Candice Hern (34 page)

A week after the confrontation with Rochdale, Grace accepted an invitation to a card party at Lord and Lady Raymond's grand town house on Park Lane. There were several rooms set up with card tables, and several other rooms where various refreshments were served. After a long game of whist, partnered by old Lord Hextable, who was deaf as a post and shouted commentary to every play, Grace made her way to one of the tearooms, eager to escape the old man. It was called a tearoom, though every sort of beverage was served. Most people seemed to be drinking wine or sherry, but Grace ordered tea and made her way to a small table in the corner. After the noisy card room, she relished a few quiet moments alone. Once she'd had a restorative cup of Bohea, she would return to one of the card rooms and be sociable again.

"Well, if it ain't my benefactress."

Grace looked up from stirring her tea to find Lord Sheane, obviously foxed, or nearly so, hovering over her table. He was the very last person she wanted to see. She made an effort to compose herself, for she was of half a mind to box the scoundrel's ears.

"I do not mean to be rude," she said, "but I would prefer to be alone, Lord Sheane. I have no wish to speak to a man who would make me the object of a scandalous wager." She returned her attention to stirring her tea.

The man ignored her dismissal and sat down opposite her. "Ah, but you must allow me to thank you, Mrs. Marlowe. I
knew
your defenses were too solid to be breached. A capital woman, you are. Old Marlowe would be proud. Easiest win I ever had. And what a prize! I'm sure to win the Goodwood Cup with Serenity. The finest jewel in the crown of my stables. Exceptional horse, Serenity."

She did not understand. "You won Lord Rochdale's mare?"

"Yes. Did you not know Rochdale had staked Serenity against your virtue? Ha! I knew he could not win. And now that sleek little mare is housed in the stall next to Albion, the gelding Rochdale hoped to win off me. Ha! The fool. Easiest win ever, I tell you. Saw the mare race in Newmarket last week. Prettiest finish you ever saw. Caught Rochdale there with one of his doxies. Now that I think on it, he must have already given up on you. Two days later, he delivered the mare to my stables, saying I'd won. Knew I would, of course. Couldn't break you, could he?"

Grace stopped listening as he went on in a slightly slurred monologue about how his instincts about her had been right, how she was the most stiff-rumped woman in town, and on and on. While he disparaged her to her face, Grace sat dumbstruck. No wonder she had heard no gossip about being Rochdale's lover. He had conceded the wager, telling Lord Sheane he had not seduced her. And had sacrificed his favorite horse in the bargain.

Dear heaven, he had done that for her.

Grace had seen how much that horse meant to him. She could not believe he had given her up. Could it possibly mean that he cared for her, after all, more than the horse? She almost groaned aloud. Oh, the dear man. The very, very dear man.

While Lord Sheane prattled and chuckled over his good fortune, Grace realized that she had wronged Rochdale by accusing him of not caring for anything or anyone. He
did
care. Enough to pretend he had not won the wager, enough to allow her reputation to remain unsullied, enough to lose his best horse to the cretin who sat opposite her. And he had already done so before she had confronted him. If she understood Lord Sheane correctly, Rochdale had come to him the day after their return from Newmarket. Two days before she had stormed into his house and said hateful things to him.

How could she not love a man who would do something so selfless? Of course, she could not entirely forgive him for accepting Lord Sheane's odious wager in the first place. But in the balance, Rochdale had done more good than bad in this silly business, and Grace had come out the biggest winner of all. Not only had he taught her all the pleasure of the bedroom, but he had also realized how badly she needed to step out of her role as the Bishop's Widow and become ... her own woman. He had helped her to become that new woman, and she would be forever grateful to him for it.

More than that, as her head swam with images and recollections of every aspect of Rochdale, Grace realized that she loved him desperately and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. For no other man would ever know her, the true Grace Marlowe, as well as he did. And, God help her, she wanted to wake up in his arms every morning of her life.

But would he have her? Did he want her?

