Candice Hern (3 page)

Sheane's Albion, that lively prize-winning bay gelding, would be housed in Rochdale's stables before the month was out.

The coachman was not pleased to be roused from his sleep to drive all the way to London, but neither did he seem entirely surprised. He was accustomed to his employer's unpredictable ways.

"Oh, and Jenkins," Rochdale said, "take your time harnessing the cattle. No need to rush, if you take my meaning."

Jenkins caught the coin Rochdale flipped him, pocketed it, and grinned. "Right you are, milord. I'll check everything over twice. Wouldn't want nothing to go amiss at this time o' night."

Rochdale could not wipe the smile off his face as he walked back to the house. He had known Grace — he always thought of her as Grace and not Mrs. Marlowe, because in his thoughts he was always seducing her — would insist on leaving at once, and he had only teased her about staying with him at his villa so that a carriage ride would seem the lesser of two evils.

In truth, it had all worked out exactly as he'd hoped, for he knew he could make better progress in the intimate atmosphere of a carriage. Fortunately, he'd brought his small traveling chariot to Twickenham, which meant they would have to sit side by side as there was no seat opposite. And the movement of the carriage would no doubt cause their bodies to brush against each other. In fact, he would make sure of it. He might even have to hold on to her if they hit a bad patch of road or bounced into a rut.

Yes indeed, the seduction Rochdale had been quietly setting in motion for weeks would begin in earnest tonight.

He found Grace in the sitting room perched on a chair near the fire, stiff-backed and formal, the very picture of rigid propriety. It still seemed incongruous to him to see such a prim and respectable lady in this room, where many less than respectable women had cavorted over the years at the parties that had become rather infamous for their level of debauchery. If Grace Marlowe had even an inkling of the sort of activities that had taken place in this room, in this house, she would have run screaming out the front door.

She had donned her bonnet and buttoned her pelisse almost to her chin, armed for travel with a notorious scoundrel. She regarded him with a practiced cool arrogance that was surely meant to discourage unwelcome attentions. But he was far from discouraged.

Rochdale studied her for a long moment before approaching her. His intent regard disconcerted her, though she tried not to show it. He could melt most women with a single look. Grace Marlowe would melt soon enough. Her discomfort would turn to acquiescence, then to pleasure, and finally to surrender. His lips twitched in anticipation of the latter as he continued his close appraisal.

If she weren't so damned tight-laced, he'd have been attracted to her. He'd always been partial to blondes. All that honey gold hair and creamy skin, though, was not what defined her beauty. It was more a perfection of structure and proportion that set her apart. She had the sort of face that did not have a single bad angle. It might have been carved in marble by Praxiteles, so exquisitely formed were the bones of her cheeks, the well-defined jaw, the straight line of nose. It was a face to be memorialized in profile on a coin or a shell cameo. Noble. Elegant. Almost too perfect.

All comparisons to lifeless marble or shell, however, were shattered utterly by her eyes. Her best feature, as far as Rochdale was concerned. They were a deep, smoky gray, ringed with midnight blue along the outer edges of the iris. Intelligent eyes, but very private. Locked. If they were a window to her soul, the shutters were drawn tight. What gave them added interest, though, were the darker brown lashes and eyebrows, an intriguing contrast to the gold of her hair. The striking coloring lent an intensity to her face, giving it more depth and character than was usual, in his experience, of beautiful women.

Rochdale was certain there was more to Grace Marlowe than what one would expect of a prim, righteous, upstanding bishop's widow. Yes, this was going to be one of his more interesting conquests.

The glass of sherry stood empty on the candlestand beside her. That was a surprise. He'd only been gone a few minutes. Was she perhaps a secret tippler, or simply fortifying herself for battle? It was to Rochdale's advantage in any case.

He almost laughed aloud with pure glee at how everything was falling so beautifully into place. He schooled his features as he approached her.

"Jenkins is making the carriage ready," he said and walked to the sideboard. "Allow me to pour you another sherry while we wait."

"No, thank you, I do not —"

He had refilled her glass before she could stop him.

