Candice Hern (13 page)

Rochdale was so bloody proud of his curricle that he'd been hard pressed not to get too puffed up with his own consequence. Fast horses and fast vehicles were high on his list of the greatest pleasures in life, and this little beauty had been built to his own design.

"Yes, I had it made especially for racing," he said, "and I have won more than a few with it. The team, of course, is equally important. These two are my best carriage horses."

"I confess I was surprised that such a dashing vehicle was not pulled by a matched pair," she said. "But they seem to work well together."

"I pick my teams for speed and endurance, not for how well they look together." He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a more seductive tone. "But perhaps I ought to have brought a pair of matched grays today. To go with your eyes."

She smiled and made a soft
tut-tut
sound with her tongue, mocking his flattery.

Rochdale thought he had the prim widow figured out, but she kept throwing little surprises at him. He'd expected a snort, a
hrrmph
, an eye-rolling groan. Instead, he got a smile.

Progress!

"You should smile more often," he said. "You look even prettier when you smile." Which was as big an understatement as was ever spoken. Grace Marlowe was a stunner, pure and simple. He would never forget how she'd looked at the masquerade ball, with her hair down — Lord, such hair! — and her bosom on display.

But even today, with a short blue spencer jacket buttoned up to her chin and her hair hidden beneath a straw bonnet, Grace still looked as tasty as a ripe peach, just waiting for him to take a bite out of her.

Keeping his hands on the reins meant he hadn't been able to touch her the way he liked, teasing her hands until he felt them grow warm or tremble. But he'd made sure his thigh was in almost constant contact with hers. It was sufficient to keep her aware of him, physically. Wooing her through the charity was not enough. The most important business was the slow awakening of physical passion. He never wanted her to forget that he was a man who'd kissed her and desired her. Or that she had responded with desire of her own.

Two kisses had taught him a great deal about the widow Marlowe. She had a wellspring of passion so deeply buried that it must either have lain dormant or under tight control for years. Rochdale had wondered about her marriage. It was not surprising that the bishop had been compelled to marry her. She must have been dazzling as a young girl. The old driveler had probably taken one look at her and been knocked right off his pins. And all that fine young flesh, wasted on an old fool more than twice her age.

One never knew about those pompous men of the cloth who preached against the sin of fornication. In private, they might be perfunctory lovers full of self-loathing for giving in to animal urges, or they might be sexually brutal to the women they saw as the embodiment of temptation. Old Marlowe had been a robust man who'd chosen a beautiful young girl for his bride. He'd already had grown children, including a son, so what other reason to take a young bride than to warm his bed?

As much as he'd despised the fellow, Rochdale doubted that the priggish old blowhard had been a brutal husband. Grace would have exhibited a different type of skittishness in that case, based on fear. He had not seen that kind of fear in her eyes – only shock and confusion, and he'd be willing to bet that shock was based on her own physical response and not simple outrage at the actions of a notorious rake. So, either she was appalled to feel sexual stirrings for a man not her husband or simply appalled to feel them at all.

A bit of both, most likely. He'd wager his entire stable that Marlowe had never allowed her any passion. He probably kept his nightshirt on and made her lie perfectly still and silent beneath him. One good grunt and he'd be done, rolling off her with no concern for her pleasure. Afterward, he probably patted her on the head and thanked her for indulging his base nature.

He could be wrong about Marlowe, of course. But Grace was obviously not accustomed to having sexual desire set loose. It had taken very little to turn on that untapped wellspring of passion, hardly any skill at all, in fact. And that was what scared her, Rochdale was sure of it.

To win the wager, he had to rid her of that fear, to teach her to accept her sexual nature as something that was not improper or sinful. He had made progress with those two kisses. But she still did not trust him, and that was essential to a final capitulation. Today's venture into Chelsea would, he hoped, serve two purposes: that Grace would not only begin to trust him, but would also begin to trust herself.

Her grip on the strap as they careened through the streets of London, and the hint of a smile on her face as they did so, told Rochdale that he was making headway, however small, with both objectives.

