Candice Hern (16 page)

"Is that why you've never married?" she suddenly asked.

He laughed. "Because I didn't want to be like my father? Not a chance. I have been too busy rebuilding the Rochdale fortunes at the gaming tables. Now that I have done so, I am too busy enjoying myself. A wife has never been part of my plan for the future."

"Oh? What about that squire's daughter you were courting?"

He jerked on the reins so hard that the horses rebelled and heaved against their harnesses. It took a moment to calm them and reset the pace. Damnation. "It seems Mrs. Fletcher did a great deal of gossiping about me today."

"Oh, no, you mustn't blame her. I asked how she knew you and she told me. That is all. I am afraid I asked a good many questions, so if she said more than she should have, it is my fault."

"That curious about me, are you?"

She laughed softly. "A little."

"Well, if you must know, yes, there was a certain squire's daughter. Miss Caroline Lindsay-Holmes. A fair beauty, with coloring much like yours. My youthful self was completely besotted. We had what you might call an understanding. She agreed to wait until I finished university, and then we would be married. As it happened, she much preferred me when there was a grand estate to inherit and what she believed to be a sizable fortune at my disposal. When she learned the truth after the fire, that I now had the title and little else, she quickly transferred her affections to another more prosperous gentleman. The last I heard, she'd grown fat as a guinea hen with a brood of six or seven children at her feet. A near miss, that one."

"For you, or for her?"

He laughed. "For both of us, I daresay. Now, may we please talk of something else besides my uninteresting past?"

"If you will allow me one more question, please."

He sighed noisily. "If you must. But only one. I'd much rather talk about you."

"Jane said you were something of a scholar. That you might have gone into the church if you had the choice. Is that true?"

"Jane exaggerates. I was studious, it is true. I used to bore her and Martin to death with my books, but I was never a true scholar. And I never,
ever
had a calling for the church." He laughed. "I leave that to the likes of your late husband."

"But how did you —"

"No more questions. You requested one and I answered. If you are thinking that because I was once an idealistic young fool that I can reform my ways, you are wrong. I left those ideals behind years ago. I am what I am, and I enjoy my life. Gambling, drinking, racing, wenching. You cannot change me, Mrs. Marlowe. Now, let us talk of something else."

"I cannot help being curious."

"Just remember that cat they’re always talking about."

She laughed, and he was once again charmed by the sultry sound of it. He realized that she had laughed more than once on the drive back to Portland Place. She was letting down her guard with him, maybe even beginning to trust him. Despite being forced to revisit a painful past, the day had been a success, moving him closer to his goal.

A mizzling rain began to fall as they neared Mayfair, and Rochdale stopped the team in order to raise the hood on the curricle. One more point in his favor: the hood brought a modicum of privacy. He decided to attempt another kiss when they reached her house. They were not entirely enclosed, but were shielded enough from view that he just might be able to get away with it. If she let him.

By the time they reached Grace's house on Portland Place, it was raining in earnest. "I am afraid I have no umbrella," he said. "Let us wait here a few minutes until the rain eases up a bit. I wouldn't want you to ruin that pretty hat."

She peered around the edge of the leather hood, then quickly ducked back underneath. "Just for a moment. It is sure to let up soon." She turned on the seat so her whole body was angled toward him. With an intense look in her smoky eyes, she said, "Lord Rochdale, you must allow me to express my gratitude once again for the extraordinary generosity of your donation to Marlowe House. I cannot imagine how I can ever thank you."

He leaned in, so their bodies were touching from shoulder to knee. "I can think of one way." He dipped his head beneath the poke of her bonnet and kissed her. Before he could make much of it, she pushed him away.

"Dear heaven, stop it. Someone might see."

He took her hand and began stroking the gloved fingers. "We are completely in the shadows. No one will know."

"I will know. You kissed me once, taking me by surprise. The next time because you won the wager. There is no more reason for you to be kissing me."

"Yes, there is. I kiss you because I want to."

"But why? Why do you persist in throwing yourself in my path? We both know I am not the type of woman you prefer. Why must you pursue me like this? It is foolish."

