Candice Hern (36 page)

Grace sat at her writing desk, threw back her head, and laughed for pure joy.

The newspaper announcements caused quite a stir. At the end of any Season, there were many betrothals and weddings, but none took the
ton
by storm quite like the betrothal of Lord Rochdale and Mrs. Grace Marlowe. The shocking news had become the juiciest topic among the gossips and scandalmongers. Rochdale could not enter a room, a shop, a tavern, or a club without being subjected to bawdy innuendo, backslapping, and endless rounds of toasts. He was teased, taunted, ridiculed, and congratulated.

It was deuced embarrassing.

"You are a man transformed," Cazenove told him when he heard the news. "The last time we met, you had that pathetic hangdog look about you. Now, I could swear you've grown younger. You look ... happy. Sadly, that is not a word I would ever have associated with you, my friend. I am glad things worked out so well." He chuckled. "This has been quite a Season for us, has it not? We both found love where it was least expected."

Cazenove was right. He did feel younger. He hadn't smiled so much since he was a boy in Suffolk. He supposed he must look as calf-eyed as Cazenove had looked when he'd fallen in love with the widow of his oldest friend. Rochdale ought to have been mortified, but it was too late in life to start worrying about what people thought of him.

Rochdale decided to buy Grace a horse as a wedding present. It would be a fine thing to ride in the park alongside her in the early hours of the morning, when few were about and they could let their mounts run fast and free. She'd told him she liked to ride, but hadn't done much riding since leaving Devon. No doubt the bishop had disapproved of women on horseback. But Rochdale could picture her in a smart habit with a feather in her hat, riding like the wind, and was determined she should have a proper mount.

He was leaning against a broad pillar, watching a sweet, high-headed little bay mare being put through her paces in the ring at Tattersall's, when he overheard a snippet of conversation behind him that caught his attention. He rolled his eyes as he heard his name mentioned and the words "leg-shackle," followed by loud hoots and guffaws. It really was getting tiresome, this interest in his private life. He kept himself hidden behind the pillar so that he would not be seen and be forced to join in a conversation in which he was the central joke. Couldn't a man be allowed to love a woman in peace without all the world making sport of him?

" ... wager with Sheane."

Rochdale's ears perked up. Damnation. He'd hoped rumors of that confounded wager had dried up.

"... a woman like that making a wager with an unsavory bastard like Sheane."

"God only knows what stakes she offered."

"They would have to have been ... interesting for Sheane to agree to them."

Ribald laughter filled the air. Rochdale ignored the mare and concentrated on the conversation. Something was wrong here. It did not seem they were talking about
his
wager. Had there been another?

"Since he lost, we'll probably never know."

"Wonder what she won?"

"Knowing the Widow Marlowe, she likely got a fat bank draft for her bloody charity. That's all she ever cares about, according to my wife."

"You're right, she probably landed a large donation, and brought Rochdale to his knees in the bargain."

More raucous laughter.

"Got to admire the woman's pluck, to wager she could get Rochdale to marry her."

What?

"Thought he'd have been a tough nut to crack."

"She must have thrown a bit of his own back at him, seduced him into marrying her."

"A churchwoman, at that."

"Churchwoman or Cyprian, they all get their way in the end."

The men wandered off and Rochdale heard no more. But he'd heard enough. Grace had made some kind of wager with Sheane that she could get Rochdale to marry her. And, of course, she had won.

Anger began to fizz in his stomach.

No wonder she had invited him to her home and had thrown herself at him. No wonder she had hinted so broadly that she wanted more than a love affair. But why? Why would she make such a wager? And with Sheane, of all people. And what
had
she won? Yet another wing to Marlowe House? A second story? A third?

Hell and damnation. She'd played him for a fool. He wasn't sure why, or what she had gained from it, but that whole scene in her drawing room began to make more sense. She wanted him to marry her to stave off rumor over his wager. And with some incentive or other from Sheane, she wanted the betrothal and wedding to take place right away. No doubt Sheane had given her a time limit, just as he had done with Rochdale. And she'd needed that announcement in the papers as proof that she'd won.

