Candice Hern (24 page)

Grace laughed, that rich, deep-throated laugh that always took him by surprise. It was a sound so lush and sultry it made his spine tingle, made him want to put his ear to her belly — preferably her naked belly — and feel its soft, low vibration against his cheek.

He noticed more heads turning at the sound of her laughter. So did she, for she quickly brought it under control and hid her mouth behind her fan. He could see that she was still smiling, though.

She turned her profile to him as she watched the audience members take their seats in the boxes and the gallery above, and the rowdy set milling around in the pit. She had pulled her hair in what appeared on first glance to be a simple, thick chignon anchored high on the back of her head. But it was really quite an intricate arrangement of twists and coiled plaits and gold combs. Like everything else about Grace Marlowe, it was more complicated than it looked.

Since that day at Marlowe House when he'd become so torn between guilt and anger at feeling guilty, Rochdale had stopped trying to fit her into the mold of other women, stopped trying to convince himself she was no different from all the rest. In fact, he had stopped thinking at all and simply followed her lead into an easy friendship.

There was nothing easy about it, though. Or about her. He watched her and knew she was going to be trouble — his beautiful golden-haired Grace with the perfect patrician profile and the almost bawdy laugh. Trouble, because she was becoming more to him than merely the means to win a wager. Trouble, because at times like this the enchantment he felt for her was entirely real, and not pretense for the sake of adding Albion to his stables. Trouble, most of all, because the lust he quite naturally felt for her was becoming all mixed up with something else, something he did not care to analyze or name, but which threatened to scare the life out of him.

"Oh dear," she said, peering through her opera glasses to a box on the opposite side of the stage. "We seem to have lost our cachet. All eyes are now on the Duke of Cumberland and a very ornately dressed young woman at his side." She dropped the glasses and turned to look at Rochdale. "We are not much of a sensation after all. How very lowering."

He laughed, then raised her gloved hand to his lips. "Ah, Grace. You never cease to delight me."

She shot him a quizzical glance. "Do you really like me, then? I mean, really and truly?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Of course I do."

"Even though I'm a priggish bishop's widow?"

He laughed. "Despite that. Actually, I like you because you realize — and deep down you always have — that you're more than that. That you can
be
more than that."

She retrieved her hand and returned her gaze to the boxes opposite, which were now almost completely filled. "Someone suggested to me once," she said, "that you don't like women."

"An odd thing to say, given my history."

"The implication was that you liked to ... to take your pleasure from women, but that you didn't actually like them. As people, I mean."

What a provokingly astute analysis of his character. He wondered which of her friends was responsible for the critique. "To be honest, there have not been many women I've actually admired and respected."

That admission surprised her, or perhaps it was disappointment in her eyes when she turned to look at him. "Why? I can't believe there are really so few of us to admire. What about your mother?"

He snorted. "My mother was the first to disillusion me. She ran off with another man when I was a young boy and I never saw her again."

A chagrined expression crossed her face. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I had heard about that but had forgotten. It must have been difficult for you after she left."

"My father told me she had died. I suppose to him she had."

Her face screwed up into a grimace. "How awful! What a monstrous thing for him to have done. But I'm sure she wanted to see you, if only your father had allowed it. She must have loved you and missed you dreadfully."

"In point of fact, she didn’t much care for me. She's the one who asked my father to tell me she was dead. She didn't want me looking for her. I didn't learn any of this until she actually did die and my father remarried."

"Oh, John, how singularly cruel. But you must not judge all women by her unnatural treatment of you."

"I don't." His mother had been merely the first of many women to reveal their true colors to him. There had been countless others since. "I've met precious few women to admire in my life, fewer still whom I truly like. You are one of them, Grace. At the top of that short list, in fact."

Her cheeks colored at his words. Rochdale watched the pink blush suffuse her face and neck. He'd grown fond of her blushes, anticipating them, often encouraging them. Like everything about Grace, it was a refined sort of blush, a lovely shade of rose pink and not the furious blotchy red that he'd sometimes seen in other fair-skinned women. He was quite sure he could make her entire body blush pink like that, and could hardly wait to see it.

