Candice Hern (4 page)

Grace nodded.

Rochdale cocked his head at a slight angle, as though evaluating and confirming her foolishly unspoken agreement, blue eyes gazing at her with an intensity that set off another pricking of heat dancing all over her skin.

What was wrong with her?

He smiled and then bent to the business of removing first one glove and then the other, teasing the soft leather over her palm and fingers, stroking each new inch of bare skin with his knuckles. He placed the gloves neatly beside him on the tufted velvet bench — he'd tossed his own on the floor — then took one of her hands and covered it with both of his.

She could barely breathe.

He smiled again, white teeth flashing in the moonlight, bright against the darker olive of his skin. The carriage took a sudden bounce, causing a lock of black hair to fall over one eye. All that was needed was an earring and an eye patch and he'd have made the perfect pirate. Which was precisely the look he strove for, no doubt. Grace supposed certain women liked that hint of danger, the suggestion of uncivilized roughness and raw masculinity. She did not.

"There," he said as he turned her hand palm-up and began to caress the base of her thumb. "Isn't that better?"

No, it was much worse. She called upon long practice and forced her face and body to remain calm and composed, seemingly indifferent to his touch. She would die before she let him see how he affected her. Or to sense the confusion she felt over being affected at all. Grace was a good Christian woman who did not allow emotion or passion, especially physical passion, to rule her. The bishop had taught her the importance of self-control. He had sometimes preached about the evils of the flesh, and Grace had listened well, knowing in her heart that the admonition was directed at her.

"Tell me more about the improvements you plan for Marlowe House." The words were innocuous, even formal, but Rochdale's tone was intimate and he began doing things with her hand that were anything but innocuous.

Grace steeled herself against the unbidden reaction to his touch and began to relate all the details of the planned addition to the halfway house in Chelsea. The dry recital helped to distract her attention from the way he caressed her hand. Somewhat.

"You are a remarkable woman, Mrs. Marlowe, to give so much of your time and resources to those less fortunate. I confess I had no idea the charity balls you and your friends host had such tangible results."

He referred to the other trustees of the Benevolent Widows Fund. The four other women on the board, who privately called themselves the Merry Widows because of that silly pact, had become her closest friends. She wished they were here right now, sitting behind her, telling her how to cope with this awkward situation and this dangerous man.

"What did you think we did with the money?" she asked. "Kept it for ourselves?"

He smiled. "No, I knew you helped people with it. I just did not know how. To be perfectly honest, I never gave it a thought. I suppose I assumed you simply handed it out to the poor."

"That would be only a temporary solution," she said. "The wretched war is creating more widows every day, many of them with large families, left with nothing to live on when the meager funds from their soldier husbands stop coming in. At Marlowe House, we give them a temporary shelter until they can find employment or other means to survive. We even have an agency in house that helps to find positions for most of the women, in service or in trade, whatever is appropriate. If we did not help them, these poor women and their children would likely end up on the streets."

She pretended to ignore what he was doing with her hand, stroking each finger from base to tip, and drawing soft circles on her palm.

"Remarkable," he said. "I salute you, Mrs. Marlowe, for all the good you do."

He lifted her hand and his lips grazed ever so softly against the knuckles, then brushed butterfly kisses on each fingertip. Dear God. Every nerve in her body thrummed. This was the last straw. She jerked her hand away.

He gave a deep-throated chuckle, and Grace chided herself for allowing him to believe he had flustered her. She was
not
flustered. She was simply unaccustomed to having a man touch her like that, kiss her like that. She might be forgiven for the involuntary tingling deep in her belly, and lower, brought on by the sensation of his unexpectedly soft lips. This was something altogether new and she'd been unprepared, that was all. But it was surely wicked, so she made a greater effort to regain composure, for she'd be damned before allowing him to know what she felt. She would no doubt be damned in any case for having such wayward feelings.

No one had a more powerful resolve, however, than Grace Marlowe, and this horrid man would never get past it.

