Which was certainly not the case. He had plenty of women. More of them, truth be told, than he knew what to do with. Hell, he was marrying one of them upon the morrow. If he wanted to, he could have had Becky Whitby nine different ways that very night …
But no. He’d had to go and molest his best friends’ little sister. Bravo, Drake. What did he intend to do for an encore? Kill their father, perhaps?
He didn’t know what was wrong with him. It seemed as if all night he’d felt a fever coming on. It had started, as near as he could tell, the moment Payton Dixon had appeared in that white satin thing. Her father ought to have been horsewhipped for allowing her to wear it; Ross ought to have been incarcerated for agreeing to pay for it. There wasn’t enough material in that dress to cover a cat decently, let alone a living, breathing girl.
But wear it she did. And attracted the attention of every single male guest in the household—at least those to whom she was not related by blood. He’d seen the expressions on the faces of his men, men who the summer before hadn’t cast Payton Dixon so much as a second glance when she’d strode by in trousers and a broadcloth shirt. But suddenly, the Honorable Miss Payton Dixon was very interesting, indeed.
What choice had he had, really? As host, it was his duty to protect his guests. He’d ordered McDermott to rearrange the bedroom assignments, and had purposely placed her between her brothers at the dinner table. But it hadn’t done any good. All through dinner, every man in the place had stared at her, waiting, Drake was quite certain, for a chance to get her alone. He’d left the table that first time she’d excused herself, as soon as he was able, in order to assure himself she’d reached her room unmolested. Thank God her brother had made that toast, or she might have spent all night on the dance floor. She might still be in there, dancing with Matthew Hayford, or some other young buck.
And it was too bad, he supposed bitterly, that she wasn’t. Otherwise, what had happened just now might never have occurred. Lord, how he wished what had happened just now had never occurred … He wished the whole day had never occurred.
Who, he wondered furiously, had put a corset on Payton Dixon? That sister-in-law of hers, no doubt. If it hadn’t been for her, he—and every other man at Daring Park that weekend—might never have noticed that the Honorable Miss Payton Dixon had grown into a woman … and not just any woman, either, but the most damnably beautiful woman he’d seen in a good long while … and that included those beauties they’d encountered in Tahiti.
And yet not beautiful, because there was something about Payton Dixon’s looks that defied conventional beauty. Certainly by Western standards, Becky Whitby was the more strictly beautiful of the two, with her graceful height, alabaster skin, and long auburn hair. Payton’s attractiveness lay in the way she held herself, the confidence with which she stepped, the graceful strength in her every movement. It was in her inability to conceal what she was feeling, the way her emotions were right there, in those enormous hazel eyes, for anyone to see. It was in the blunt frankness, the intolerance for artifice, with which she responded to everyone, from the lowliest housemaid to his own admittedly intimidating grandmother. Payton Dixon might be intimidated, but she would never be bullied.
He wished he could say the same of his future wife.
Still, there were men who admired women like Becky Whitby. Lord, what was he thinking? He himself had admired Becky Whitby immensely, and not just because of her beauty. There was something undeniably appealing about a beautiful woman who was so helpless, so wholly incapable of taking care of herself, so in need of the supportive arm of a man upon which to lean. Drake, like Hudson and Raleigh Dixon, had been powerfully drawn to Becky Whitby. She had aroused in him a desire to protect, to shield her from the dangers and hardships in the world, the way one might wish to shield a child.
But that had been before the start of this infernal fever. The fever had changed everything. Now he couldn’t help wondering if childlike helplessness was really what he wanted from a wife. Did he actually want to spend the rest of his life with someone he was going to have to coddle and protect? Wouldn’t it be infinitely preferable to share his life with someone who could go through it with him as an equal partner? A lover, yes, but also a friend, to whom he, in turn, could go to in times of need for support and advice.
This was not, he knew, the sort of relationship most married men had with their wives. It was not the sort of relationship he had ever suspected might exist … until recently. Most men married anticipating that they would have to support their wives, financially as well as emotionally, for the rest of their married lives. Marriage was recognized by neither the common populace nor the law as a partnership between two equals. Nor, Drake supposed, ought it to be, under most circumstances.
