Candice Hern (12 page)

What a wicked little fool I have become
.

"Yes, of course." Her voice was cool, aloof, dripping with politeness. No one would guess her inner turmoil at the sight of him. She took his hand, and he tucked hers into the crook of his arm and led her away.

"I confess, Mrs. Marlowe, that I was hoping I might have a word with you. If you prefer to dance, it shall be as you wish. But if you will allow it, I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Oh. Yes, all right."

Her thoughts must have been written clear on her face, as he chuckled and said, "No, I am not stealing you away for another kiss, much as I'd like to. You made it very clear they we were finished with that, unfortunately. No, it is a much more prosaic discussion I have in mind. A matter of business. Will you walk onto the terrace with me?"

Grace nodded and allowed him to lead her through one of several doorways leading from the ballroom on to a terrace. When they had danced together earlier and wandered off to the empty anteroom, Grace had held on to the hope that their identities were not obvious to everyone. Now that they were unmasked, however, it was clear that it was Mrs. Marlowe and Lord Rochdale walking together, and Grace intercepted more than a few interested glances.

Rochdale led her to the balustrade overlooking the courtyard below. They were not alone, as several other couples strolled about, so she knew he would not make any advances. At least she hoped he was gentleman enough not to do so.

"I daresay you must wish me to the devil," he said. "And that you believe I have unfairly taken advantage of you, first in the carriage, then with the sure-fire wager —"

"I never expected you to win that wager."

"I know you didn't. Who would ever expect the Infamous Libertine to know his Bible better than the Bishop's Widow? And so I did indeed take advantage of you, of the situation. I couldn't resist the opportunity to best you. Or to kiss you. It's the way I am, Mrs. Marlowe. A rogue and a gambler." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug that seemed to say: Take me or leave me, that's the way it is. "However, never having importuned a good lady such as yourself, I find myself having the merest pang of conscience. And so I would like to make it up to you, if I may."

"Make it up to me? What do you mean?"

"In the carriage the other night, you told me about the work of the Benevolent Widows Fund and about Marlowe House. I confess I was impressed. You also mentioned the dream of building a new wing. How much do you need to raise in order to achieve that dream?"

Grace took a step back and studied him. Perhaps it was the powdered wig, or it could have been the moonlight that softened his normally hard-edged features. In any case, he did not look as predatory as usual. He looked almost ... sincere. Was he truly going to offer her a large sum of money to help expand Marlowe House? As restitution for having kissed her?

Truth be told, he did owe her
something
for turning her life upside down. For the sake of the charity, she was more than willing to accept it.

"There is a lot involved," she said. "We must pay the architect and the builders and workmen. Then we have the materials and fittings and furnishings. We had hoped to use part of a new wing for training the women in various industrial jobs to make it easier for them to find employment, so there would be equipment to buy and instructors to pay. It amounts to quite a lot, actually." She named a large sum, prepared to see him flinch.

He did not. "Consider it done. I shall have my bank transfer the funds to you within the week."

Grace had to clench her back teeth to keep her jaw from dropping open. "You mean to ... to provide us with the full amount?"

"Yes, of course. I may be a gambler, Mrs. Marlowe, but I am a very successful one. I suppose it is high time I used some of my fortune for something besides race horses and ... other things."

Grace stared at him in complete astonishment. In return for a few kisses, some momentary discomposure, she was to have all this? She shook her head in disbelief. "You have taken me quite by surprise, my lord. I never expected such generosity."

"You never expected me to know my Bible, either. I live to confound people, Mrs. Marlowe. But yes, I am prepared to provide whatever you need for your new wing. On one condition."

Grace sighed. She ought to have known there was a catch. But if misquoting a Bible verse cost her a kiss, what on earth would he ask for in return for such a large sum of money? Surely not further intimacies. Dear God, surely not —

"I wish to see Marlowe House," he said. "I'd like to see exactly how the money will be used."

She let out a breath. "That's all? You ask only to see Marlowe House?"