Whenever they were forced by traffic to slow down, it was only natural to engage in conversation. Rochdale had kept her talking about the charity and her plans for its future. He never mentioned kisses or Bible verses or wagers. He never asked her if old Marlowe had ever made proper love to her. To keep her at ease, he let her do most of the talking, while he peppered her with questions about the work done at Marlowe House. By the time the building came in sight, Rochdale already knew more about the blasted place than he ever cared to know.

"Here it is," she said, indicating a long L-shaped building of old brick. Only the central portion of the long side of the L had a second story, where the main entrance seemed to be. The rest of the building sat low and heavy to the ground in a single story, as though it had settled there centuries before. But it did not appear neglected or run-down. It was neat and clean, with well-tended plantings along the walls and one large oak tree towering over the building at the junction of the two wings.

"It used to be an almshouse," she said as the curricle came to a stop at the main entrance. "We think it was built around 1630, but it had long been abandoned when we acquired it."

"You must have done a lot of work, then, to bring it back to life." He jumped down from the seat and tossed the reins to his tiger.

"It was a labor of love." She eyed the building with a fond smile, then looked down to see Rochdale waiting to hand her down. The smile faded.

The curricle was not a particularly high vehicle, but it was high enough to make it awkward for ladies in skirts. Grace stood and quickly adjusted her balance, holding on to the edge of the folded-back bonnet as she stepped onto the first foothold. She ignored the hand he reached out to her — she was too busy making sure her white muslin skirts did not give the wicked libertine a view of her trim ankles or, God forbid, her legs — as she negotiated the second foothold. Since she did not take his hand, Rochdale reached up, grabbed her by the waist with both hands, and lifted her down.

He got more than a glimpse of her ankles. He got her soft, slender body sliding down his as he slowly brought her feet to the ground.

She had sucked in a breath the instant he'd placed his hands on her, and she let it out shakily as she took a step back and away from him. He flashed her one of his best smiles and added a wink for good measure. Her cheeks flushed that delightful shade of pink he was beginning to adore, and she quickly turned to walk toward the entrance.

The next hour passed in a blur as Grace gave him an excruciatingly thorough tour of Marlowe House. He'd seen the rabbit warren of living quarters, the dining facilities, the kitchens, the schoolrooms, the chapel, the stillroom, the sickroom, and a dozen other rooms with purposes he'd already forgotten. It was a very large and very busy operation, much more extensive than he'd expected.

He met Alice Chalk, the square, stocky matron who supervised all the operations. She had a twinkle in her eye and he liked her at once. He met several other members of the staff, most of whom were residents.

"All the adult residents are required to contribute in whatever small way they can to help keep the place running smoothly," Grace said. She'd removed her bonnet and now looked every inch the prim, respectable widow, with her gold hair pulled back into a thick knot at the base of her neck, with nary a loose tendril in disarray. There was almost no hint of last night's Faerie Queen. But every time he looked at her, he would remember Titania, with her loose, flowing hair and her soft, white bosom. She could not hide from him anymore, no matter how hard she tried.

"Depending on their skills and preferences," she continued, not realizing that the interest in his eyes had nothing to do with Marlowe House, "they can work in the kitchen or the garden or the sickroom. We do have a nurse on staff now. Mrs. Birch helped with the sick and wounded on the battlefields of Spain, and was so helpful when she came here as a widow that we gave her a permanent position."

"Do many others stay on like that?" he asked.

"No, there is only a handful of permanent staff. Everyone is here on a temporary basis. At least that is our hope. They stay here with their children because they have no place else to go. We do our best to find them work, or new homes, anything to keep them surviving and off the streets."

As they wandered through the halls, Grace had a kind word for each woman and child she met. She introduced each of them by name to Rochdale, who was astounded that she could remember them all. The living quarters were crowded, each room generally housing more than one family.

"You see why we want to expand," Grace said. "There is simply not enough room. And there are so many more families desperate for our help."

"You shall have your building fund, I promise you. I am humbled by what you have accomplished here. My contribution is nothing compared to the time and effort you have given."