But those circumstances had never before included a woman like Payton Dixon.
It was a fever. He didn’t know what else it could be. He’d contracted any number of diseases in his journeyings around the globe, fevers and agues that had very nearly killed him more than once. But this … this wasn’t like any of those. It was a slow-burning fever that seemed to get hotter every time Payton Dixon drifted into his line of vision. It defied explanation. No physician in the world could diagnose its exact nature, let alone prescribe a cure. He could only suffer …
And suffer some more. In silence. Impotent silence.
Because he’d made his bed. Or rather, his bed had been made for him. And all he could do now was lie in it.
But it wasn’t that simple. When was it ever? Because instead of simply lying down, like the dead man he was—the dead man he had to be, to her—he’d gone and kissed her.
He couldn’t just have walked away. He couldn’t just have left her there. Oh, no. Not Captain Connor Drake, baronet and newly appointed full partner of Dixon and Sons Shipping. No, he’d had to go and kiss her. It was no use making excuses, either, like that the moonlight had gone to his head, or that she’d been crying—Payton Dixon, whom he’d never seen cry. Well, except for once, when she’d been stung by that Portuguese man-of-war. No, he’d known full well what he’d been doing. Just as he’d known full well that his was the first mouth to ever touch hers.
Who did he think he was fooling? He’d relished the knowledge, just as he’d relished her reaction, which he’d known, as he’d never known with any other woman, was purely instinctual … How could it have been anything but? Payton Dixon was too ingenuous to dissemble.
It wasn’t until she’d laid her hand so boldly over his erection that he’d come to his senses. Her interest in that had been as genuine as the ardor with which she’d responded to his kiss. Which was probably why he’d kissed her in the first place. Somewhere, deep down inside, he’d had to prove to himself that he was wrong, that he wasn’t making a mistake marrying Becky Whitby. He’d had to prove that as appealing as Payton Dixon might be in her scanty ball gown and upswept hair, she was still just a child, still not fully a woman.
Well, he’d proved it, all right. Proved he was completely wrong, that she was every inch of her a woman, a woman like no other he’d ever encountered in his life. A woman who had a very good idea of what she wanted, and had made it perfectly clear that what she wanted was him.
Well. It served him right. It served him right that all these years, the woman of his dreams had been right there, right there at his side, and he hadn’t noticed, not until it was too late.
Far too late.
He buried his head in his hands, “Connor?”
The soft, lilting voice sent him straightening up again, as quickly as if someone had prodded him in the back with a knife point. He saw her coming toward him along the garden path. He stood up, slipping his hands in his pockets to hide the evidence of his arousal that still hadn’t completely waned.
“Becky,” he said pleasantly. “Is everything all right?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Becky Whitby pushed a straying curl of auburn hair from her forehead. Her skin glowed in the moonlight. Her step was as light as the spray of water from the fountain behind him. “Everyone is wondering where you’d run off to. You keep disappearing.”
“I’m sorry.” God, it seemed like all he ever did these days was apologize. “I needed some air.”
Becky raised a delicate eyebrow. “Did you stain your coat?”
He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She pointed behind him. “Your coat. It’s soaking, you know.”
He looked, and saw that the coat he’d wrapped about Payton’s shoulders had fallen half in, half out of the water. He retrieved it. “Stupid of me,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“No.” Becky smiled at him. Her smile was gentle. “I can see that. Connor …”
“Yes?”
“You needn’t go through with it, you know.” Now the smile was not only gentle, but brave. “I want you to know that. If you want out of it, there’s still time. I could go away …”
He glared at her. “And live on what? You won’t take my money. How would you survive?”
The smile wavered, just a little. Still, she thrust out her chin and said, “I’d get by. I always have.”
For one moment—for one wild, miraculous moment—he let his imagination roam unchecked, and actually entertained the notion of calling off the wedding. What did he have to lose? Nothing. Nothing at all. His grandmother had made it clear that she’d be more than willing to weather the social stigma such an action would necessarily incur. And he’d be a free man. Free to do what he chose, go where he chose … court whom he chose.
