Candice Hern (7 page)

"Aloud, if you please."

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and read: "'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.'"

He grinned broadly. "I believe I have won our wager, Mrs. Marlowe. Wouldn't you agree? I have come to collect my winnings."

He stepped toward her, and she backed away, putting both hands in front of her, palms out, in a halting gesture. "No!"

Rochdale arched an eyebrow. "You will not honor your bargain, ma'am? A good Christian woman like you, defaulting on a promise?
Tsk
,
tsk
, Mrs. Marlowe. You shock me."

She waved her hands at him, still backing away toward the door. "No, no. I ... I will honor my promise. You were right about the verse."

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like
Damn you
. He chuckled. The bishop's widow was piqued into blasphemy. He reached for her again. "Then you must allow me to have my prize."

"No, not now." She was trying her damnedest to remain cool and aloof, but Rochdale saw the agitation beneath the calm. "I have guests. I cannot ... cannot be kissing you now and return to them looking ..."

"Like you'd been kissed?"

"Yes! You unnerve me, Lord Rochdale, as I'm sure you know. I will settle our wager, since I am honor-bound to do so, but not now, please. It is a meeting of the trustees of the Benevolent Widows Fund and I must get back to them. We have much to do to prepare for our ball next week. It is the final charity ball of the season, our most important event. You must excuse me, my lord. I must go."

Aha. The other charity widows were there. Rochdale had learned, quite by accident, about a little pact among those ladies. His friend Cazenove had been in his cups one night, furious with Marianne Nesbitt for refusing his initial marriage proposal. The fellow became so foxed he probably had no idea he had let so many secrets drop. The most intriguing one involved a conversation he'd overheard at Ossing Park that indicated the charity widows had more on their minds than fund-raising. It seemed the ladies were determined not to re-marry, and instead had set out to find the best lovers in town, and then to share every private detail with one another.

Cazenove had been livid that he was to be a pleasure toy and not a husband. Eventually, however, Marianne had relented and they were now married. Lady Somerfield had singled out Thayne, who had not been thrilled to learn the truth from Rochdale, to discover he'd been used and his sexual technique discussed with the other widows. Lady Gosforth was toying with Eustace Tolliver, and Rochdale had no inclination to warn the man, whom he did not like. And Wilhelmina, who used to toss around her favors with abandon before she became a duchess, had grown more circumspect, and more selective, and seemed to be angling after Ingleby.

And then there was Grace Marlowe. Rochdale was certain she had not taken a lover — yet — but her association with the other woman meant she'd at least listened to tales of their sexual games. Perhaps she was even titillated by them. Enough so that when an opportunity to have a lover for her own presented itself, she just might be open to the idea.

Had she already told them about last night and that blistering kiss in the carriage?

"I will not keep you from your friends," he said. "But before I go, I should like to know when I can expect to get my kiss. When shall it be?"

Her brow furrowed even as a blush rose in her cheeks. Lord, she was marvelous. So deliciously flustered and yet so proud. Rochdale hadn't had this much fun in years.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"I do."

Still frowning, she lifted her eyes to his. "You do?"

"I believe I will collect my winnings at your ball next week. That is, if I am invited. I promise a hefty contribution if I am."

"Yes, yes, of course you will receive an invitation. And your contribution will be most welcome."

"And so will your kiss."

She heaved an exasperated sigh. "Lord Rochdale, please. I am a respectable woman. I lost my head last night when you took me by surprise, which was wicked of you. But I ought to have been stronger, and I deeply regret what happened. I have promised one more kiss. One, and no more. But, by heaven, sir, you will not make a public spectacle of me at my own charity ball."

His eyes widened in mock outrage. "My dear Mrs. Marlowe, you wound me. I give you my word that no one will see it or even know of it, unless
you
tell them. As I have told you before, I am the soul of discretion. I would not dream of importuning you in public."

"Thank you."

He had not lied. For once, Rochdale truly did intend to maintain discretion. He would lose the wager for sure, would lose his beloved Serenity, if even a hint of public scandal touched the Bishop's Widow. She would thoroughly and irrevocably cast him out before he so much as removed her garter.

"But I
will
collect my kiss," he said. "You may be sure of it."

She rolled her eyes. "I have no doubt you will, my lord."

"It is to be a masquerade ball, is it not?"

"Yes. At Doncaster House."

"I trust you will not be so disguised that I won't recognize you."

"That is unlikely."

"What costume will you wear? Or is that a secret?"

"I haven't decided yet."

He grinned. "No doubt it will be dreadfully proper, tight-laced, and buttoned up to your chin, not at all provocative or revealing. Well, I don't care because I know the woman beneath the mask. And I can't wait to have her in my arms again."