She smiled, and he realized she'd been smiling almost since their arrival. This was her passion. This place and its work was what made her happy. One day very soon, he would see her direct that passion, that radiant smile, at him. And for a very different reason.

"I do not do it alone," she said. "My name happens to be on the building, or more rightly the bishop's name, but all of the trustees give time to Marlowe House. And we each have our favorite areas. Lady Somerfield takes care of the schoolroom. The Duchess of Hertford manages the stillroom and Mrs. Cazenove the kitchens. And Lady Gosforth oversees the gardens. Which you haven't seen yet. Shall we?"

She led him through a double doorway opposite the main entry and into a sprawling and very healthy garden.

"We have a kitchen garden over there, a fragrance garden just beyond, and the section here is purely ornamental."

She went on to explain how each garden was laid out and how the residents tended them with care. Several women were at work, pulling weeds, pruning dead heads, and turning soil. When they approached the kitchen herb garden, a thin, dark-haired woman was bent over a low-lying shrub, cutting off pieces and tossing them into a basket held by an angular young girl with the same dark hair. A tow-headed boy of about eight or nine sat on the ground building what appeared to be a pyramid of dirt.

"Ah, this is Mrs. Fletcher," Grace said, "and her two stalwart helpers who keep our kitchen garden flourishing."

The woman looked up and smiled, and Rochdale was almost knocked off his feet. Dear God, he knew that face, though he had not seen it for more than a dozen years. A phantom of days long past. A thousand memories flooded his brain all at once, with so dizzying a speed that he thought his legs might buckle. He stared at the woman, momentarily struck dumb by this face from another time, another life. A life he'd left behind long ago and had no desire to revisit.

Her eyes grew wide in recognition. Hell and damnation. He'd hoped he had changed enough that she wouldn’t know him, or that she'd forgotten him, so he could bank those unwelcome memories for now and bury them again once he'd left her and this place. But she knew him, and he'd have to face her. Damn, damn, damn.

"John? John Grayston? Good heavens, is it really you? Oh, but it's Lord Rochdale, is it not? How wonderful to see you again after all these years."

Her familiar voice, high-pitched and musical, took him back to a time and place he'd spent half a lifetime forgetting. He supposed there was no use in pretending he didn't know her. His start of surprise had betrayed him.

"Jane. Forgive me, I am beyond astonished to see you again." He ought to have reached for her hands, to greet her as an old friend, but he kept his hands clasped behind his back instead. In truth, he wanted to turn and walk away, but he supposed that was too cowardly, or too cruel, even for a gazetted scoundrel.

She wiped her hands on the soiled apron she wore over a well-worn dress that might once have been blue. Or perhaps brown. It had grown colorless from too many washings. In a self-consciously feminine gesture, she tucked a few stray wisps of hair behind her ears. She was younger than Rochdale by about two years, if he recalled correctly, but she looked older. Every feature of her face was as he remembered — large brown eyes, wide mouth, the nose slightly square at the tip. But the familiar eyes and mouth were bracketed with lines, the once charmingly freckled skin was sun-worn and brown, and there were strands of gray in the dark hair. And she was much too thin. Even so, she still retained some of the prettiness he remembered.

She instinctively lifted a hand, no doubt hoping he would extend his own. He did not. She awkwardly brought her hand back, clasping it to the other at her waist.

"It is good to see you, John. Lord Rochdale, I should say. My goodness, how many years has it been? You haven't changed much at all. Still as handsome as ever."

Lord, did she have to be so damned cheerful? And did her smile have to be so familiar?

"You haven't changed either, Jane. Still the pretty girl who chased after Martin and me all over the fens." The words were flippant, but he did not smile or lighten his expression.

She laughed, undaunted by his aloofness. "Flatterer. I wear all my years on my face, you cannot deny it. But there is nothing to be done about it. Every line and gray hair was well-earned. Oh, but you must meet the children who gave me all these gray hairs." She placed an arm around the girl at her side. "This is Sally, my oldest. Make your curtsy to Lord Rochdale, my girl."