Candice Hern (20 page)

Jane frowned. "Toby, boy, what have you done?"

"My goodness," Grace said, shocked to see how pleased with himself the child looked, though he had obviously suffered a painful injury. There was a cut above his eye and bloodstains on his shirt. "Are you all right, Toby? Does it hurt badly? We'd better take you to Mrs. Birch right away and see what she can do about it."

"Naw, it ain't nothing. I got into a fight, Mama. A real fight!"

"And he handled himself splendidly, too," Rochdale said as he walked into the hall. He removed his tall beaver hat, and a wave of blue-black hair fell rakishly over one brow. Standing beside Toby, he tickled the boy under his chin, causing him to twitch and giggle.

"You allowed this to happen, Lord Rochdale?" The goodwill she had been feeling toward him vanished at the sight of Toby's swollen eye and bloodied shirt. Grace tried to control the anger she felt for the grinning black-haired devil at the boy's side. "You allowed Toby to fight?
To get hurt
?"

"It don't hurt much, Miz Marlowe. And you should see the other feller. Whopped him good, I did." He puffed his little chest out with typical male pride.

Grace frowned at Rochdale. "What happened?"

He gazed at her intently for a moment, until she felt compelled to look away. "I took the boy to a boxing exhibition at Fives' Court."

"A mill!" Toby exclaimed. "A real one. Not one o' them street corner rough 'n tumbles, but a real milling-match, with this raised-up platform with ropes, and rules and special gloves and everything. And science. They fought with science. Right, milord?"

Rochdale smiled. "That's right, Toby. Very scientific. Just like you learned at Gentleman Jackson's."

"There were lots of people there," Toby continued, breathlessly. "Lots and lots. Everyone cheering for one feller or t'other. We was cheering for Mr. Percy. Right, milord?"

"That's right."

"So there was this other boy. And, well, he picked a fight with me. I had to fight back, didn't I? But see, his lordship's been letting me watch him spar at Gentleman Jackson's, and I been watching real close and figured I learned a thing or two."

"That you did, Toby," Rochdale said. "Never saw better science in a lad your age."

Toby's face split with a triumphant smile and he preened like a tiny cock of the walk.

His mother scowled at him, though Grace noted a twinkle in her eye. "Are you sure you weren't the one to start the fight, my boy? So you could show off what you learned?"

Toby shrugged and grinned sheepishly. "The feller made fun o' my jacket, so what was I to do?"

"What, indeed. Well, I know what you have to do now, young man, and that's march yourself right into the infirmary and have Mrs. Birch see to that eye.
Now
. Let's go, Toby. Oh, and thank you, my lord, for getting the boy home in one piece."

"It was my pleasure. Do as your mother says, Toby. You might not be so pleased about having a face in half mourning tomorrow when it hurts like the devil and you can't see straight. Ask for a bit of raw beefsteak. That will do the trick, most likely. Off with you, now."

"Thank you, sir." The boy's one good eye gazed up at his hero with unadulterated admiration. "Milord, I mean. Thanks for taking me to the Fives' Court. And for the lemon ice before." Jane took him by the hand and tugged him to the corridor that led to the infirmary. He bounced along beside her and waved as they disappeared round the corner.

Rochdale smiled, then turned to face Grace. Who was not smiling. She glared at him. "What were you thinking," she said, "to take a young boy to a prizefight, which was no doubt packed with ruffians and cutpurses and every sort of criminal? He's just a little boy, for heaven's sake."

"An eight-year-old boy who's spent the last year in the stews of St. Giles. He is more than capable of taking care of himself. That is, if you really believe I would have deliberately put him in danger."

"You allowed him to fight."

"He was insulted by another boy. His honor required him to fight. It's what boys do."

"And what men do, when they challenge other men to duels."

Rochdale's level blue gaze did not waver. "That was years ago. Ancient history. And yes, it was always a matter of honor. But that has nothing to do with Toby."

Grace ought to have known that every ugly rumor she'd ever heard about Rochdale was true. At least he did not deny having been involved in more than one duel. But it was Toby she worried about. She hoped Rochdale was not a bad influence on the boy. "You've been taking him to boxing saloons and other such places?"

