
Late one night there came a dreadful pounding on the palace doors. Outside in the pouring rain stood a man wearing naught but a tattered cloak. He said his name was John and that he’d been set upon by robbers on the high road.
But Princess Peony noticed only his lovely smile.…
—From The Prince and the Parsnip
* * *
Hippolyta could hear male laughter and she blinked, feeling hurt as she neared the road. Were they laughing at her, the drivers and Mr. Mortimer? Sniggering over the rags she wore, the mud that caked her hair? She shivered, pulling the blanket she’d taken from the carriage more firmly over her shoulders. She’d never felt more exposed in her life—without her status and wealth, without friends, without even adequate clothing. She didn’t know precisely where she was or how far away London was, and it seemed all of a sudden a very long, dangerous, and uncertain journey.
Tommy Teapot slinked out of the hedge and scampered to where she stood by the road. Hippolyta couldn’t help but smile at the little gray animal, even after her dark thoughts. He’d followed her from the carriage and gone hunting in the hedge while she’d emptied her bladder. Now he stood up, looking around alertly, and she saw he carried a brown beetle in his mouth.
“So you’ve caught your breakfast?” she murmured to him. “Well done, sir.”
The mongoose tilted his head, looking up at her with intelligent beady eyes.
She felt a pang of longing. She hadn’t lied to Mr. Mortimer when she’d told him she’d once dreamed of having a pet mongoose. Long ago, when she’d lived in India. When Amma had been alive and the air had sung with heat, chattering voices, and the scent of dung and spices. Before she’d forgotten the taste of curry, the feel of floating silks, and the language of her mother.
Before she’d learned to hide the part of her that was Indian.
She should never have spoken of mongooses and India to Mr. Mortimer. The Duke of Montgomery had already attempted to blackmail Hippolyta over her mother. The danger was real and already proven. The English were quite contemptuous of those outside their shores, let alone people of different religions, and darker skins.
Her mother had been all three.
Were London society to realize that she was half-Indian, the majority would shun her. And even with Papa’s money very few men would want to marry her.
Her children would be one-quarter Indian, after all.
But…
Mr. Mortimer didn’t believe her, did he? She could babble all she wanted to about India and her childhood and perhaps even Amma and he’d think she was simply spinning tales. The idea was strangely alluring—to t
alk about her memories, all stored up, without fear of repercussion.
“Ready?”
She looked up at his voice and saw Mr. Mortimer striding toward her, a frown on his face.
Well, it’d be alluring to talk about her memories if she had a companion who was just a bit more likable. “Yes, I’m ready.”
But Mr. Mortimer wasn’t paying attention to her reply. He was scowling down at Tommy. “You’re not taking that in the carriage.” That was apparently the beetle, still clutched between Tommy’s sharp little teeth. Mr. Mortimer moved to stand between the mongoose and the open carriage door. “Drop it.”
“He caught it himself,” Hippolyta objected on behalf of Tommy. “It’s his breakfast.”
Mr. Mortimer transferred his scowl to her. “I’ve some cooked chicken in the carriage for him. He doesn’t need—”
He was interrupted by Tommy’s darting between his legs and into the carriage, breakfast beetle and all.
There was a short silence.
Hippolyta cleared her throat, fighting back a smile. “Shall we go?”
Mr. Mortimer stepped to the side and bowed, sweeping his arm toward the carriage. “After you, Princess.”
She pursed her lips at his mocking tone but nodded and climbed into the carriage. Tommy was nowhere in sight when she looked around.
The carriage rocked as Mr. Mortimer entered behind her. “He’s hiding with his prize, no doubt. You needn’t worry over him.”
He knocked on the roof and sat just as the carriage lurched into motion.
Hippolyta pulled some of the blankets over her lap and spotted a glittering black eye and a pink little nose twitching under a fold. Hastily she flung the edge of a blanket back over Tommy as she heard a distinct crunch.
She cleared her throat. “How far to the next town?”
Mr. Mortimer had pulled out a battered cloth bag and was rummaging in it.
He shrugged broad shoulders. “Don’t know.”
She frowned. “But—”
“We’ll get there when we get there.” He pulled a loaf of bread out of his sack, set it beside him on the seat, and reached into the bag again to bring out a wedge-shaped package wrapped in red oilcloth, which turned out to be cheese.