All at once he remembered how she'd insisted he not pull out during sex, so that there would be the risk of a child to further bind him to her.

Red-hot anger rushed through him, flooding his veins. Damn her to hell. Rochdale had thought she was different. But she was a user, just like all the others, manipulating him for her own ends. Just like every other woman he'd known. And he had been too blinded by love to see it.

His vision had cleared now. He saw her for what she was. And he wasn't sure he wanted what he saw. The woman he'd thought was so pure-hearted and good had made a fool of him. She had made him wallow in guilt, had made him grovel for forgiveness, had made him love her. All to save her reputation and to win something from Sheane.

In the end, she was no better than he was. But it was not too late to put an end to this game before he was hopelessly trapped.

* * *

It was too early in the day for champagne, but Grace did not care and neither did her friends. There were two betrothals to celebrate: Penelope's to Eustace Tolliver and Grace's to Rochdale.

The Merry Widows were gathered once again in Grace's drawing room, their favorite meeting place. A footman had uncorked two bottles of French champagne and poured it into fluted glasses with delicate air-twist stems. A maid placed trays of sweetmeats and pasties on nearby tables, but no one seemed interested in food. The mood was as bubbly as the wine, with everyone laughing and talking at once.

Wilhelmina rose to her feet and held up her glass, calling for silence. All eyes turned to her and waited.

"At the beginning of this Season," she said, "this group made a pact to become Merry Widows, to seek out lovers and enjoy the pleasures of the bedroom again. But that is not what the pact was really about. It was about taking life by the horns and living it to the fullest. You have all done that, and found love and happiness along the way. With one of you already happily married" — she nodded to Marianne — "and three of you soon to be wed, I believe it is time to offer a toast to the Merry Wives. May love and laughter and happiness rule your days, and may you continue to live full and rich lives with the men you love."

They all stood and raised their glasses.

"To the Merry Wives," Wilhelmina said, "and one last Merry Widow. To us."

They clinked their glasses together and repeated, "To us."

More laughter and talk filled the room as the afternoon grew into twilight and the champagne bottles emptied. Wedding plans and summer holidays dominated the conversation. Grace had no plans to speak of. "I cannot leave London for the time being," she said. "There is so much work yet to be done at Marlowe House and I feel obliged to stay on. You can't imagine what this additional money means for the future. When we began the season, I never dreamed such a windfall would come our way. We can now accomplish so much more than —"

"Yes, your goddamned widows and orphans are all you care about," a familiar male voice said. "How fortunate that yet another 'windfall' has come your way."

Grace's mouth dropped open at the sight of Rochdale standing in the drawing room doorway, a righteous fury blazing in his eyes. All conversation ceased as everyone stared at him in puzzlement.

"I am sorry, madam," the butler said, looking chagrined as he rushed up behind Rochdale. "I could not stop him. He dashed right past me before I could announce him."

"That is all right, Spurling." Grace kept her eyes warily on Rochdale. "His lordship is welcome at any time and need not be announced."

"I am about to wear out my welcome, madam," Rochdale said, "for I will not be returning."

What was he talking about? And why must he say such things in front of her friends? She grew so warm she knew she must be red from head to toe.

"What do you mean you will not be returning?" she asked. "You know you may always —"

"I am through with your games, madam. I have learned of your little wager with Sheane. Ah, yes, you may well blush, my dear. You almost caught me. You almost had me convinced that you were different. But you are not and I ought to have known better. It was a near thing, was it not? But we have both learned, before it was too late, how despicable the other is. We can walk away unscathed, more or less."

"But John —"

"You really had me fooled, you know. I thought you were so damned good. So sweet and innocent. But you manipulated me like a marionette, dancing on your strings. All to save your face and to win some new 'windfall' from Sheane."