"I am merely helping to teach him to be a man. It's what his father would have done, and his mother can't do. I'm exposing him to the sort of masculine pursuits he'll never learn here, surrounded by women. He barely remembers Martin, and has not had any man in his life since. I'm not trying to replace his father. I could never do that and would never try. But the boy needs a man to talk to, to teach him things a man needs to know. He's small for his age and will be challenged at every turn. He needs to be able to defend himself, to learn to live in the real world."

Grace's anger abated as he spoke. He was right, she supposed. Toby did need a man in his life, as Jane had said. But the sight of that small face, bloodied and bruised, had given her a scare. "I'm sorry," she said. "I am overreacting, no doubt. I just hate the idea of that child fighting. He might have been more seriously injured."

"I would not have allowed it."

"No, of course you would not." She could see that he cared too much for Toby to put him in danger. "I apologize for suggesting otherwise."

He nodded, accepting her apology. "Besides," he said, "one black eye will do him no harm. I can testify to that. The bruises are only now fading from the facer young Burnett planted on me a few weeks ago."

Grace had almost forgotten about that episode. She studied his face for signs of the bruise and saw only sharp planes picked out by the sunlight coming through the front window, offsetting deep hollows carved by shadow. And heavy-lidded blue eyes that twinkled with amusement — and something else? — as he held her gaze. Those eyes reminded her of what had happened later that same night, in Rochdale's carriage, and her cheeks flamed. She lowered her head so he would not see.

He was having none of that, however, and tilted her chin up, holding it there so she was forced to look at him again. He cupped her flushed cheek in one hand, the pad of his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. "Yes, that was the night I first kissed you," he said in a low, thick voice. "I remember it, too."

He bent his head closer, and closer still, until their breaths mingled. Slowly, inevitably, he set his lips to hers in a kiss, excruciatingly sweet and simple. Though they were alone, Grace was aware that they stood in the entry hall of Marlowe House, where any number of people might walk by. But his kiss was subtle and tempting, and though she ought to have done so, she did not push him away. It was too delicious. Too perfect.

He did not take her into his arms, but simply kissed her, moving his lips softly over hers in the most exquisite, leisurely exploration. When she parted her lips slightly, he took her face in both hands and cradled it, then deepened the kiss. She uttered a low moan, savoring the breathtaking pleasure of his tongue caressing her own, and only then did he draw her to him. Without thought, she stepped into his embrace and became lost in his kiss.

Some minutes later, when Grace found her wits again and remembered where she was, she pulled back. "You are incorrigible, my lord. You are determined to make a public scene with me." She extricated herself from his arms and moved away, looking right and left to insure that they were indeed alone.

Rochdale's eyelids appeared heavier and sleepier than ever. "No one saw us."

"But they might have done."

"Despite what you may think, my dear, I have no desire to embarrass you in public. I made sure no one was about. I look out for you, the same way I do for Toby. I will let neither of you come to harm."

"I have already come to harm with you. You discompose me, sir."

"I know I do. And just as it is good for Toby to learn to fight, it is good for you to let your guard down now and then. You are too young and beautiful to live the rest of your life in the shadow of a dead husband who didn't allow you to be a real woman. And do not tell me you aren't doing that. You put entirely too much energy into polishing the old bishop's memory. You won't let him go. That's what keeps you from giving in to your desires. It will never be right with me, or any man, until you let him go."

"I cannot help it. I owe everything to him."

"But he is gone, so your debt is wiped clean."

"It is more than that, and you know it. He taught me all about living a virtuous life. It is difficult for me to ... to allow myself to ... to feel so wicked. So sinful."

"Grace." He reached out to stroke her cheek. "You are not wicked or sinful. You are a good person, honorable and caring. And passionate. No, don't shake your head. You
are
passionate. About widows and orphans, for example. About helping people who are less fortunate."

"That's not the kind of passion you mean."

