Candice Hern (21 page)

Yet remorse gnawed at him as he drove the curricle too fast down Lower George Street, narrowly missing a head-on collision with a beer wagon, and coming so close to sideswiping a phaeton that the driver shouted obscenities and snapped his whip in Rochdale's direction. Unmoved by the danger his reckless speed was causing, Rochdale kept his thoughts on one thing only: He told himself over and over that he had nothing to feel guilty about. Grace would ultimately thank him for helping her to break loose of her tight-laced, self-indulgent propriety and to finally experience a bit of pleasure, sexual pleasure. He would give that to her willingly, and she should be grateful. But ...

His long-dormant conscience kept throwing
buts
at him. Good God, he could not remember ever suffering so much distress over a woman. But that was part of the wager's challenge, was it not? He would have to suffer in order to win. But instead of enduring the frustration of a prim woman's refusal to submit, he was enduring guilt over a good woman's inevitable surrender.

Damn, damn, damn.

When he'd stood outside Marlowe House waiting for Nat's return, the tantalizing scent of Grace's ever-present jasmine fragrance lingering on his clothes, he'd thought about what a fine woman she was and how sweet her passion was, and wondered if he should go back inside and kiss her again. Just then, a barouche had rolled by with a uniformed soldier and a flamboyantly dressed tart seated behind the driver. A heavily laden dray being unloaded at the far end of the street had slowed traffic, so Rochdale was able to watch the barouche for several minutes as it crept along at a snail's pace. The tart had her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her painted face. The soldier was speaking earnestly to her, but she kept shaking her head. Finally, the fellow pulled out a small box from inside his coat. Long and slim, it was obviously a jewelry case of some kind, and all at once the tart's pinched face transformed into a triumphant smile. As they had moved down the street, out of Rochdale's line of vision, he caught a glimpse of her snuggling against the young man in a manner that was almost indecent. The soldier had met her price.

Recollection of that little drama reminded Rochdale that all women had their price. Even Grace Marlowe. Her price was sitting in a vault at Coutts & Company, ready to be poured into that old brick building she loved so much. Yes, every woman had a price and Rochdale, who prided himself on his understanding of the female sex, had somehow allowed himself to forget that nugget of wisdom where Grace Marlowe was concerned. What a fool he'd become, he thought as he negotiated the turn onto the busy Brompton Road. While coaxing Grace to loosen her laces, he'd been the one to let down his guard. He'd allowed her to get under his skin, to think he cared about her and was not merely playacting. Bloody fool. He must be going soft after all these years.

He maneuvered the curricle through the late afternoon traffic in Knightsbridge and toward Hyde Park Corner, where the fashionable set was gathering for the daily parade through the park. Soft indeed, that's what he'd become, to have allowed himself to be manipulated again by a grasping woman. He'd set out to trick her, and damned if she hadn't turned the tables and tricked him, tricked him into thinking she was different, just because she was so bloody proper and pious, and intriguingly innocent.

In the end, she was no different from the rest, using him, offering just enough of herself to drive him mad, letting him inch toward a seduction just so she could have his money for her charity. When it came right down to it, Grace Marlowe was no different from all the others he'd known. She was a female, was she not?

All women were users, manipulators. He'd learned that lesson early on from his own mother, who'd abandoned him. Then again from his father's second wife, for whom the foolish old man had beggared the estate in order to support her expensive tastes and provide her bracket-faced daughter with a tempting dowry. The former Lady Rochdale had lost no time in shedding her widow's weeds for another bridal bouquet when, barely a year after the fire, she married the very rich Lord Dammond. Rochdale often wondered if she had not started the fire herself and allowed his father to believe her trapped in the inferno, all because she had taken what she could from him and there was nothing ahead for her but years of debt and economic retrenching. He had suggested as much to her some years later when he'd been the worse for drink, and she had slapped him soundly for it.