Grace had not considered marrying again, had not wanted it. Like her friends, she was fond of the independence widowhood brought her, the sheer joyous freedom of being in no one's power but her own. Yet here she was, contemplating marriage, if he'd have her, to a man who would bring her a new and perhaps more uncomfortable identity than she'd known as the Bishop's Widow. To willingly allow this reckless, unscrupulous, dangerous man to have power over her — over her fortune, over her future, over her body — would have been unthinkable mere weeks ago. Yet she thought of it now with a yearning suddenly so consuming that it made her dizzy. Could she truly spend a lifetime with such a shameless, foolhardy man? Was she really ready to give up her neat, organized, highly civilized way of life and let this audacious adventurer wreak havoc with it?

God help her, she was. And she would, if she could convince him. And all at once, a plan took shape in her head. A plan rather stunning in its symmetry. And as daring as anything she'd ever done in her life. But the new Grace Marlowe was ready to be a little foolhardy herself.

"Lord Sheane?" She interrupted his triumphant chortling over his victory, and he raised his thick eyebrows in question. "You are obviously a man who enjoys a good wager."

He beamed. "Indeed I do. Can't resist a bet. Never could."

"I should like to offer a wager to you."

The man's eyes bulged like two boiled eggs. "A wager? With
you
?"

"If you please."

"But I did not think you approved of such things. The good Christian widow and all that."

"Nevertheless, I wish to propose a wager. But it must be between you and me only, with no one else to know about it. I will have your word on that before anything else."

"Yes, yes, I promise. Just between you and me. Won't tell a soul."

"All right, then. Here is what I propose. I will bet you that I can get Lord Rochdale to marry me."

"
Marry you
?"

"Please, my lord, keep your voice down. I do not wish for
this
wager to become public. If I can get Lord Rochdale to marry me, I want the horse, Serenity."

Lord Sheane threw his head back and laughed. "You cunning little vixen. You wanted him to seduce you, but wouldn't uncross your legs without marriage banns. And now you think you can get him to accept a leg shackle just to get you in his bed? Ha! Another easy win. Rochdale will never marry. Not you or any woman. It is not in his nature. And even if it was, he prefers his highflyers, not a prudish do-gooder. But you think you can get him to the altar, do you?"

"That is the wager I am offering."

He cocked an eyebrow. "An intriguing wager, to be sure. But only if the stakes are more interesting than a horse."

"What do you propose?"

"Perhaps you have heard that I am an amateur painter."

"No, I had not heard."

"Well, I am. It is one of my greatest pleasures. If I win the wager, I want you to pose for me."

"With pleasure." She held out her hand. "We have ourselves a wager. Let us shake hands on it."

"I should first, I think, make it clear exactly what sort of paintings we are talking about. I paint nudes, Mrs. Marlowe. In various provocative poses."

Grace's cheeks flamed. Dear God, he wanted her to pose for him in the nude? To bare her body to this disgusting man? How could he even ask such a thing of her? But she wanted to win Serenity for Rochdale. And she was determined to convince Rochdale to marry her.

"All right," she said. "I stake a pose for one painting against Serenity that I can get Lord Rochdale to agree to marry me. An announcement of our betrothal in the papers will be proof of my success. Are we agreed?"

Lord Sheane sneered, but took the hand she held out and shook it. "We are agreed. Very sure of yourself, ain't you?"

"Very hopeful, my lord."

"Lord Rochdale."

He gave a start at the familiar voice as he walked down Bond Street toward Gentleman Jackson's and looked up to find Grace's face peeking out from the window of her carriage. The coachman held the horses dancing in place and a liveried footman stood stiff and straight on the rear platform. Grace's gloved hand rested on the window edge. Her eyes were hidden in the shadow of her bonnet's deep poke, so he could not read her face. Pleased to see her, but more than a little wary, he approached the carriage.

"Mrs. Marlowe," he said, taking his cue from her formal use of his title. He touched the brim of his hat and dipped his head in greeting. When he looked up, he was awarded with a better view of her, and a rush of excitement flowed through his blood at the sight of a sort of half smile. He'd expected, if anything, a cool, expressionless face, or even a scowl. But perhaps it was merely a public show of politeness meant for any passersby who might see her, and not directed specifically at him.

A thousand explanations flew through his head at this unexpected encounter. Not so many days ago, she had never wanted to set eyes upon him again, and he had done his best to stay out of her orbit. Yet here she was, initiating an indiscreet conversation in the middle of Bond Street, where genteel ladies seldom ventured alone, and where the only women ever seen to hail a gentleman from a carriage were Cyprians and demireps.