"Oh." She looked at the sherry as though unsure what to do with it.

"For myself," he said, "I prefer a good brandy. A bit for now" — he poured himself a glass — "and a bit for later." He used a small funnel to pour brandy into a flat sterling flask. After securing the top, he placed it in a pocket inside his coat. Taking the glass with him, he walked to stand before Grace.

"Here's to a pleasant journey." He smiled and lifted his glass in salute. When she did not return the toast, he clicked his tongue and said, "My dear Mrs. Marlowe, another small glass of sherry will do you no harm, and in fact may help to make the drive to London less disagreeable for you."

"How? By getting me foxed?"

He laughed. "It is only one glass. I doubt it will cause you to lose control. But if by some chance it did, I confess I would love nothing more than to be a witness."

"And yet you never will be."

"A man can hope, Mrs. Marlowe."

"You are incorrigible, my lord."

"So they tell me." Not wishing to appear to hover, he moved away and stood before the fire, resting one arm on the mantel. "But you mustn't worry. I promise to be on my best behavior throughout the journey. We shall engage in polite conversation, and by the time we reach London I daresay we shall be the best of friends."

She gave a quick burst of laughter, a rich, throaty sound that took him so completely by surprise that he almost choked on his brandy. Good God, how did such a prim, prudish lady come by such a laugh? Sultry and provocative, it was the sound one associated with dark nights and tangled sheets, not with a tight-laced bishop's widow.

"I sincerely doubt you and I could ever be friends, Lord Rochdale. I have no interest in gamblers or libertines, and you can certainly have no interest in a good Christian woman like me."

"You underestimate your charms, Mrs. Marlowe. You're a beautiful woman."

She furrowed her brow as though puzzled, then reached for the sherry glass and took a sip. After a moment, she turned those smoky eyes on him and said, "You confound me, my lord. I do not know what to say to you. I find it difficult to understand a man of your reputation."

"And I find it difficult to understand a woman of
your
reputation. So you see? We have something in common after all. Perhaps we can build a temporary bridge between us during the long drive to London. You can tell me all about your Benevolent Widows Fund and your other charitable work, and I can tell you" — he lowered his voice and leaned toward her — "anything you like."

She uttered a soft groan and took another sip of sherry.

It was all rather more encouraging than he'd hoped. She had not swooned at the thought of being alone in a carriage with him. She had not fallen into a fit of the vapors. She had not closed up like a clam and refused to speak to him. No, she had drunk sherry and butted heads with him. All in all, a good start.

Rochdale smiled.

The man was insufferable. He sat too close, making sure that his thigh was in almost constant contact with her own, taking advantage of every bounce and sway of the carriage to press himself against her. And he frequently touched her as he spoke. Just a quick brush of her arm or her shoulder. Very nonchalant, though Grace suspected it was a well-practiced strategy, every small move specifically planned to unnerve her.

It was working.

She almost jumped out of her skin when he placed his gloved hand over hers. She'd been turned away from him, looking out the side window, and her hand had been resting on her thigh. She gave an involuntary squeak.

He chuckled. More like a subdued rumble deep in his chest. The soft shaking of his body transmitted through her own from where he touched her. "If you are thinking I will ravish you, Mrs. Marlowe, you need not worry. I do not ravish women." He leaned closer and pitched his voice low. "It has never been necessary."

She did not know what was worse: his arrogance, or the warmth that flooded her cheeks. Though no lantern was lit inside the carriage, bright moonlight bathed the interior from the broad, uncovered front window and the unshuttered side windows. He would see her blush. No doubt the blackguard was amused by what he would consider her prudishness. But she did not care. As long as he did not believe her to be frightened, which was surely what he wanted, Grace did not care how much he scorned her moral integrity. Let him laugh at her blushes.

"Given my reputation, however," he said, "I am not surprised that you fear I might take advantage of you. Let us make a small bargain, shall we? You allow me free use of your hand — just to touch it and hold it, nothing more — and I promise not to seduce you."

"As if you could."

