Candice Hern (17 page)

"Go," she said. "Please go. I don't want this. Not with you. Please leave."

It was difficult to see him clearly in the dark, but she felt his finger caress her check. She shook it off, feeling as though she'd become tangled in the net of him, caught between his kindness and his immorality.

"I am leaving," he said. "But we will see each other again. And soon. You say you don't want this, this passion between us. But I do. I want it very much."

"Enough to bend me to your will."

"It was never against
your
will, Grace, and you know it. Believe me, if I wanted to take you, to hurt you, I could do it before you had a chance to fight me. But that's not what I want."

In a frustrated, almost plaintive voice, she said, "Then what
do
you want?"

"For you to want me as much as I want you. To admit that you do, and stop fighting it."

She gave a little snort. "Because that would take all the blame away from you, wouldn't it?"

"There is no blame to be assigned, Grace. The simple truth is that I want you like no other woman before. If you know anything of my history, you will understand the significance of that statement. But most other women want me before I want them. With you, it is different. But I am arrogant enough to hope that you will want me, too. And soon. I'm not giving up yet." He opened the door and walked out of the room, leaving Grace once again feeling shaken and confused.

Could she believe him? Did he really desire her that much? Heavens, how he made her head spin with such words. He had rattled her composure before, but never so much as today, both by his bald declaration of desire and by what he'd done to her in the dark of this pantry.

And worse, for what he'd made her do. For not only had she failed to rebuff him, she had been encouraged by his obvious arousal. She'd actually rubbed herself against him. Dear heaven, what was happening to her? When had it become so easy to slip into sin?

She couldn't think about such things right now. She had a drawing room full of guests who would be wondering what had become of her. Two deep breaths brought a modicum of composure.

When she stepped into the corridor, Wilhelmina was exiting the drawing room and Beatrice was coming up the stairs. Both friends stared at her oddly, and Grace realized they must have seen Rochdale come out of the same dark room she had just vacated. A rush of heat flooded her from head to toe, and she knew her face was likely as bright as ripe strawberries.

"Grace?" Wilhelmina came forward and placed a hand on her arm. "Is everything all right?"

Beatrice joined them. "That was ..." She looked back toward the stairs, then again at Grace. "That was Lord Rochdale, was it not?"

"Yes, it was, and no, I am not at all certain that anything is right anymore. I'm so confused, I don't know what to do." She paused, took another breath, and forced the woeful note out of her voice. "Please don't go, Wilhelmina. I wish you would both stay until the other guests depart. I need your advice." She looked at Beatrice and smiled. "And besides, we must hear all about this betrothal of yours. Please, come inside."

Grace ushered her friends into the drawing room, and donned her most serene demeanor as she faced her other guests. She made it through another hour as friends and acquaintances came and went, each staying no longer than the prescribed fifteen minutes. Margaret, her stepdaughter, made one of her rare appearances, and Grace sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she had not arrived earlier when Rochdale was there. She was likely to hear about it, though, as she seemed to hear everything that happened in Society. For such a pious woman, Margaret was an inveterate gossip. Grace was probably in for another lecture on the evils of associating with libertines. Though she no doubt deserved it, she nevertheless wished Margaret would keep her opinions to herself.

Marianne and Penelope had stopped by, and Grace imposed upon them to stay as well. She needed the full contingent of Merry Widows to help her figure out what to do about Lord Rochdale.

When the last of the other guests had departed, Grace called for fresh tea and cakes, and the five friends gathered around the tea table that was set up for them. The most important news was Beatrice's betrothal to Lord Thayne, a man she loved but thought she'd lost. It was the first time any of them had had a chance to discuss it with her, for she and Thayne had disappeared shortly after the announcement at the masquerade ball.

"We had a private celebration," Beatrice said, her blue eyes twinkling. The striking redhead was positively radiant with happiness.

She told them how the intervention of her future mother-in-law, the Duchess of Doncaster, had been responsible for the betrothal. "She can be quite formidable when she wants to be, but is really a delightful woman. I am already very fond of her. And the duke."