Then there was Caroline, coldblooded and ruthless in her ambition, who'd broken his young heart. At least he'd been wise to female machinations by the time Serena Underwood had come into his life. He had preferred scandal and public scorn to being her scapegoat. He was a hardened realist by then, having twice been forced into duels with the husbands of women who had assured him of their spouses' indifference. In the end, all the women in his life used him in one way or another for their own gain. Even that chit Emily Thirkill had used him, talking him into taking her to the Twickenham villa for the sole purpose of exacting revenge on her mother and aunt for embarrassing her in public.

Turning into Park Place, Rochdale threaded his sleek curricle through the crowds of leisurely driven carriages and hacks on their way to Rotten Row. Fashionable women dressed in the latest designs were ready to see and be seen in the daily ritual of gathering in Hyde Park. Some of the women caught his eye, signaling various levels of interest. Others turned away.

Users, all of them. He'd learned long ago that the only way to deal with women was on his own terms, not theirs. And his terms were generally sexual. He had taken his pleasure from scores of them. If they wanted to use him for their own pleasure, then so be it, as long as he got equal satisfaction in the bargain. But he would
not
be manipulated. He would not give over control of any situation to a female. Never.

Once he had seduced Grace into becoming a real woman, he would give her a bit of pleasure in return for Albion. It was the least he could do, and God knew she needed it. He would take pleasure from her, too, of course, and he still anticipated that it would be extraordinarily fulfilling. She was so blasted desirable, with her golden beauty and her innocent passion.

Once again, Rochdale experienced the merest niggling of a doubt about his motives. He remembered her smile as he left her at Marlowe House, the almost wistful quality in it, and her hesitant admission that she liked him. He wondered if he might be wrong about this woman. Could she be the exception to the rule? But she had his bank draft, so she was really no better than the rest of them.

Or was she?

He had taken countless women to bed. He knew what they wanted. This particular seduction should be easy. She was innocent, naïve, ripe for the taking. But somehow, she had got to him, got under his skin, into his head, something. He could not explain it, but by the time he drove the curricle into the livery at the end of Curzon Street, he had come to realize that she really
was
different, that she did not deserve to be just another name on his list.

Damn, damn, damn.

If he was not careful, Grace Marlowe was going to be the ruin of him.

* * *

Things had definitely changed between them. It was almost as if they had switched roles. Rochdale had become more solicitous and circumspect, whereas Grace no longer bothered to hide their friendship.

For that is what had grown between them: friendship. He could still make her heart race with a glance from those knowing eyes. But there was more between them now. They talked. They exchanged ideas and opinions. They were comfortable together, and Grace allowed herself to enjoy his company without guilt or shame.

She grew impatient with those who scorned him, but they did not know him as she did. There were times when she longed to jump to his defense, but knew he would not thank her for it. For reasons known only to himself, Rochdale enjoyed his reputation as a scoundrel. It was not her prerogative to repair that reputation, so she let it stand. Her own might suffer by association, as Margaret was quick to point out at every opportunity, but only in the eyes of people whose judgment she no longer valued. For if they could not see beyond the lurid tales of scandal and debauchery – most of them no doubt true — to find the good and worthy man beneath, then she no longer cared what they thought.

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.

God bless her friends for helping her to reach the goal of that toast. She was not there yet, but there was a thrilling freedom in not caring what opinion people held of her. She still thought of the bishop, though, and what he must think if he was watching from above. She liked to believe he would applaud her for eschewing hypocrisy, which must surely be a good thing. But he had trained her to be ever alert to what people might say about her, keeping in mind his important position and how nothing must be said or done to blemish it. So, she was not entirely confident that he smiled down upon her now.

Truth be told, he would probably think her own reputation more important than that of a man like Rochdale. But in these last weeks, Grace had come to understand that both of their public personae were manufactured to achieve a desired result. They were like actors on a stage. She played the role of the Bishop's Widow just as he played the Notorious Libertine. Beneath their masks, however, were more complex personalities.

