Candice Hern (18 page)

Wilhelmina lifted an eyebrow. "Well. That explains a lot."

"I thought so, too," Grace said. "I mean, any one of us might be similarly affected by such a series of blows, don't you think? Lord Rochdale just never allowed himself to recover. Or went about it rather badly, I should say, using every imaginable excess to dull the pain. I wonder if —"

"Don't, Grace," Wilhelmina interrupted.

"Don’t what?"

"Don't start thinking you can reform him. He's not one of your destitute widows who needs your help to turn her life around."

"Oh, but I wasn't thinking —"

"Yes, you were. It is your nature, my dear, to want to help people. But Rochdale does not need your help. He is who he is because that's the way he wants to be. He's not miserable or pathetic. In fact, I should think he is thoroughly happy with his life. He may not always behave strictly according to Society's rules, but that is his choice. If you believe you have glimpsed something in him worth admiring — and it sounds as though you have — then by all means admire him. On the other hand, if you are simply attracted to him, physically, sexually, then don't make excuses for it by trying to imagine him as some sort of lost soul. He is not. And it is perfectly all right to be attracted to him."

"And you are, aren't you?" Penelope asked, her blue eyes twinkling. She was enjoying Grace's situation far too much. She was altogether too delighted that the prudish bishop's widow had been sexually aroused by a man, any man.

Grace sighed. "That's the devil of it, of course. Yes, God help me, I'm attracted to him. And you're right, Wilhelmina, about making excuses for it. I hadn't thought of it that way, but that's what I've been doing, I suppose. I've been so confused, drawn to a man so completely the opposite of everything I admire. Rochdale teased me about it, telling me I was tying myself in knots over it."

"It's time to untie them, my dear," Wilhelmina said. "Let yourself be drawn to him. Let yourself like him, even, now that you know a little more about him. Just remember what I told you before. Be careful with him. He is still a hardened rake and could break your heart."

"There is always the chance that he has softened a bit," Penelope said. "A man like that doesn't woo a woman the way he is wooing Grace. He merely crooks his finger and women follow him. But this time he is actively in pursuit. Odd, isn't it? I suppose he really likes you, Grace."

"Enough to hand over a great deal of money to our Fund," Beatrice said.

"You think that, too?" Grace asked. "Though I will accept his contribution with gratitude, I still half believe his generosity is simply a ploy to impress me. I don't understand why, but I do think that is what he is doing."

"Because he wants you, of course," Penelope said around a mouthful of jam tart. She swallowed and added, "You're a beautiful woman, Grace. Oh, and I remember how you looked at the masquerade ball. Good heavens, no wonder he is smitten. You looked positively ravishing that night."

"You certainly did," Marianne agreed, her brown eyes lit with mischief. "And I will tell you a little secret. When Adam saw Rochdale dancing with you, he joked that you must have dressed precisely to please Rochdale, with your hair down like that. He told me that Rochdale has a particular fondness for long blond hair. Said it drives him wild with desire. So, there you have it. Nothing at all mysterious about Rochdale's interest. He lusts after your hair."

The laughter of all five women, Grace included, filled the drawing room. What foolishness, she thought, that a man should be so enamored of hair.

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.

She gave a little shiver at the recollection of his words.

"You ladies are a bad influence on me," she said. "You make me believe my wanton reaction to Rochdale is perfectly natural, when in my heart I know it to be sinful. My stepdaughter was obliged to remind me that my behavior reflects badly on her father's memory. And she was speaking only of the fact that I had danced with Rochdale and been seen talking with him on the terrace at Doncaster House. I shudder to think how she would react if she knew all that has passed between us."

"My dear girl," Wilhelmina said, frowning, "I realize Lady Bumfries is your late husband's daughter, but I take leave to tell you that she is a pompous old cat. How dare she accuse you of dishonoring the bishop's memory? What better way to honor him than to have established the Widows Fund and built a superb half-way house with his name on it? And are you not editing his sermons?"

