Candice Hern (33 page)

"Grace, I —"

"Oh, yes, you were ruthless in your quest to make me forget who I was, to reject my principles and come down to your level. You made me believe you cared, you made me believe you wanted what was best for me. Most of all, you made me trust you. And all along you were making a joke of me."

"No, I —"

"But I will not be your victim, John. You have taken me on a mad run, and in the running I nearly lost myself. But I will not let you destroy me. I am better than that. I am better than
you
."

Lord, how he wanted to find a dark hole and crawl inside. She made him feel lower than a toad under a harrow. "Yes, you are, Grace. You are a hundred thousand times better than me. You are better than any woman I have ever known. I have hurt you, badly, but I never wanted to destroy you."

"You never think about who you might destroy with your callousness. You never think about anyone but yourself. You don't care how your actions might hurt someone, as long as you get what you want. You make a great show of not caring what people think of you, because you are a coward. If you dared to care, you might, heaven forbid, experience a moment or two of regret or sorrow. Instead, you care for nothing and no one and are therefore safe from pain."

"I never cared before, but I care about you."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop. Don't try to make an even bigger fool of me. Excuses and apologies will not make a difference. I want nothing more from you, Lord Rochdale. Ever again."

She spun on her heal to walk away, then stopped and faced him once more. "No, there
is
something I want from you. I want you to stay away from me, to stay out of my life. And if you dare to besmirch my name in public in any way, I swear I will have your head on a platter."

With that, she swept out of the room in a flurry of muslin skirts, and was gone.

Rochdale stood frozen, stunned by her assessment of him. After a moment, he walked to the window and watched her enter the carriage that stood waiting at his door, then stared after it as it drove off. He continued to gaze, almost desperately, at what was likely his last glimpse of the woman he'd grown to love. Even though he could not see her, he could not tear his eyes from the carriage, knowing she was inside. It drove down Curzon Street, past the Mayfair Chapel, and turned onto left onto Queen Street and out of sight.

When he was able to stir himself from the window, Rochdale walked back into the room and collapsed into a wing chair. Damnation. Who would have thought the prim and polite Bishop's Widow could be such a firebrand? She was so beautiful in her glorious, blistering passion that he fell even more in love with her. Which only made the pain in his belly worse. Everything she'd said was true, of course, and he did not think he'd ever been more ashamed in all his life. He deserved her scorn and hatred.

She had been so righteous in her outrage, armed with every sling and arrow she could conjure up, that he was never given the chance to tell her he had conceded the wager. But in the end, what did it matter? The damage to her was already done, regardless of the wager's outcome.

For a moment, Rochdale considered going after her, making her listen to him, making her understand that he was truly sorry and that he loved her. But no, she had asked him to stay away and he would honor that request. It was the least he could do for her. A man like him could only ever bring scandal and shame to a woman like Grace. And so he would give her up just as he'd given up Serenity.

He supposed it was never too late in life to learn a lesson. The gambler for whom no risk was too great had just discovered that he did, after all, have something in life left to lose.

* * *

Grace took no joy in having railed at Rochdale. She had so hoped he would deny the rumor and then she would have flown straight into his arms. But when he'd baldly admitted it was true, she could not hold back her anger. Now that she knew, really knew, what sort of man he was, it was easy to put him out of her life. No, not easy, but sensible. Even though she had changed as a result of what had happened — she would never again be the docile, uncompromising prig she'd once been — there was still a core of steady common sense at the heart of her, and she knew she had to move on.

In the days that followed, she found some satisfaction in the fact that no public scandal had attached itself to her. The rumors Margaret heard had not spread, or if they had, Grace was unaware of them. Friends and acquaintances treated her normally, without a hint that they suspected she had, for two extraordinary days, behaved with wanton abandon with the most notorious rake in London. It became easy to fall back into the role of the Bishop's Widow, but no one would ever know the heartache she felt over the loss of the man she'd believed Rochdale to be, the fantasy she had fallen in love with. She suspected she might never find another man who could or would show her the pleasure she'd experienced with Rochdale. Sometimes she wished she'd not had those two days with him, for she would always know now what her life was missing. But most of the time, she silently thanked him for giving her that amazing, wonderful experience, and for teaching her that she was not wicked for enjoying it.