But no. If he called off the wedding, he’d be considered worse than a cad, regardless of the truth behind the reasons why. No one, not even a family as eccentric and unconventional as the Dixons, could afford to be seen with him, let alone keep him in their employ, not if they wanted to continue beating out their chief rival, Tyler and Tyler Shipping, for those valuable commercial accounts.
And, more importantly, Ross Dixon would never allow his little sister to be seen in the company of a man who’d left a bride at the altar. They were best friends, it was true, but even friendship had its limits.
No, as far as Payton Dixon was concerned, Drake was a dead man, whether he married Becky Whitby tomorrow morning or not.
“No,” he said, as politely as if he were declining a second helping at the table. “That’s all right. I think we’d better go through with it, just the same.”
There was no way he could miss the relief that crept into her voice, the flush that seeped into her cheeks, as she responded, “Oh, I’m so glad. I’ve had such ideas on how we might decorate this old place. You know, bring it up to date. It’s dreadfully fusty, you know, Connor.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that after tomorrow, she’d never see Daring Park, fusty or not, again. He’d let that wait until after the wedding. After all, it wouldn’t do to have her backing out of it, and going about, telling tales.
“Of course,” he said. “Now, hadn’t you better get back inside? It’s bad luck, I understand, for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, and it’s past midnight, you know.”
Becky’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she cried. “You’re right! Good night, then, darling.”
“Good night.”
She lifted her skirts and dared back the way she came, a light and graceful figure in the half-darkness. Drake stood where he was, and watched until she’d disappeared into the house. Only then did he exhale, and lift his face to the night sky.
How he wished, as he’d done a hundred times already that day, that they had, none of them, ever met Becky Whitby. How he wished he were standing at the wheel of the
Constant
, the rolling deck beneath his feet, the cool winds of the South Seas on his face.
She’d forget him, he knew. Oh, not for a while. Women did not, he thought, ever forget their first kiss. But there’d be other kisses. No one who looked at Payton Dixon could be insensible to that By next month, perhaps, she’ll have forgotten, in the rush of new beaus she was bound to attract.
It would take a century for him to forget her. If he ever could forget a woman who could kiss like that.
And who could deliver such a purposeful right hook.
It might not, Drake decided, be such a bad idea to have a drink.
He went to find his comfort in a bottle, since he knew he’d find it nowhere else.
Payton cracked open an eye and saw that the grey light of morning was seeping in through the window casement. She’d forgotten to draw the curtains the night before and had neglected to close the window, and now tendrils of thick morning fog crept into her room, making everything—most especially her bed sheets—a little damp.
Payton yanked on those bedsheets and, with a groan, brought them up over her head. It was morning. And not just any morning, either. The morning of Drake’s wedding.
And the morning after she’d made such a perfect ass of herself.
Huddled in a cocoon of sheets, Payton squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force herself back to sleep. She hadn’t slept at all well. She’d spent half the night, it seemed, trying to find a comfortable place to lay her head. She had pounded the soft pillows into every imaginable position, and it hadn’t done a bit of good. She had even dragged half her bedclothes down to the floor and tried sleeping there, for a change. After all, she’d slept well enough on board the hard deck of many a ship on nights it had been too hot to sleep in the foc’sle.
But it didn’t do any good. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable, or the floor any more or less so. It was because her mind was too full to sleep. Her mind too full, and her heart too heavy.
It hadn’t been exactly edifying, finding out that she was such a fool. Certainly, it was something she’d always suspected, but to have it thrust in her face as dramatically as it had been the night before … well, it was enough to keep her awake for a few solid hours, wishing there was some way she could undo the d a mage. If only, she kept thinking, she could go back to that moment right before she’d climbed down from the window. Knowing what she did now, she’d never have left her room. Granted, that meant she’d never have been kissed by Connor Drake. But at this particular point, she no longer cared about that.