"You promised me your hand," he said in that velvety voice.

"I promised no such thing."

"But you did not refuse it to me when I gave you the chance, so I take that as sufficient approval." He reached over and took her hand again, easily accomplished since she had not tucked it out of sight, as she ought to have done. "There, you see? Nothing to be so anxious about. It is merely a hand, not your virtue. And I promise not to bite it off. I may take leave to kiss it now and then, however." And he did so.

Grace bit down on her back teeth so hard she felt the muscles of her neck grow rigid. At least she wasn't trembling. "I wish you would not," she murmured.

He lifted his head and arched an eyebrow, a decided twinkle in his scoundrel eyes. "Why? You like it. I can tell."

"I do
not
like it."

"Yes, you do. Oh, please do not give me that face, Mrs. Marlowe. All that frowning mars your perfect brow. And do not deny that you like to have your hand kissed. Of course you do. And why shouldn't you? It is not sinful, after all."

Yes, it was. It made her
feel
sinful — all that tingling, her skin prickling into gooseflesh — and he knew it. It was not at all proper. But what could one expect from such a man?

Grace hated being so aware of him. She certainly did not wish for the physical response he so expertly drew from her with the practiced skill of a seducer. She disliked him. Loathed him, even.

She must do something to divert his attention. Bore him. Disgust him. Anything to distract him from her hand, where he was once again drawing little circles on her palm. She ripped her attention from his wicked touch and concentrated on the sounds around her, allowing the ordinary chorus of travel to soothe her nearly shattered nerves. The steady rhythmic hoofbeats of the team of horses. The jangle and clank of the harnesses. Bits of dirt and gravel thrown up from the wheels and pinging against the window glass. The outside lamps swinging back and forth with a continual two-note screech. The rattle of the raised shades against the side windows. The occasional shout of Jenkins, who rode postilion on the lead horse. The constant creak and grind as the carriage swayed and bounced along the road.

Carriage travel was a noisy business, but it somehow quieted her busy brain and allowed her to think more clearly. And all at once, she was struck by an idea that was bound to send Lord Rochdale scooting as far away from her as possible.

"I have another project that occupies a great deal of my time," she said.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"I am editing the bishop's sermons."

That did it. Or almost. He did not scoot away, but he ceased drawing circles, those strangely intimate caresses, and stared at her.

"The bishop's sermons?"

"Yes. Not his parliamentary addresses, which are well documented, but his church sermons. They are most instructive."

Grace's late husband, Bishop Ignatius Marlowe, had been an important man and a great orator. As Bishop of London, he'd sat in the House of Lords as one of the Lords Spiritual, where he had famously addressed the issue of Catholic emancipation, and from his pulpit at St. Paul's he'd given spectacular and stirring sermons on the plight of the poor and the need for social reform. In fact, he'd often been called upon to speak at less official gatherings, where the general populace could benefit from his views. Grace had been so proud of him. But he'd also preached from the pulpits at several of the Royal Chapels, and those sermons were more personal. He had written them out before delivering them, and it was from those notes that Grace was putting together a collection of his work for publication.

It had so far been a project of immense personal satisfaction for Grace, something of value she could do for the bishop, in appreciation of all he'd done for her. The only negative aspect had been the reaction of his daughter, Margaret, who'd never liked Grace and made it clear she did not approve of her rummaging through the bishop's papers. Margaret was very protective of her father's memory, and Grace did her best to convince her stepdaughter of her good intentions. She feared, however, that she would never win the woman over, but did not allow that to deter her efforts in editing the sermons.

"I am sure they are full to bursting with useful instruction," Rochdale said in a sarcastic tone, and Grace could swear his eyes rolled to the ceiling briefly.

She smiled. "They are truly wonderful sermons that teach how to live one's life in the best possible way through selfless acts and the avoidance of sin. But I don't suppose such instruction would be of interest to you, my lord."