"Yes, though she disapproves of that project. I believe she would rather I had asked her to do it."

"Even so," Wilhelmina said, "I do not see how she can accuse you of dishonoring his memory. Even if you were to dance naked down St. James's Street at midday, it would not negate all the good you have done as his widow. Which is surely a thousand times more valuable than anything she has done as his daughter."

Grace wanted to hug her. Wilhelmina was such a good and kind woman, and she was proud to call her friend. When the bishop was alive, he'd never have allowed Grace to associate with the duchess. He had despised women who flouted the rules of Society, as Wilhelmina certainly had done. In fact, Grace had only days before unearthed one of her husband's sermons in which he warned against allowing one's wife and daughters to mix freely with fallen women, "lest they contaminate those virtuous but fragile souls under our protection."

Perhaps she would leave that particular sermon out of the collection.

"Wilhelmina's right, as always," Penelope said. "Don't let that sour-faced baggage tell you how to live your life. You are the bishop's
widow
, not his wife. What you do now that he is dead is your own business."

"Especially what you do in private," Marianne said.

"The bishop is dead," Wilhelmina said. "Do not allow his daughter to make you believe she is speaking for him. I seriously doubt he comes to her in the night on angel's wings to tell her that you are not behaving properly as his widow. And if he did appear to her, I daresay he would tell her how proud he is of you and of all the good work you do."

Grace felt the sting of tears for the second time that day. She blinked rapidly in hopes she would not embarrass herself in front of these wonderful women who'd become such good and loyal friends to her.

Penelope stood and raised her teacup. "Here's to the liberation of Grace Marlowe. May she always be her own woman and not bound by someone else's expectations, living or dead."

They all rose and Grace's best Worcester teacups sounded their fine porcelain
ping
as they were clinked together in a toast.

He drove his curricle past Marlowe House for the third time. His uncomplaining tiger would surely think he'd gone off his head. Rochdale would slow as he neared the house, then change his mind and drive past, then change his mind again and decide he really would go inside, then drive on by again instead. Feeling the perfect fool, he reached the end of the road and steered the team round once more. This time he would do it. He would stop and go inside.

Grace was not there — he knew her to be meeting with the banker at Coutts & Company — so he could not dismiss another visit to Chelsea as just one more attempt to impress her.

He'd already done that. And it had worked. His contribution to her charity had not entirely won her over, but it had altered her opinion of him, he knew, and it had given him a legitimate excuse to spend more time with her, which was critical to earning her trust. Even better, the more time he spent in her company, the more intrigued she became, the more she accepted her attraction to him, and the more he was able to play off that attraction in moving inexorably toward his goal.

Yesterday, in that dark little butler's pantry, Rochdale had thought for one brief moment that he was about to win the wager then and there. She'd been such a firebrand of unleashed passion that he'd been very close to lifting her skirts and taking her on a countertop right then and there. If voices outside the door had not reminded her, and him, that it was neither the time nor the place for such an encounter, he wondered if she would have let him take it that far. She might have done, but Rochdale did not believe she was ready. She was still afraid. She became overwhelmed with her own sexual response, probably because it was a novel experience for her, and she was capable of letting it lead her into new worlds of sensation. When she came to herself, though, when she lifted herself out of the moment, she was always startled to realize she had gone so far. She did not need to tell him. He felt how it frightened her. Shamed her. Confused her.

Grace had said she did not want this passion between them. She was wrong, of course. She did want it, and he knew it. They both knew it. That was Rochdale's biggest challenge: to get her to accept that she wanted him.

There had been considerable progress. Each time he was with her, she let down her guard a bit more. He no longer needed to trick or cajole her into a kiss. She was willing, at least for a moment. And that was a giant step toward the ultimate surrender.