"Is it? Is it foolish to desire a beautiful woman? Then I am a fool for you, Grace Marlowe. Yes, you are more prim than my usual fare. But you intrigue me. You fascinate me. And God help me, I could look at you all day long and never tire of the sight. I dream of seeing your hair down again like it was last night at the ball, of wrapping myself up in all its golden glory while I make love to you."

The blush he'd come to anticipate, and adore, spread across her checks. "If you think it would be a great joke to seduce the widow of Bishop Marlowe, then please allow me to disabuse you of that notion. It will never happen."

"Won't it? Whenever we kiss, there is a flare of passion that burns hot between us. We could be good together, you and me. You cannot deny you enjoyed our kisses."

"It's not the kisses. It's you. It's who you are."

"No, it's who
you
are. The great man's widow. The prim and proper Mrs. Marlowe. You can't shake that identity and what you think it means. You protest because you think you ought to, but in fact you are dying for me to kiss you again."

"No, I —"

"More than that, you are dying for me to make love to you. You want it so badly you have tied yourself up in knots over it."

She frowned. "You, sir, are every bit the cad everyone says you are."

"More so. But at least I know who I am. You're as confused as hell after a few kisses. And that's a good thing, if you ask me. It is time you shook up your life a bit. It is time you became Grace Marlowe and not the Bishop's Widow."

She glared at him, then ducked under the hood and began to step down from the curricle, making an awkward business of it as she tried to keep the rain out of her face. Rochdale quickly leapt out on his side and was there to hand her down before she had reached the second foothold. She reluctantly took his proffered hand, as the step was slippery.

"I look forward to getting to know Grace Marlowe better," he said, not letting go of her hand. "I believe you are at home to visitors tomorrow. I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on you."

"I do not suppose it would do any good to ask you not to come."

"None."

"You will plague me to death, Lord Rochdale."

"Just a little death, hopefully."

She looked confused at his words, clearly not understanding the French reference. Lord, she really had led a sheltered life. He wondered if she'd ever actually experienced
la petit mort
, then remembered who her husband had been and doubted it.

At that moment, her butler opened the front door and hurried toward her with an open umbrella. She turned away from Rochdale and followed the butler inside without a backward glance.

His entrance had turned heads. Most of the ladies, and the handful of gentlemen, who crowded Grace's drawing room the next afternoon were clearly shocked at Lord Rochdale's attendance at such a proper gathering. It was Grace's afternoon "at home" and that meant she was at home to anyone who called. Anyone.

She'd been expecting him, of course, but was chagrined that he'd arrived when two of London's highest sticklers also happened to be there. Lady Troubeck looked momentarily wide-eyed, but then proceeded to ignore Rochdale entirely. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell was not so circumspect. When she suggested that he did not belong in such a respectable home, he said, "Ah, but Mrs. Marlowe and I are great friends who share an interest in charitable works. We spent the day together yesterday touring her almshouse in Chelsea. An exemplary operation. But I am sure you have taken the time to see it for yourself and know how compassionate an organization it is."

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell became so flustered that Grace had to cover her mouth so the woman would not see her smile.

"I have not had the opportunity," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell said. "I do not often get to Chelsea. But, of course, I have heard of the good work the Benevolent Widows Fund does there. My own contributions to the Fund have surely helped in the effort."

"Indeed?" Rochdale said. "Exactly how much have you contributed?"

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell reared back in outrage. "I beg your pardon, sir, but that is no business of yours. Suffice it to say that my husband and I give generously to several charities."

"And we appreciate every shilling," Grace said, glaring at Rochdale for the benefit of the haughty woman, though she was hard pressed not to giggle. She went on to repeat what she'd been relating to several other guests, as a way of explaining Rochdale's presence in her drawing room. "Lord Rochdale has been extremely generous. He is funding a new wing to Marlowe House, which will allow us to take in twice as many families. Isn't that wonderful?"