She ran into Wilhelmina on Conduit Street not long after the confrontation with Rochdale. Over tea and cakes in an elegant little pastry shop, Grace told her everything that had happened.

"What a horrid thing to have done," Wilhelmina said. "It is to be expected, I suppose, from a man who has always enjoyed being a cad. But in the end, you may have gained more than you lost, my dear."

"What do you mean?"
"Consider all that you have learned from the experience. You are stronger. More confident. More sure of who you are and what you want out of life. And you have finally shaken off the mantle of the Bishop's Widow."

"Oh yes. Margaret has made sure of that. But you are right, I have learned a lot. But at what price?"

Her face must have given her away, for Wilhelmina said, "You fell in love with him after all, did you not?"

Grace felt her cheeks flush. "Despite your good advice, I fear that I did."

"My poor girl. But you must not suffer alone. All your friends are here to help you through this rough patch. And you will get through it. I promise you."

* * *

"Thank you, sir! I promise to take extra special good care of it." Young Toby Fletcher grinned from ear to ear as he proudly held on to the brand new curry comb Rochdale had just given him.

"Mr. Trask and the other boys will show you how to use it properly," Rochdale said, "but it is yours alone and not one of the ordinary stable brushes. That's why it has your initials on it."

"Cripes, they will be jealous, I bet."

"Very likely," Rochdale said, tousling the boy's blond hair. "But try not to lord it over them too much. You will want to make friends with them, not make them think you are better than they are."

"And you are not better," Jane Fletcher said. "You have a lot to learn and all the other boys will know more than you. You will need to pay close attention and be friendly if you want to learn how to be a good stable boy."

"Maybe I can let them use it sometimes," Toby said, his brow puckered and serious, "if they're careful."

"An excellent notion," Rochdale said. "Now, put it in a safe place so you do not lose it during the journey."

"Yes, sir! I mean, my lord." With a quick grin, Toby scrambled up into the waiting carriage.

"Thank you for the cookery book, my lord," Sally Fletcher said in a bashful voice, without looking at him.

"You are very welcome, Sally. I hope you will find it useful."

"She will, my lord," her mother said, putting an arm around the girl's thin shoulders. "And so will I, if she will let me have a look from time to time. Up you go, now." She held Sally's hand as she climbed into the carriage.

When both children were inside, Jane turned to Rochdale and said, "I do not know how to thank you, my lord. For everything."

"It was my pleasure, Jane. You belong at Bettisfont, not here in London."

"I cannot imagine what we would have done without you. I suppose Mrs. Marlowe and Mrs. Chalk and the others would have come up with something eventually. But it would not have been the same as going back home. I cannot wait to see it again."

"I am told everything is in good repair, and I've had a few new pieces of furniture brought in for you and the children. I hope it will suit you."

"It is home. Of course it will suit us. And John, Lord Rochdale, I hope we will see you at Bettisfont one day soon."

"Very likely you will. Now, let's not keep the horses waiting any longer."

He handed her into the big traveling carriage with the Rochdale crest blazoned on the door, said final farewells to them all, then stepped away as the coachman steered the team out of the Marlowe House courtyard and onto George Street.

It had cost him very little in time or money to help this one family, and it gave him a warm feeling to have done something good for someone without any ulterior motives. This satisfied feeling must be what drove Grace to do so much good work.

He considered that he might be able to help other families at Marlowe House. But that would mean coming into occasional contact with Grace, and she did not want that. Instead, he would continue to funnel money into the Coutts & Company account so there would always be funds at her disposal. He supposed he was trying to assuage his guilt with money. But no amount of money could ever make up for the wrong he had done Grace.