"It is all the same," he said. "A fervor that fires the blood. I have witnessed both kinds of passion from you. You feel things deeply, whether it is compassion for a small boy with a swollen eye or passion for a man's kiss. It is who you are, Grace. A woman with a woman's feelings. With an honest response to a man's desire for you. And your own desire. It is time you lived for yourself, Grace, and stopped being the Great Man's Widow. Stop trying to remain faithful to the memory of a pompous old fool who made you believe sex was something dirty."

Grace gasped. How had he known that?

"Make your own life," he went on. "Make your own mark on the world. You can do anything, you know." He spread his arms and said, "Look what you have done here, on your own, without the bishop. Imagine what else you can do, if only you will allow yourself to
be
yourself."

"But you are not speaking of more charity work, are you? You do not kiss me to encourage good works."

"No, of course not." He flashed a grin. "Unless I am the object of those good works. Though I warn you, I am not looking to change my ways, so do not think to make a project of me. No, I kiss you because I am deeply attracted to you. You know that. I have told you that. But it's more than physical attraction. I like you, Grace. I like the woman I see beneath the public persona you have created for yourself. The passionate woman beneath the cool composure. I like everything about you."

Her cheeks flushed at his words. "I ... I like you, too, my lord." And God help her, she did.

"John. My name is John. I have taken the liberty of using your Christian name. You must use mine. Friends should not be so formal with each other."

Friends? Were they friends? "John."

He reached out and took her hand, then kissed it in a chivalrous, almost formal way, not at all seductive or flirtatious, but as though he was honoring her, as though he truly admired her. When he looked up and smiled, she saw something more in his eye than the familiar rakish glint. Something more personal. More affectionate. How remarkable, she thought, and returned his smile. He swept her a bow, then turned and walked out the front door.

In that moment, as she stood clutching the hand he'd kissed, Grace felt as if some kind of new bond had been forged between them. She wasn't sure what it was, or how to define it — could it be called friendship when there was also desire? — but she knew she would no longer worry about his gambling and his scandalous past and his other women. None of it mattered. She thought instead of the young boy, proudly sporting a black eye, whose life had been changed forever by Rochdale's kindness. Of all that he was doing for Jane and her family. Of the extraordinary generosity he had bestowed upon Marlowe House.

This was the man she liked, the man for whom she had a powerful attraction. And, by God, she did not care what anybody thought about it.

As had become their routine, Nat had taken the horses for a drive while Rochdale was at Marlowe House, and by the time he had deigned to return with his team, Rochdale had worked himself into a rare temper. The long wait had given him the opportunity to mull over what had just happened. Though he had not expected to see Grace, the encounter had worked out beautifully. He had her practically eating out of his hand. Finally — finally! — she trusted him. She
liked
him. She was right where he wanted her, a few short steps away from final surrender. And yet an unexpected stirring of guilt had come over him for what he was doing.

A flood of shame, then anger, washed over him for using her in such a selfish way, for making her believe he had no ulterior motive in pursuing her. That anger had reached a crescendo of self-flagellation by the time Nat drove his curricle into the small courtyard in front of Marlowe House.

"It's about time," he barked. "Where the devil have you been?"

The lad's face paled and his eyes grew wide with anxiety. "I'm sorry, milord, but you were gone more than a half hour, so I thought —"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. Just give me the reins, damn it all, and take your seat in back. And if you know what's good for you, you'll shut the hell up until we reach Curzon Street."

A few moments later, as he steered the team into Lower George Street, he was struck by yet another pang of guilt for speaking so sharply to Nat. The tiger had only been doing his job. It was not his fault that Rochdale was vexed with himself. He'd flip the boy a half crown when they reached the livery where his horses and carriages were kept.

That initial rush of anger ebbed somewhat as he drove, and Rochdale began to ponder these disturbing attacks of conscience that had begun to torment him of late. The business with Grace Marlowe was only a game, after all. Despite all her artlessness and enticing innocence, she was nothing more to him than a means to a prime bit of horseflesh. He would, quite naturally, be forever grateful to her for helping him acquire Albion. And that should be the end of it. He had no reason to feel guilty for seducing her into submitting to something she clearly wanted, or for pretending to redeem himself in her eyes with a fat bank draft and a few hours spent with a lonely little boy. She had done well for herself in the game, getting what she wanted from him. No woman was worth that kind of guilt.