"Oh, I could, Mrs. Marlowe. Never doubt it. And nothing would give me greater pleasure, I assure you. But for now, I shall be satisfied with your hand. Then you may astonish your friends by reporting that Rochdale, that notorious scoundrel, did nothing more than touch your dainty fingers."

Her friends? Dear heaven, he could not possibly know about the Merry Widows and their foolish pact to take lovers and share all the intimate details with one another, could he? No, he could not know about that. Nor could he know how their frank discussions about lovemaking had made her feel. He was merely speaking in generalities.

Wasn't he?

"I will take your silence as consent." He took her hand and began a gentle caress. "Now, tell me more about your charity fund. All those formal balls must be a great deal of work."

Grace took several slow breaths before speaking. Rochdale set up a leisurely stroking of her fingers while she told him about the Benevolent Widows Fund that she headed, and about the almshouses in Chelsea they had purchased and converted into temporary housing for war widows and orphans who had no other resources. She had hoped to bore him with details, but the more she talked, the more intently he watched her. Even when she wasn't looking, she could feel that unwavering blue gaze upon her.

And he continued to stroke her fingers.

No doubt she ought to have squashed herself against the back corner, as far away from him as she could get in such a small space, crossed her arms across her chest, and tucked her hands tightly beneath her armpits, out of his reach. She ought to have at least uttered an objection to his impertinence. But, by heaven, she was determined that he never know how much he'd rattled her. Rochdale was the sort of man who delighted in discomposing a lady. It was very likely his favorite form of amusement, and Grace was to be his evening's entertainment.

Or so he thought. Grace was not going to make it easy on him.

"I have plans for a new wing at Marlowe House." She was speaking a bit too fast and took a moment to control the twitchy nervousness brought on by that soft fingertip running up and down the length of her forefinger. "If we can raise enough funds at our final ball of the Season, then I hope to hire a builder to begin work during the summer. We cannot accommodate all the families who — Oh!"

She could have bitten her tongue off for allowing that single syllable to confirm her uneasiness. But the wretched man had taken complete possession of her hand and had inserted his thumb under the wrist of her glove.

"Do not be alarmed. I merely hoped we could dispense with the formality of gloves during our journey, just as I have already dispensed with my hat. And besides, I am finding it rather warm inside the carriage. Don't you agree?"

Before she could respond — and what would she have said?
Yes, my skin is indeed flushed from head to toe and if you don't lower a window soon I might swoon?
— he had yanked off one of his own gloves with his teeth, then transferred her hand to his bare hand while he pulled off the second glove.

"Ah, much better," he said. "But I can feel the warmth of
your
skin even through the fine leather of your gloves."

She had no doubt of it. The yellow kid was as thin as chicken skin. Grace had been rather proud of this particular pair of gloves with tiny flowers embroidered along the edge. She was not a slave to fashion, but she liked to look her best. Just now, though, she wished she had worn thick, scratchy, unattractive woolen gloves. With Rochdale, however, it would have made no difference.

"You must allow me to make you more comfortable." His voice was pitched low — it almost always was, probably so that one would have to lean in close to hear him properly — with a slight roughness that saved it from being unctuous. It was a voice of seduction, and he knew it. Worse, Grace feared that despite all her stiffnecked propriety, she might not be entirely immune to its allure. It was deep and velvety soft, a voice to charm a man out of his fortune or a respectable woman out of her clothing.

Truly, the man was a devil.

He began carefully to peel off her glove, tugged it just below the wrist, and stopped. He ran his thumb, his bare thumb, over the skin of her wrist. Dear God. It was the first time she had been skin to skin with any man, even in the most innocent way, since the bishop had died. That simple touch, that naked caress, sent a sharp, prickling warmth through her body, from her toes to the very roots of her hair.

He looked at her with those bedroom eyes and said, "May I?"

She heard his words, but only barely, beneath the furious rumbling of her own confused thoughts. When she did not immediately reply, he lifted his black eyebrows in question. He wanted to remove her glove, but completely disarmed her by asking permission. She should refuse. She should pull her hand away and tell him to leave the glove right there on her hand where it belonged, ineffective armor though it was. She should tell him to stop deliberately confusing her.