Later that night he was sitting alone in one of the out-of-the-way taverns he liked to frequent, far from the Mayfair crowd, sipping a second pint of ale, and thinking about her. He was always thinking about Grace. His mind could not let go of the images of her long legs entwined with his, of her satiny skin beneath his hands and mouth, of the warm, tight passage he had worked, of her uninhibited and glorious climaxes. The sweetest part of it all was that he had been the first and only man to see her like that. Her husband never had. She had told Rochdale that she and Marlowe had never removed their nightclothes when he came to her. Grace had been practically a virgin. She had certainly never before experienced sexual fulfillment. He had given her that. And quite a bit more. He had been pleased and proud to be her first true lover. And he couldn't help but wonder if, now that she'd had a taste of it, she would seek out another man to pleasure her. She was young and beautiful and desirable. Some other man would surely have her eventually.

The thought of Grace in another man's arms turned his stomach. He could not bear to think of it.

Perhaps he could get Grace Marlowe out of his head if he had sex with another woman. Any woman. The buxom barmaid bending over him would do. She was certainly willing. But as she began to fondle him, he felt oddly detached. He knew where this was headed. Five minutes in the stables or against the kitchen garden wall. He'd done it enough times to know the routine. He'd button his breeches, flip her a coin, and never see her again. He wouldn't even know her name.

He pushed her away and said, "Not tonight, sweetheart."

She looked angry, disappointed, but he did not care. He produced a few coins for the ale and left.

What was wrong with him? He was not prepared to give up women altogether just because he'd driven one special woman away. He certainly was not going to save himself in hopes of her return. But at the moment, tonight, when the rift with Grace was still a fresh wound, he could not stomach the usual routine of anonymous sex with whores or indifferent sex with
ton
trollops. That life held no satisfaction for him anymore.

Instead, he took a hackney to St. James's Street and alighted in front of White's. If he could not escape his troubles by wenching, perhaps a good game with high stakes would distract him. He entered the card room and saw Cazenove in conversation with Aldershot and Dewesbury. He caught his friend's eye, and Cazenove soon made his way to Rochdale's side.

"Egad, man, you look dreadful," Cazenove said.

"A life of dissipation will do that to a person."

Cazenove flagged down a waiter and ordered two brandies, then led Rochdale to a small alcove away from the card tables, where a pair of worn and comfortable leather armchairs had just been vacated by two gentlemen who were now joining one of the games.

"What has happened?" Cazenove asked once they had sat down. "You really do look bad, you know."

"You needn't remind me. The fact is, I feel as bad as I probably look. Grace found out about the wager."

"Good Lord. How?"

"I don't know how. She only mentioned hearing the rumor from one of her relatives."

Cazenove winced. "Dear God. She must have been furious."

Rochdale told him everything that Grace had said to him, every barb and arrow that had so neatly pierced him.

"When I publicly humiliated Serena Underwood," he said, "I felt not a twinge of guilt or shame."

"Because she wanted to trap you into marriage to give your name to another man's babe."

"Even so, I was the cause of her public ruin, and I didn't much care. I never lost a moment's sleep over it. But this time ... Well, if I had a heart, it would be broken. I cannot forgive myself for hurting Grace. She doesn't want to see me, so I have been thinking of leaving town. She lives here all year long, like you do, so I believe I will have to leave London permanently."

"Where will you go?"

"I have thought about returning to Bettisfont and putting it to rights. Maybe I can find an architect to design a new home, and I could live there and tend to my stables."

"You astonish me, Rochdale. I thought you never meant to go back to Bettisfont."

An image of the barmaid he'd rejected earlier flashed through Rochdale's mind, and he realized that was not the only part of his life he was now prepared to reject. "I am through with this life. It is time to go home."

And never to see Grace again.

* * *

Wilhelmina had advised Grace to attend as many
ton
events as she could manage, that it was important to be seen in public, enjoying herself, behaving as though nothing had happened. For there were surely more people than Margaret Bumfries who had heard the rumors of Rochdale's wager. If Grace behaved normally, Wilhelmina had said, her reputation was formidable enough to negate any gossip. And so that is what she had done. The Season was waning, with many people already gone for the summer, but there were always social events to attend at any time of the year.