"I wonder, my lord, if I could prevail upon you to call on me later this afternoon?"

His heart lurched in his chest. She wanted to see him again? She wanted him actually to come to her house? His complete astonishment tied his tongue in knots and precluded an immediate response. He felt stupidly dumbstruck for an instant and could only stare.

"I have something I need to speak with you about," she continued.

Mentally shaking himself out of the idiotic stupor, he found his voice and said, "I would be pleased to call upon you, ma'am. But I confess I am surprised at the invitation. I was under the impression you never again wanted me to darken your doorstep."

"I was precipitous in my anger, my lord. As it happens, there is some unfinished business between us that I should like to clear up. I shall be at home at four o'clock. Would it be convenient for you to drop by at that time?"

Perhaps she wanted to peel another layer of flesh off his hide. Perhaps she'd thought of ten more reasons why he was a scoundrel and wanted to fling them in his face. He did not care. She had invited him for what he assumed would be a private visit, and that was all that mattered. He had been given a brief reprieve and he was going to make the best of it.

Putting every ounce of humility he could muster into his voice, he said, "I would be honored, ma'am."
"Excellent. Until four o'clock, then." Giving nothing away in her face, no hint as to whether it was to be a reconciliation or another confrontation, she disappeared back inside the carriage, gave a signal to the driver, and was gone.

Rochdale stood there for a moment, in the middle of Bond Street, astounded at what had just taken place. Could she possibly want him back in her life after all? Was it even imaginable that she might actually forgive him? He pushed aside all other less agreeable reasons for the invitation and allowed his hopes to take flight. Regardless of her motives, he'd been given another chance with her, and by God, he was not going to bungle it this time. He would swallow every vestige of foolish pride that had kept him so guarded for so long. He would lay his pitiful heart and his soiled life at her feet, and beg her to let him love her.

"Ye gonna stand there in th' middle o' th' bloody street all day, ye beef-witted cawker, or ye gonna move your bloomin' arse?"

The angry bellow was followed by laughter from passersby, and Rochdale dragged his head out of the clouds to find a heavily laden dray bearing down upon him. He quickly stepped out of the street and onto the pavement, waving an apology at the driver.

"Damned fool," the man muttered as he drove past.

The fellow's assessment was bang on the mark. Rochdale had been a damned fool for too long. Full of pride, cynical suspicions, and yes, cowardice. Grace had been right about that. Afraid that all women were like the few bad apples he'd encountered early in life, he'd been afraid to trust any woman. Afraid of being hurt or disappointed again. So he'd become a cold, heartless pleasure seeker who let no one woman worm her way into his heart or his life.

Until Grace. Putting all his armor aside, he was willing to bare his soul to her. If she threw it on the ground and trampled it into dust, so be it. At least he had to try. This might be the one chance he had at true happiness. The kind his friend Cazenove had with Marianne. He was ready, for once in his life, to risk pain and humiliation in the faint hope that she might be willing to be a part of his life. For, all things considered, his life would be forever empty without her in it.

Instead of going in to spar with Gentleman Jackson, as planned, Rochdale turned and walked in the opposite direction, where a particularly exclusive jeweler had his premises.

Rochdale spent the rest of the day in preparation for his visit to Portland Place. He shaved and splashed his face with bay rum. He dressed with care in a bottle green top coat, gold-striped waistcoat with stand-up collar, fitted pantaloons, and high Hessian boots with leather tassels, polished to a high gleam. And he practiced a dozen different speeches.

Filled with a mixture of excitement and anxiety, he arrived at Grace's door at the stroke of four o'clock. A footman took his hat, gloves, and walking stick, and Spurling, the stone-faced butler, led him upstairs to the drawing room. He opened the double doors and Rochdale saw Grace rise from a chair. She was dressed simply but with her usual elegant flair, in a dress of printed muslin with long full sleeves tied in bows at the wrist. The low neckline had been left bare, with no shirt or tucker of lace to hide her bosom. His heart flipped over at the sight of her. And she was smiling! He could no longer quell the hope that cavorted in his breast. Rochdale almost rushed to her side, but the punctilious butler would not allow him to pass.
"Lord Rochdale," he announced, as though she couldn't see for herself who it was. Only when she had given a slight nod did the stiff fellow move aside and let him walk into the room.