Rochdale grinned, baring white teeth that caught the moonlight. "Good heavens, Mrs. Marlowe, what did you expect?"

"I never know what to expect from you, my lord."

He laughed. "That is a blatant lie, and you know it. You always expect the worst from me. And in most cases, you will be correct. This time, I merely want to see where my money will go."

"Of course. I shall give you the direction to Marlowe House and you should feel free to examine it at your convenience. Mrs. Chalk is the house supervisor. I shall let her know to expect you and she can show you about."

"No, my dear Mrs. Marlowe, you shall not get off as easily as that. I require that
you
be my guide. It is your vision, your dream. I want to see it through your eyes. How does tomorrow afternoon sound?"

"Oh." Another afternoon spent in his company. Could she bear it? For the sake of the charity, she would have to. "All right. I will show you Marlowe House and all that we hope to accomplish with your generous donation. Thank you, Lord Rochdale."

"Excellent. I shall call on you at two o'clock." He flashed another smile. "In an open carriage this time."

He reached for her hand and placed a fulsome kiss upon it. As he peered up at her through his thick lashes, a glint of triumph in those blue eyes made her realize how thoroughly he had manipulated her. He'd taken advantage again by pretending a sincere interest in her charity work and tossing buckets of money at her feet. He'd found a way for her to allow him to call on her again, even after she'd told him not to do so. The wretch!

She snatched her hand away before he could coax her into something else she did not want. Or did want, but hated herself for wanting.

"Tomorrow, then." She moved away from him and started walking backward toward the ballroom doors. "Thank you again for your generosity." Tearing her gaze from those intense blue eyes, she spun on her heel and hurried back into the ballroom.

And was immediately grabbed roughly by the arm and tugged to one side.

"What has got into you, Grace? Have you lost your mind?"

Lady Margaret Bumfries, the bishop's daughter, was dressed as a ginger cat, with pointy orange ears poking out of her halo of frizzed auburn hair, and black whiskers painted on her cheeks. The sight of her stepdaughter's disapproving frown reminded Grace of all the wicked thoughts that had run wild in her head throughout the evening, and her traitorous skin prickled with new heat.

"Do you realize people are beginning to talk?" Margaret's grasp was so tight on Grace's arm she was sure there would be bruising. "What am I supposed to say when I am asked why my sainted father's widow is seen fraternizing with a debauched scoundrel like Rochdale?"

Margaret was two years older than Grace and had never approved of her marriage to the bishop. Like many others, Margaret had been shocked, even appalled, that her father had married a woman so much younger than himself. She idolized her father, though, believing he could do no wrong, and finally admitted that he would not have made a foolish match. Over time, she came to accept that Grace was a good wife to him.

It had naturally been a bit awkward at first for Grace to have stepchildren older than herself, but with the help of their father, she had forged a cordial relationship with both Margaret and her brother, Peter. She had never, however, enjoyed a warm relationship with either of her stepchildren. Margaret, in particular, could be very irksome at times. Especially when she was right.

"I am sorry that my speaking with Lord Rochdale has upset you, but I must tell you that he has offered a very generous donation to the Fund."

"You should have your man of business take care of such things so you do not have to be in the company of a blackguard like that. You know what is said about him. I cannot imagine Father would have approved of an association with that man."

No, he would not have approved. And if he'd seen what had happened earlier in the anteroom, he'd have been spinning in his grave.

"I could hardly dismiss Lord Rochdale when he made such a magnanimous offer," Grace said. "I chair the board of trustees, after all. It is not only my duty to raise funds but also to pay my respects to anyone who offers such a large gift."

"Is it also your duty to follow him into the night and allow him to kiss your hand? A man like that?"

Another uncontrollable burst of heat warmed her face. Grace snapped her fan open and attempted to cool her cheeks. As she pondered what on earth she could say in her own defense, Margaret continued.

"And that costume. I really cannot think what possessed you to wear such a scandalous dress. It is positively indecent. And with your hair hanging loose like a strumpet's. I can only imagine it is the company you keep that has exerted a bad influence on you. The dowager Duchess of Hertford, for example."