God, he could hardly wait. He could not remember the last time he'd desired a woman so completely. If anyone had told him at the beginning of the Season that he'd be aching to possess a starchy, tight-laced bishop's widow, he'd have told them they were off their feed. He could never have predicted it. While setting out to coax a sexual response out of her, he'd unwittingly ignited a blistering response of his own. It was, he supposed, the potent combination of innocence and natural passion. Those few moments when she let down her inhibitions and threw herself headlong into a kiss, her eagerness and hunger was tempered by an artlessness so poignant it almost took his breath away.

And he had not lied when he told her he could look at her all day long and never tire of it. Grace Marlowe was flat-out beautiful. With no need of artificial enhancements or cosmetics, she was a natural beauty, polished by money and position into a high sheen of English perfection: long neck, high-boned patrician cheeks, hair as thick and shiny as a gold sovereign, and skin like a plateful of cream. She was a feast for the eyes, tempting and delectable.

Naturally, Rochdale had known his share of beauties, but Grace was different. It was that artless quality, again, that set her apart. She was no doubt aware that her looks were something above the ordinary — she surely glanced into a mirror now and then — but she did not seem overly conscious of them. She did not flaunt her beauty or use it in any way, as most women did, to gain an advantage over men. In fact, when she had dressed as Titania at the ball, she had seemed bashful about it, as though she was embarrassed to have put her best assets on display.

Yes, it was assuredly the twin virtues of guileless sexuality and unaffected beauty that had Rochdale lusting after her. She was so unlike the worldly, often jaded women he normally bedded. He suspected bedding Grace Marlowe would be an unparalleled pleasure, rare and unique.

It was almost a shame to remember that it was all done for the sake of a fine racehorse, and that he would walk away from Grace once he'd won the wager. Or soon thereafter, in any case. He might as well stick around and enjoy her for a short while before he moved on, for there was no question that having Grace for a lover was going to be damned good while it lasted.

He must remember to thank Sheane when it was over.

But Grace wasn't his problem right now. Rochdale slowed the team once again as he neared Marlowe House. He supposed he should stop being such an idiot and simply go inside. It was the right thing to do.

Before he could change his mind again, he steered the team toward the entrance and brought them to a halt. Nat, his young tiger, jumped down from the rear seat and stood ready to take the reins as Rochdale climbed down from the bench.

"Shall I walk the team, milord?"

A good question. Rochdale did not know how long he would be, especially since he was not entirely sure what he was doing here. "If I am not back in five minutes, walk them. If I'm not back in half an hour, take the seat and drive them about the area. Don't wear them out, mind you. Just keep them moving at a nice, steady pace until I return."

"Yes, milord. Take your time and don't worry none about your cattle." The boy grinned, obviously hoping not to see his employer for at least a half hour.

Rochdale looked up at the brick façade of Marlowe House and let out a breath through puffed cheeks. Now that he was here, he felt a bit stupid. He had spent two days telling himself he'd never return. Grace could do as she pleased with his money. He didn't need to witness the improvements firsthand. As for Jane Fletcher and her family, he would see that they were settled someplace safe, preferably far away from London, and him. She brought back too many memories he'd sooner forget.

He hated that starry-eyed fool he'd once been, full of high-minded ideals and pipe dreams of the future. The fire and all that followed had squashed any romantic conceits he'd still harbored. He'd been too busy climbing out of the quagmire of debt and despair his father had left behind.

It had been sheer desperation that had led him into that dingy little gaming hell on Jermyn Street, the first of many he'd haunted. From the start, he'd been a successful gambler, probably because no risk seemed too great. He'd already lost everything that was dear to him — his father, his home, the girl he loved — so that the prospect of losing everything else seemed inconsequential.

Since those days, he'd recouped the Rochdale fortunes many times over at the gaming tables and on the Exchange. He could have returned to Suffolk, rebuilt a grand house at Bettisfont, and settled into a quiet country life. Once upon a time, he'd wanted precisely that life, with Caroline Lindsay-Holmes at his side and a passel of their black-headed brats romping the estate. That was long ago, however, a lifetime ago, and such a sedentary existence no longer held any appeal for him.