Because of the importance of the family, the wedding would be a large and formal occasion, even though the bride was an "older" woman with two children. They were planning a September wedding at St. George's, before the Parliamentary session ended and all the grand lords retreated to their country estates for the winter. Beatrice had been invited by the duchess to spend the summer months at Hadbury Park, the ducal estate in Derbyshire, which would one day be her own.

It was lovely to see Beatrice so happy. Grace was pleased that the love affairs of both Marianne and Beatrice had ended with marriage. She had never been altogether comfortable with their silly pact to seek out lovers. And yet ...

"Enough about me," Beatrice said, reaching for an almond biscuit. "I fear I have missed something significant with you, Grace. I could hardly believe it when I saw Rochdale leaving earlier. What is going on?"

"Rochdale was here again?" Penelope grinned and fingered one of her glossy brown curls. "My, but he is becoming persistent, is he not?"

"Yes, he is," Grace said. "So much so that I am all at sixes and sevens. I don't know what to do about him."

"Rochdale is pursuing you?" Beatrice looked stunned, as well she should. They were speaking of the man who had run off with her young niece.

Grace dumped the remains of cold tea in the slop dish and poured fresh hot water into the pot. "Strange as it sounds," she said, "he appears to be. I cannot explain it. I am not a sophisticated highflyer. It makes no sense that he should want me, but he ... he says he does."

"Good God," Beatrice said. "And we left you alone with him in Twickenham."

"That's when it began. At least that was when he ... he kissed me the first time. But I had seen him watching me for weeks before."

"The first time?" Penelope said. "I take that to mean he has kissed you again?"

Grace nodded.

"Has he made love to you?"

"No! No, Penelope, he has not, but that's what he wants."

"And what do
you
want?" Wilhelmina asked.

"I don't know! He has me so confused." She ought to have allowed the tea to steep longer, but she felt the need for something to
do
, something that kept her eyes away from probing gazes, and so reached for her friends' empty cups.

"Grace Marlowe," Penelope said with a broad smile, "are you saying you are considering taking Rochdale as your lover?"

She filled Penelope's cup and handed it back to her. "No, not really. I could never do that. But ..."

"You like the way he makes you feel." Wilhelmina made it a statement of fact, not a question.

Grace shook her head. "No, I don't like it at all. He makes me feel wicked. He makes me forget who I am."

Wilhelmina passed her cup, and Grace refilled it. "It is not wicked to feel physical desire, my dear," the duchess said. "It is perfectly natural."

"Yes, but it can be terrifying at first," Marianne said. "If you've never experienced real passion before, it can send you into a panic, and make you question everything you thought you understood about yourself. I know. It happened to me." She looked at Grace. "I suspect it is even more difficult for you. Considering how you disapproved of what the rest of us were doing — no, don’t deny it, Grace, you know you did — I can imagine it must be terribly confusing, even frightening, to find yourself responding to Rochdale's kisses, even enjoying them."

"That is the problem, is it not?" Wilhelmina asked. "That you liked it when he kissed you, and that made you feel wicked?"

Grace busied herself with pouring tea and merely nodded her head, too mortified to admit it aloud.

"He kissed you today, right before he left, didn't he?" Wilhelmina said.

Grace nodded again, unable to meet her friend's eyes.

"I thought as much," Wilhelmina said, "when I saw you come out of the dark room right after him. Is he forcing himself on you, Grace? Did he drag you into that room against your will?"

"No," Grace said, finally finding her voice. "It wasn't like that. He surprised me the first time, but he has never forced me. I ... I let him kiss me. And each time, I hate myself afterward. It seems so sinful. And yet ..."

"You enjoy it."

Grace looked at Wilhelmina and realized this woman, and all the others, had her best interests at heart. She loved them. They could be trusted. They would not laugh at her or scold her. They might not truly understand, but they would listen. And counsel her. There was no need to be circumspect with them.