Grace could not allow her stepdaughter to disparage Wilhelmina, but before she could sputter a syllable of protest, Margaret was wrapping a long Norwich shawl about Grace's shoulders.

"You must cover yourself, Grace. My gown is respectable enough that I do not need the shawl. Heavens, I wish I had not arrived so late, but I had promised to attend the Raymond ball as well and went there first. To think of you wandering about in such dishabille for hours ... Well, I can only remind you that you are still Mrs. Marlowe and have an obligation to the bishop's memory to behave with strict propriety at all times. Please, cover your bosom. I pray that you will not make a mistake in judgment like this again. Remember who you are!"

Grace pulled the shawl tight around her, ashamed that Margaret had to be the one to make her face the truth. It
was
an improper dress and her behavior tonight with Rochdale had been beyond wicked. Margaret would no doubt have fallen into an apoplexy if she knew that Rochdale had been kissing more than her hand this evening. But how provoking that her stepdaughter had to remind her of her position in Society, of her obligations to the bishop. Grace had never needed reminding before. She did not know what had got into her to behave in so uncharacteristic a manner.

No, that was not true at all. Grace knew exactly what had got into her and when it had happened. A kiss in the dark of a carriage and another in a private room here at Doncaster House had changed her. All the wicked, sinful, even lustful thoughts she'd had lately were not the thoughts of the widow of the great Bishop Marlowe. She wasn't sure who she was, but she was not the same woman she'd been a week ago. If she was to return to herself, she had to put Rochdale out of her thoughts and out of her life.

There was still, however, tomorrow and the tour of Marlowe House to get through and, if she guessed correctly, there would be more. What if he wanted to become more actively involved in the charity? Or in the design and building of a new wing? How was she to rightfully keep him out of her life?

And if she was perfectly honest about it — deep in the most private corner of her heart — why would she want to keep out of her life a man who made her weak in the knees when he kissed her?

Margaret would, naturally, tell her she was going straight to hell. Which was likely true.

Grace Marlowe, that pattern card of Christian propriety, was fast becoming a wicked woman.

"Turn right on the next street. It's just beyond the square, on the left."

Rochdale made the turn, hoping Grace was suitably impressed with his driving skills as he negotiated the curricle between two large drays heading in the opposite direction. Most women he knew admired a man who could take a turn on one wheel without spilling over, or clear a passing vehicle with mere inches to spare, both feats having been demonstrated with ease during the long drive to Chelsea.

Grace Marlowe, however, was not most women. Or at least not like most of the women who'd flitted in and out of Rochdale's life. The sort of women who enjoyed taking risks, who'd find a spot of fast driving akin to foreplay. The sort of women whose invitations he'd rejected the night before. Lady Drake and Cicely Erskine had each been lively bed partners in the past. He still puzzled over his rejection of them in favor of one kiss from a prim bishop's widow.

The virtuous Mrs. Marlowe would never be as "fast" as Lady Drake or Cicely Erskine or a hundred other women he'd known, but she had not complained of the curricle's pace, as he might have expected. He'd been prepared to rein in the team and creep along like a spinster in a dog cart if Grace had complained or appeared to be alarmed. Instead, at the first hint of speed, she'd grabbed the strap with one hand and her bonnet with the other. He took that to mean she was ready for anything — whether ready to enjoy it or endure it, he could not say. He hoped the same attitude would hold true for all the other things he wanted to do with her. It was encouraging, or so he chose to believe, that she spoke nary a word of complaint as he drove the sleek sporting vehicle as it was meant to be driven.

When they'd been forced to slow down at the Knightsbridge turnpike, he had asked her if he was driving too fast for her.

"Not at all." The breathlessness of her voice spoke otherwise. He might toss them in a ditch and the stubborn woman would keep her bonnet on straight and never give him the satisfaction of having frightened her. "It is surprisingly comfortable," she continued, "and the ride is really quite smooth. I suppose it is one of those racing vehicles, is it not?"