"They are just labels," Rochdale had told her, "that allow Society to catalog us more easily into predefined categories. But neither of us is that simple, that black and white. Don't allow Society's expectations to define you, Grace."

It seemed that whenever they met, he ended up saying something of the kind to her. She began to think that he was trying to undo some of the bishop's training by drilling new, more liberal litanies into her head.

And it was working.

He sat beside her on a settee in Wilhelmina's elegant drawing room. The duchess had invited a large group of friends for dinner and an informal musicale. Because all the guests were those who accepted Wilhelmina without censure, many of them friends of the late duke, Grace had no concerns that her friendship with Rochdale would be remarked upon or criticized by such open-minded company. She felt completely at ease by his side as they awaited the next performance, a duet by a harpist and pianist. As so often happened of late, they fell into comfortable conversation. They had been speaking of the new exhibition at the British Institution, a retrospective of the late Sir Joshua Reynolds that had been in large part coordinated by Adam Cazenove, one of the governors of the Institution. Adam and Marianne had joined in the discussion until they were called away by Wilhelmina to speak with another guest who fancied himself an art connoisseur.

"I was encouraged by the exhibit," Rochdale said, "to purchase a copy of the new
Memoirs of Sir Joshua Reynolds
. An interesting character, if a bit self-important. I think you might find it entertaining."

Grace was no longer surprised when he let fall these little revelations of his character. She had discovered that the studious boy from Suffolk still lurked beneath the surface. Rochdale was a great reader, though she suspected he did not allow many people to know it.

"As it happens," she said, "I was given a copy by Mr. Northcote, the publisher, though I haven't read it yet."

He lifted a black eyebrow. "You are acquainted with James Northcote?"

"Yes. He will be publishing my book on the bishop's sermons."

"Ah. And how goes the editing? Still up to your eyeballs in sanctimonious bombast?"

Grace frowned. "John."

"Sorry. Tell me what you're working on."

"A very eloquent sermon based on Genesis two, verse eighteen. 'The Lord God said, "It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make him a helper suitable to him."' The bishop uses that passage to illustrate how a man is called to lead, whereas a woman is called to help. That is, how a man must take responsibility for his family, and a wife should be supportive of her husband."

"Subordinate to him, you mean."

"Well, yes. Someone must lead, and God has given man that role and that responsibility."

He uttered a soft but thoroughly disdainful huff. "So, a woman cannot lead? Well then, Grace, that must mean you should not be allowed to manage a large charitable fund nor to be responsible for the facilities at Marlowe House. And I was the one who said the old man would be proud of you. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he would not be so pleased to have his 'helper' become a leader in what she does."

Grace glared at him. He was always finding fault with her late husband. "Don't be foolish. He was speaking in generalities. In a family, for instance, the husband must be the leader, for he is responsible for the protection and well-being of his wife and children. Just as the leader of a country or government, a king or prime minister, is responsible to protect its citizens."

"And what if that king is a queen? Would your bishop have not allowed Queen Elizabeth to rule?"

She heaved an exasperated sigh. Rochdale took perverse pleasure in dismantling the bishop's teachings, trying to prove them inadequate or false, even if it meant taking the woman's side in the debate. "You are being too literal."

"It should be remembered," Rochdale said, "that the Genesis passage in question was written from the perspective of the patriarchal society of the Hebrews. I daresay they would not have accepted a Queen Elizabeth to rule them. Ah, but wait. There was Miriam the Prophetess. And Zipporah, wife of Moses, who assumed the role of priest in a moment of crisis. And Deborah — judge, general, and poet — handpicked by God to deliver the nation."

She smiled. "I should know better than to engage in a discussion of theology or religious history with you." But she often did, as the bishop's sermons were a frequent topic of conversation between them. She rather enjoyed their debates, for it drew out the onetime scholar who had long ago immersed himself in the study of philosophy and religion.