He uttered a disdainful snort. "You suppose correctly. Besides, the last thing any of us needs is another book of sermons from some old ... I beg your pardon, Mrs. Marlowe, but it should come as no surprise that I found your late husband to be a pompous old windbag."

"Lord Rochdale! I will not have you speak of the bishop in such terms to me."

He waved away her objection ... with the hand that was no longer holding hers. She had won that battle, at least.

"I am certain he was a good man and a saintly husband," he said, "but his views on reform were naïve and impractical and altogether too self-righteous."

"What do you m—"

"He loved to talk about helping the poor, but he had a very narrow definition of the
deserving
poor. His implication was always that most of them were lazy and stupid."

"No, he—"

"If I had to hear one more harangue on how gin was the cause of all misery in London and the manufacture of it should be outlawed, I swear I would have to run screaming through the streets."

"But you have to admit that —"

"If only he'd put more of his persuasive powers into relieving some of the miserable conditions that drive those poor souls to gin, then I'd have had more respect for him. As it was ... Oh, confound it all. I beg your pardon. He was your husband, and I should keep my opinions to myself."

"Yes, perhaps you should," Grace said sharply. She had never heard anyone speak of the bishop with anything other than admiration and respect. It shocked her to hear Lord Rochdale, of all people, take him to task. And she was certain it had not been said to deliberately upset her, as all his other actions had been. He'd really meant it. To think that anyone could have such an opinion of Bishop Marlowe shook her totally off balance.

"I do apologize." He took her hand again and his voice returned to the more usual deep timbre, spilling over her as thick as honey. "That was rude of me. And quite spoiled my mood. Let us have no more talk of the bishop and his reforms." He began to softly caress her fingers again.

"But I never mentioned his ideas of reform," Grace said, determined to hang on to the one subject that seemed to take his mind off seduction. "I am working on his church sermons, which are quite different. He liked to take a verse from Proverbs, for example, and build a whole sermon around its lesson. Why, just yesterday I found his notes for a sermon based on the proverb 'Pride goeth before a fall.' It is most enlightening."

"And wrong, if that's how he quoted it."

Grace furrowed her brow. "What do you mean, wrong? Proverbs sixteen, verse eighteen. 'Pride goeth before a fall.'"

* * *

Rochdale smiled as he realized he'd found the opening he needed. "I say you are wrong."

She gave a little chortle of laughter. That unexpectedly dark, husky laugh again that made him want to lay her down on the bench and make mad love to her. He would have to be careful of that laugh. It was a sound that could get under a man's skin and melt it right off. Pure seduction, and she did not even know it.

"As if a man like you," she said, "would have even a passing acquaintance with the Bible."

"I am willing to wager that you have the verse wrong."

"And I am willing to wager that it is correct."

He smiled. "Excellent. We shall have a proper wager, then."

She eyed him warily. "I have heard about men like you, chronic gamblers who will wager on anything and everything."

He shrugged. "I will not deny that I enjoy a good game. And a wager will always make a horse race or a cockfight or a mill all the more enjoyable. A bit of risk now and then adds a hint of piquancy to the everyday humdrum of life. You should do it more often. Taking risks. Stepping outside the strict boundaries of what you think is expected of you. This will be a good start for you. A small wager over a Bible verse."

"But there is little risk when I know I am right."

Better and better. This would be as easy as the turn of a card. "Since you are so confident, then you will have no objection if I set the stakes."

"This is one wager you will not win, sir. I am a churchwoman. A vicar's daughter and a bishop's widow. I know my Bible. In fact, set the stakes high, for when I win I shall use the money to help build my new wing at Marlowe House."

"You agree that I may set the stakes?"

"So I have just said. Name any amount."

"All right, then. But I wasn't thinking of money. I was thinking of ... a kiss."

Her smoky eyes widened and her cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. Lord, she was trying so hard to pretend not to be affected by him, and had no idea how delightfully she failed.

She bristled into speech. "You have already kissed my hand, Lord Rochdale. That was quite enough."