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell blinked several times, then said in a voice dripping with cool disdain, "How very fortunate for you to have found such a magnanimous benefactor, Mrs. Marlowe. A pity the funds come from the gaming tables."

"For families in need," Grace said, "it hardly matters where the money comes from, does it? As long as it is used to save them from destitution."

"Well. You must do as you see fit. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Marlowe, I have other calls to make. Good day to you." She narrowed her eyes at Rochdale, then left.

"Well done, my dear," Rochdale said, grinning broadly. "You put that self-important harpy in her place."

Grace bit back a smile. "It is all your fault. You goaded her first. She will probably never come here again."

"No great loss. Come, my fifteen minutes are almost up. May I have a private word before I leave?"

"I cannot abandon my guests, my lord."

"Then see me to the door. I have a few matters of business to discuss with you."

They had been standing at the far end of the drawing room, and they meandered through clusters of guests toward the door while Rochdale quietly told her about setting up a special account for Marlowe House at Coutts & Company on the Strand. He gave her the name of the banker who would issue drafts to her whenever needed. When he told her how much he had deposited in the account, Grace almost stumbled, and Rochdale caught her by the elbow to steady her and then guided her out the door.

It was twice the amount they had initially discussed.

Grace was so overwhelmed that she had to fight the sting of tears building behind her eyes. She never succumbed to emotional displays in public, but the amount of his donation was staggering, and a dream come true for Marlowe House. Her lip quivered as she gazed at him, unable to speak.

With his hand still on her elbow, he led her into a small room opposite the drawing room, where tea services, urns, dishes, flatware, linens, and other such items were stored for the convenience of the servants when tea and other refreshments were laid out in the drawing room. Narrow and windowless, the room was as dark as a cave when Rochdale closed the door.

Before she could protest, he took her in his arms. He did not kiss her, but only held her in a warm, comforting embrace. She instinctively burrowed her forehead against his shoulder, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

"There now," he said in a soft, deep crooning voice. One hand moved up and down her back, ever so gently. "No need to get all watery over a few pounds."

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "More than just a few pounds."

"Bah. It is not so great an amount. I've lost more in a single night at Wattier's."

"I trust you won it back."

He smiled. "Many times over."

"Well ... thank you. I don't know what else to say."

"You needn't
say
anything." He tightened the embrace and pressed his hips against hers.

Grace felt his arousal and sucked in a sharp breath. She tried to wriggle out of his arms, but he would not allow it, only loosening his arms slightly. "Please, my lord. This is not right. You must leave. Now. What if someone were to see us? A servant might come in at any moment. I appreciate the generous donation. I really do. But I wish you would not come here anymore. People are beginning to talk, and you are making me ... uncomfortable."

"And you, my dear Mrs. Marlowe, make
me
uncomfortable." Again, he pushed his hips forward so she could feel exactly how uncomfortable he was. Before she could protest, he cradled the back of her head, drew her to him, and kissed her.

There was nothing subtle in it. This was a purely carnal act, with his tongue deep in her mouth and his hips pressing against hers. It was shocking to feel the hard length of him against her belly and to know she had done that to him. The prim and proper widow had done that to the worldly, cynical rake.

A surge of pure feminine triumph fueled her reaction as she gave in to his kiss. And kissed him back. It grew wilder and more torrid, with his lips and tongue and teeth sending shafts of heat darting through her body. Every sense purred, and a turmoil of hunger, pleasure, and need possessed her. His hands cupped her bottom, and she instinctively moved against his hips. A low moan rose in her throat when she felt his hand stroke the side of her breast.

Voices outside brought her back to earth and she wrenched herself out of his arms. Lord, what had she done? What had he made her do? When she thought of how he'd just touched her, and how she had responded — dear God, she had actually pushed herself up against his erection — shame and mortification sent heat rushing into her face, her neck and shoulders, everywhere. His generosity had clouded her brain, making her forget — again! — who and what he was. This was Rochdale she was kissing in a dark room, an unscrupulous cad who enticed women to behave in the most wanton manner, not some respectable gentleman with honorable intentions.