"Thank you," she said with her eyes on the hands in her lap. "That is very kind of you to say. And I assure you, the admiration is returned."

Ah, poor woman. She was doomed to disappointment.

The evening passed quickly in her company. Grace sincerely enjoyed the opera,
La Dama Soldata
, and he enjoyed watching her. During the first interval, several curiosity seekers visited the box, as well as a few friends. Lord Sheane stepped in with his latest bit of muslin, clearly nervous that Rochdale had made such obvious progress with Grace. But Rochdale did not allow the man and his ladybird beyond the threshold. It was one thing for Grace to be seen in Rochdale's company, quite another for her to be forced into the company of a Cyprian. Her indomitable reputation could only bear so much.

Cazenove and Marianne stopped by the box as well. While the women talked, Cazenove pulled Rochdale aside and quizzed him about Grace.

"What are you? Her father?" Rochdale asked. "Do you want to know if my intentions are honorable?"

"Something like that."

"Look at her. She's a beautiful woman. That should tell you all you need to know about my intentions."

"The thing is," Cazenove said, "the woman is a close friend to my wife. If you hurt Mrs. Marlowe, I shall feel obliged to rip your heart out with a rusty blade on behalf of Marianne. Do I make myself clear?"

Rochdale's eyes widened. "Good God, man, there is no need for such melodrama. I am not planning to hurt her."

Cazenove continued to glare at him. There was a time when he would not have dreamed of questioning Rochdale's actions, or any other man's, where women were concerned. He would not dare, since his own activities did not often bear scrutiny. Only see what marriage had done to the poor fellow, making him an instrument of his wife's whims and fancies.

"It's that damned pact, isn't it?" Cazenove said, lowering his voice. "The one with the other widows, the one about finding the best lovers. I wish to hell I'd never mentioned it to you."

"As I recall, you were foxed at the time."

"What are you up to, Rochdale? Are you hoping that by seducing the most prudish of the widows that they will elect you as the best lover?"

Rochdale grinned. "An intriguing possibility. Do you suppose they will award some sort of prize? But no, my interest in Mrs. Marlowe has nothing to do with that bloody widows' pact. And I repeat: I have no intention of hurting her."

"I daresay you never set out to deliberately hurt a woman," Cazenove said. "But it happens. All too frequently. I just wish I understood your interest in Mrs. Marlowe. Only a few months ago you declared your aversion to 'ladies who do good works' and this lady in particular. What changed?"

"Perhaps I got a better look at her."

Cazenove lifted an interested eyebrow. "At the masquerade ball, when all that golden hair was flowing down her back? Ha! I ought to have known you could not resist that hair. I told Marianne as much. You'd seduce the Dog-Faced Girl if she had long blond hair to wrap yourself up in. Just be careful with Mrs. Marlowe, Rochdale. She is not your usual hardened sophisticate. Don't break her heart."

During the second interval, Rochdale received a similar warning from the dowager Duchess of Hertford. While Grace chatted with Lord Ingleby, the duchess's escort and current lover, Wilhelmina took Rochdale aside and said, "Take her to bed if you must, and treat her well, for she needs it. But do not, by God, trifle with her heart. Or you'll have me to reckon with."

He hoped Grace's heart was not involved, for he was going through with the seduction of her regardless. He had to, else he'd lose his best horse to Sheane. But he did not believe she was in love with him, or in any danger of falling in love. He was more inclined to believe it was curiosity that drove her. He had awakened passion in her, and once she became accustomed to the idea, she wanted to see how far she could take it. Building a friendship made it easier for her to justify using him as her tutor in the amorous arts. Grace was the type of woman who would need to admire and respect the man who was finally allowed to take her to bed, even if she had to manufacture that respect built on little more than a large bank draft for her charity.

Rochdale sensed she was almost ready for her first lesson. And he had a plan ready to set in action.