"Yes, heaven help me, I enjoy it," she said, and all at once the words began to spill out of her in a rush. "While it's happening, it is quite wonderful, I admit it. It's like nothing I've ever known. My whole body tingles. I become lost in sensation. I confess that I was intrigued when I listened to all of you talk of your men and their lovemaking. I couldn't imagine it could be as good as you described, for I have only ever known ..." She paused, unwilling to describe what had taken place in private with her late husband. She would not disparage him to anyone.

"But now I know you were right," she continued. "I felt it with Rochdale. I enjoyed it, every time, even when I pretended not to. But then I'd realize what I was doing and, worse, who I was doing it with, and I'd fall into a muddle of guilt and shame."

"Do not be ashamed, my dear," Wilhelmina said. "You are a woman, just like the rest of us. And we have all enjoyed sexual passion with men."

"I know. And I keep telling myself that
you
aren't wicked women."

"And neither are you," Wilhelmina said.

"But
he
is wicked," Grace said. "At least, I think he is. That's another thing that has me confused. I am beginning to think he might not be entirely bad, or at least not as bad as everyone thinks he is."

"That's what Adam always tells me," Marianne said, finally getting Grace to notice her empty teacup. "I cannot believe he would keep Rochdale as a friend if the man was some kind of monster." She turned to Beatrice. "Even if he did abscond to his villa with your Emily. Remember, he did not ravish the silly girl or seduce her, though he had ample time to do so."

"I am sure you are right," Beatrice said, "though I am not yet ready to forgive him for his role in that little drama."

"And I have told you," Wilhelmina said, "that there are two sides to every story. As far as that business with Serena Underwood is concerned, none of us knows Rochdale's side of that sordid tale."

"I still say he is a rogue and a scoundrel." Penelope took a sip of tea, then looked around at each of them in turn, smiled, and said, "But I never said there was anything wrong with that, did I?"

"He has done the most extraordinary thing," Grace said, "that will interest all of you as trustees of the Benevolent Widows Fund." And she told them about his enormous donation to their charity, about his inspection of Marlowe House, and about the special account he had set up at Coutts & Company. Each of the women was amazed by the news, and delighted at what could be accomplished with Rochdale's gift.

"I can see why you begin to question your opinion of him," Beatrice said.

"But that's not the only reason," Grace said. "You see, I have learned a bit about his history, and it does not at all jibe with who he is now. There is a woman in residence at Marlowe House who recognized him yesterday. Jane Fletcher grew up on his father's estate in Suffolk. Her father was the gamekeeper. Anyway, the young man she described was studious and idealistic and honorable. She thought he might have gone into the church if he hadn't been the heir to a viscountcy."

"
The church
?" Penelope and Beatrice exclaimed in perfect unison.

Grace smiled. "That was exactly my reaction. Rochdale denied it, of course, but the picture painted by Jane Fletcher was of a very different sort of person than the man who told me his chief pleasures are gambling, drinking, and wenching."

Beatrice broke off a small piece of sugar from a larger lump and popped it into her tea. "Perhaps she mistook him for someone else."

"No, they knew each other well. Jane's husband had been a close boyhood friend to Rochdale. He was much affected by Jane's young son, who apparently bears a striking resemblance to her late husband. He was very kind to the boy."

"That may be," Beatrice said, her spoon clanking rhythmically as she stirred her tea, "but it still doesn't explain how a young man who once dreamed of taking orders became ... Rochdale. Perhaps your Mrs. Fletcher's memories of a happier time have become somewhat romanticized over the years."

"Perhaps. Rochdale said she exaggerated, but he did not deny having been bookish."

Penelope giggled. "One can only imagine what sort of books interested the young Rochdale."

"I am sure there are a lot of studious young men," Wilhelmina said, "who come up to London and develop a taste for the wilder side of life. It is not so strange that Rochdale was once a callow youth. Most men were. Some just happen to fall more deeply into debauchery than others."

"Especially if tragedy has left them cynical." Grace passed a plate of jam tarts as she repeated Jane's tale of the declining estate and the fire, as well as Rochdale's bitter acknowledgment of his father's weakness and of Miss Lindsay-Holmes's rejection.