The Copeland Bride

about dinner.'

Chapter Thirteen

As Noelle rode beside Simon in the open carriage, wind plucked at the wide brim of her bonnet and ruffled the curls that had escaped. Despite the fact that Constance had decided not to accompany them on their trip to Brighton today, Noelle was enjoying herself enormously. Much of her pleasure sprang from yesterday's triumph.

She looked over at Simon handsomely arrayed in a dark brown coat, lemon waistcoat, and brown-striped neckcloth. She could not remember when she had enjoyed herself as much as she had last night at dinner. Simon Copeland was far different from the young men whose presence she had been enduring. Without being fawning, he was attentive, self-assured, and charming. He had complimented both his dinner companions extravagantly and kept them entertained with anecdotes of his early years in Cape Crosse. Then, he and Constance had told Noelle stories of some of Copeland and Peale's most famous ships: the Episode, the Star of Wilmington, and Dream Dancer.

For the first time Noelle noticed a salty tang hanging in the late morning air. She shivered with excitement.

'Are you cold?' Simon asked.

'Not at all, Mr. Copeland.'

'Please, Noelle, won't you call me Simon? Now that I've returned, I'm hoping we can have a close relationship. After all, we're both Copelands, and I must say that Noelle Copeland is certainly a credit to our name.'

Some of Noelle's pleasure in the morning and in her companion dimmed. There was a smugness about his words, a possessiveness she did not like.

'Noelle Copeland?' She quirked an ironic eyebrow at him.

'Noelle Copeland does not exist, or, if she does, it's only on a piece of paper, not in the flesh.'

'Of course, dear.' Simon patted the back of her hand and then turned his attention back to the horses.

His gesture 'of dismissal irritated Noelle, and she pressed, 'Simon, I have not lost sight of who I really am, and I don't think you should, either. I'm Noelle Dorian, a London pickpocket who was given an incredible chance by two very generous people to be something more, something better. But remember that beneath these beautiful clothes and this clean face, there is still a London pickpocket.'

'You're talking nonsense, Noelle, and you know it.' Simon's voice was tight, 'it is the pickpocket who doesn't exist. She never really did. You come from good stock, despite the squalor of your upbringing. No, my dear, this is the real Noelle sitting beside me now. The pickpocket was the deception.'

Simon was spared Noelle's response as the carriage rounded a curve and the town of Brighton came into view. He drove down to the sea along Ship Street, parking the carriage under a shady tree and letting Noelle take in her first sight of the gray waves and sandy beach. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away. The sea mesmerized her as she saw freedom of the highest order. When it was time for them to leave, Noelle requested a last view before they set back. Simon helped her down from the carriage, and they strolled along the walk that overlooked the beach, Noelle's ruffled pink parasol protecting her complexion from the sun. Her perfection reminded him of a portrait by Gainsborough.

'You've become a very beautiful woman, Noelle.'

A tiny frown gathered near her eyes. 'So I've been told.'

'You seem less than pleased. Is being beautiful such a horrible burden?'

Noelle was thoughtful. 'It has been difficult to adjust to the change. Especially the effect I have on… others.'

Simon did not miss the tiny hesitation. 'Especially the effect you have on men?' His next question seemed casual. 'And have any of these young men caught your fancy?'

Noelle's voice was quiet, almost contemptuous. 'They are silly boys who have never done an honest day's work in their lives. All they know is riding, hunting, and cards. They are attracted to me only because of my appearance. They look for nothing more.'

Simon's eyes as he gazed down upon her were oddly disturbing. 'Then you should pity them, for that is their loss.'

Noelle stopped and tilted back her parasol, its pink interior forming an enchanting halo behind her head. 'I'm not like other women. Intrigues and romances hold no attraction for me.'

'You have not met the right man.'

'No, Simon. I think all those nights I spent listening to Daisy and those horrible men she brought home have made it impossible for me to feel the same emotions as other women. And, then, after what happened with your son…'

'Please, Noelle-' Simon put a hand on her arm.

'I can't pretend that it didn't happen,' she insisted, determined to make him realize how serious she was. 'Now, something must be done about it. This marriage must be ended. I can never find any peace until I am freed from it. You are an important man, Simon. You can get the best legal advice. Please help me.'

Simon turned his eyes to the shoreline, his expression inscrutable. 'It's a complicated matter. Women have so few rights, and you know how thorough Quinn was about making this marriage legal.'

'There must be a way,' Noelle insisted. 'What about desertion? Surely I must have some rights. The law cannot be so unjust.'

'The law was made by scholarly men anxious to protect the best interests of the family.'

Noelle stamped her foot impatiently. 'The law was made by men anxious to protect the best interests of men.'

'Really, Noelle, you hardly qualify as an expert on jurisprudence. I suggest you let me handle the situation.'

'And will you handle it, Simon?' she challenged. 'Or do you intend to see that things remain just as they are?'

'That is most unfair. I'll certainly continue making inquiries on your behalf when we reach London.'

Although dissatisfied with his response, Noelle realized nothing more could be gained by pushing him further today.

'Very well, Simon. I shall hold you to that.'

PART THREE Dorian Pope London

Chapter Fourteen

Noelle arrived in London with Constance during the last week of August. A year and a half had passed since the morning Quinn had delivered her to this same house. Now, she was elegantly gowned in apricot velvet. Her shining hair, which fell below her shoulders when she brushed it, was swept up into a flattering arrangement of small braids and soft curls. Even though there was no longer any resemblance between the carrot-thatched pickpocket and the beautiful young woman who stepped so gracefully from the carriage, the house on Northridge Square still overwhelmed her.