"No, John, you have it wrong —"

"Thank God I found out just what sort of person you really are before you closed the final shackle on my leg. There will be no marriage, my dear. People may call me a jilt, but I've been called worse. And I won't bow to public pressure to marry a woman who has manipulated me so thoroughly. Good day to you. I will not darken your door again."

He turned to leave, but stopped and said, "If there is a babe, at least I know it is mine this time. Contact my man of affairs and I will have him send you another bank draft."

With that he was gone.

Grace was so astounded, so mortified, so heartbroken that she could barely breathe, much less move. How could he say such hateful things to her? And in front of her friends? Why wouldn't he let her explain? How could he break their betrothal when they loved each other?

Oh God oh God oh God. What was she going to do?

In the awkward silence of the room, her choked sob rang out like a clarion. Her friends grabbed her elbows as her knees gave way beneath her and she cried out in misery.

* * *

"My lord?"

Rochdale turned to the butler who had rushed to follow him out the front door. "What?"

"May I recommend that you leave by way of the mews?"

Rochdale glared at the man. He'd just ended his betrothal with a woman he'd thought was something special, and this pompous retainer was worried about which direction he would take?

"I will leave by whichever route I like, Spurling. If you are worried that I will be seen leaving your precious Mrs. Marlowe's residence, it is too late to worry about that. And I don't give a rat's ass who sees me."

"My lord, please." A plaintive note tinged his voice and a hint of what might have been despair flickered in his eyes. "Please go through the mews. Madam's section is clearly marked. I suggest you take a look inside."

"What the devil are you talking about, Spurling? I don't have the time or inclination to visit Madam's mews."

"Forgive my boldness, my lord, but if you look in on the mews, I believe you will understand what a big mistake you are making. Please do not make me say any more. It is not my place to have said this much. But I cannot bear to see Madam so miserable."

His curiosity piqued, Rochdale heaved a sigh and agreed to go round to the mews. The butler thanked him profusely and went back inside.

He left his own carriage waiting in front while he walked to the corner and turned into the mews. He walked the length of the horse stalls and carriage houses until he found the one marked "Marlowe." He walked inside and saw Grace's town carriage and tack on one side. Several stalls on the opposite side held the carriage horses. But there were five horses, not four. He slowly walked past each until he came to the last stall.

Good God. It was Serenity. She saw him and whinnied. He reached out to stoke her beautiful neck, so pleased to see her again. But what was she doing here? And all at once, he began to realize what mistake Spurling had been talking about.

"Can I 'elps yer, guv'ner?"

Rochdale turned to find a groom he hadn't noticed before, sitting on a stool near the carriage, polishing the brass fittings.

"Loverly, ain't she?" He nodded toward Serenity.

"Yes, she is. How does she come to be here?"

"Can't say as I know, 'xactly. Per'aps Madam bought her, though she never said so. The mare, she were brought over yesterday by one o' Lord Sheane's grooms. Said summink about winnin' 'er in a wager, though Madam don't gamble. An' this one's a bit of an 'igh flyer, I'm thinkin'. Not your av'rage 'ack."

No, Serenity was not your average hack. And Rochdale was not your average fool. He was the greatest fool that ever lived.

* * *

The sight that met him when he returned to Grace's drawing room, courtesy of Spurling, broke his heart. She was on the sofa between Wilhelmina and Marianne, curled up into a tight ball, her face buried in Wilhelmina's lap. Her shoulders shook as she cried softly. Wilhelmina stroked her hair and Marianne held one of her hands. The other two women had pulled their chairs close to the couch and were bent over Grace, so that she was cocooned by her friends.

His cruelty had been unspeakable. To have reduced that good woman to this ... it was beyond brutal. He ought to be flayed alive for doing this to her. What he ought to do was leave. He had caused her enough grief. But he loved her.

He stepped into the room. Wilhelmina noticed him first, and she practically snarled at him. But he moved closer, undeterred by the anger in her eyes. Marianne saw him and sucked in a sharp breath. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand to stop her. He wanted to talk to Grace and no one else. The others could ring a peal over his head later. Grace was his concern now.