Later, when his carriage slowed to a stop in front of her Portland Place home, Rochdale pulled Grace into his arms for a brief kiss. She responded with an eagerness that told him she was ready to take the next step. In fact, he was certain she would surrender to him tonight if he asked. But he would not. Not tonight. He wanted her to endure a bit of frustrated sexual desire, so that when he finally did suggest that he take her to bed, she would want it so badly she could not refuse.

And so he kissed her again, more deeply, as his hands roamed over her hips and thighs and up to the bit of soft flesh above the stiff bones of her corset, protected by a mere wisp of gauzy silk. She moved into his touch and moaned into his mouth.

Finally, he pulled away. "I must not keep you out here," he said between ragged breaths. "Your neighbors will talk." God, he was panting for her. It happened every time. He'd set out as the seducer and end up as the seduced.

"Perhaps you ..." But she shook her head and did not finish her thought. Had she been going to invite him inside? He was far enough gone to want it, but had just enough resolve to stick to his plan.

"I would happily stay here in this carriage with you for hours," he said, "but that would be too selfish, even for me. I'd be even happier to follow you inside, but that would be the worse kind of selfish. Just because I don't care what people say about me does not mean I should play as fast and loose with your reputation. If I were to go inside with you, I daresay there is at least one neighbor who would make note of what time I entered and precisely what time I left."

"Yes, you are probably right."

He could not suppress a smile at her words, a veiled admission that she might indeed have invited him inside. Into her bed. It took a supreme effort of will not to drag her into his arms again and woo her into taking him upstairs.

"May I see you tomorrow?" he asked instead. "I'd like to take you to a horse race."

Grace offered a wary smile. "Oh! I've never been to a horse race."

"Then it is high time you went, don't you think? My best horse is racing. I'd be very pleased if you were there to watch the race with me."

Her smile broadened into a radiance so bright it shot like a bolt of lightning straight through his chest. "Oh, yes, John! I should love it more than anything. Will there be wagering?"

"Of course."

"Then, since it is your best horse, perhaps I should place a bet on him."

"Her. She's a chestnut mare named Serenity. And she is a winner, so your bet will not be too risky. The odds will be in her favor."

"A horse race and gambling. What a bad influence you are, sir."

More than she knew. "I shall come by to collect you at eight. Rather early, I fear."

"Eight o'clock? I did not realize horse races were held at such an early hour."

"They aren't. But it is a bit of a drive. I want to be sure to have time to check on Serenity, to speak with the rider, to inspect the field, and so on. It requires that I arrive well before the race. I hope you do not mind."

"Not at all. I look forward to it."

At Rochdale's signal, Nat, in full footman's livery tonight, leapt down from his perch in the back, opened the carriage door, and pulled down the step. Rochdale stepped out and handed Grace down. He walked by her side to the door, careful not to take her arm or otherwise touch her. The nearby streetlamp put them too much on display. And he really did care about her reputation. He had not lied about that.

When she reached the door, it was opened by a stern-faced butler. She thanked him for waiting up and then sent him away, promising to lock the door herself. The fellow gave Rochdale a challenging look, then did as he was asked, leaving Grace and Rochdale alone in the doorway. Was she going to invite him inside after all?

She turned to him and said, "Will you tell me something truthfully?"

"Anything."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Pursuing me. Am I some sort of challenge for you? A novelty? You've never been with a respectable woman before? A good woman?"

He winced. What could he say that was in any way related to the truth? It was true that wanting her in order to win a bet had changed to simply wanting her. But it was also true that there would never have been a pursuit without that damned wager.

"Oh, but of course there was Serena Underwood, wasn't there?" Her words were laced with the merest hint of sarcasm. "She was respectable.
Was
."

Was she afraid he would treat her the way he'd treated Serena? The situations were not remotely alike, and neither were the women. "Many women are respectable," he said. "Very few are truly good."

She lifted an eyebrow. "There is more to that story than any of us know, isn't there? Serena was not entirely without blame, was she?"