Grace stood to one side of the drawing room doors, so that no one inside could see her, and took several slow, deep breaths, blowing each breath out through her lips. At the same time, she recited the Lord's Prayer in her head. The breathing exercise always helped her to collect her composure whenever it threatened to slip; the prayer helped to refocus her thoughts away from whatever agitated her at the moment. It was a trick the bishop had taught her, one he often practiced before addressing Parliament.

Both actions eventually brought a small measure of peace to Grace, whose nerves had once again been frazzled by that dreadful man. She almost wished she had let him kiss her and get it over with. At least that way she would not have to see him again. He would be out of her life.

Instead, he had given her a week to fret over it, to imagine it, to lose sleep over it, to punish herself for anticipating it. Lord Rochdale was altogether too clever. He'd known exactly how it would be for her during the next week — the agony of delay, the dread of anticipation. And he would kiss her at an event for which she was a patroness and where she was obliged to remain for the entire evening. She could not make a scene. She could not escape to her own home. She would be trapped there, forced to deal with the pre-kiss anxiety as well as the post-kiss trauma. It would be an unbearable evening from start to finish. And he knew it. Too clever by half. And she had played right into his hand.

How he must be laughing at her.

She gave herself a mental shake. If she did not get such thoughts out of her head, she would have to recite another prayer or two. Grace would be ashamed for her friends to see that she was disturbed and perhaps guess the cause.

It was not actually a meeting of the trustees, as she had told Rochdale. Not a business meeting, anyway. That had occurred the day before. Today it was simply a gathering of friends. Wilhelmina and Marianne and Penelope had come to learn the outcome of yesterday's pursuit of Emily. They were concerned for Beatrice and her niece. The friends met here at Grace's Portland Place home for regular business meetings of the Benevolent Widows Fund trustees. More often than not, however, the serious meetings descended into a gathering of the Merry Widows, in which all manner of intimate secrets were shared. And so Portland Place also became the first place they gathered when one of them was in trouble.

Grace had not been surprised to see her friends, had even expected them, and had tea and cakes brought in while she related the events of the evening. Most of them, anyway. She had not yet reached the end of the tale when a maid had brought Rochdale's card. Grace had pocketed the card without mentioning his name and excused herself. And so now the ladies would want to hear more details of last night's adventure, which would place Grace at the center of attention. If she appeared the least bit unsettled, they would notice and question her. So she breathed and prayed until she was the embodiment of serenity.

Head held high, she entered the drawing room. It was her favorite room in the house, and its elegant beauty was soothing to both the eye and the soul. The walls were covered in butter yellow damask. Picture niches and door cases were carved with neoclassical ornaments picked out in pale pinks and cool blues, echoing the same color scheme of the elaborate plasterwork ceiling. Robert Adam's style was not so much in favor at the moment — he was considered old-fashioned — but Grace loved his work, and was pleased that the original owner, from whom the bishop had bought the house, had passed along all of Adam's watercolor designs for the ceilings and carpets. Those watercolors were now framed and hung along an upstairs corridor.

Marianne and Wilhelmina sat together on a French sofa speaking quietly. They both looked up at Grace's entrance. Penelope stood gazing out one of the tall windows overlooking the street. Short of stature but big of personality, Lady Gosforth was the most outspoken of the group, always airing her opinions without artifice or restraint. She was a curvaceous woman with a heart-shaped face framed in glossy chestnut curls that caught the glint of sunlight slanting through the windows. She turned and was the first to speak.

"Was that Rochdale? A man who looked suspiciously like him just left your house, Grace."

Oh, dear
.

"Rochdale?" Marianne stared at Grace in puzzlement. "Here?"

Three pairs of eyes pinned her to the spot. But Grace was calm and collected. She could handle this.

"Yes, that was Lord Rochdale."

"Grace Marlowe! You cheeky wee devil." Penelope's clear blue eyes flashed with astonished amusement. "What was the worst rake in London doing
here
?"

"I suspect there is more to last night's episode than Grace has yet told us." Wilhelmina, a beautiful golden-haired woman who would never reveal her true age, which Grace guessed to be in the early forties, was the most even-tempered and unflappable of the Merry Widows. She had more experience of the world than the rest of them. She'd made her way up from the humblest beginnings, as a blacksmith's daughter, to become the lover of a series of high-ranking noblemen said to include the Prince of Wales himself. Her last protector, the Duke of Hertford, had truly loved her, and when his wife had died, he'd shocked Society by marrying Wilhelmina. She was now a widow, the dowager Duchess of Hertford, exceedingly rich but only marginally acceptable. Grace adored her, as did all the Merry Widows. She was everything they were not, and wise in the ways of love.

And she had a keen eye for seeing what others sometimes missed.

Grace sighed. She had debated over how much, if anything, she should tell her friends. She had been tempted to remain as silent as an oyster, revealing nothing. That was impossible now that Rochdale had been seen. She would have to offer some explanation. But she was not prepared to confess everything.

"Yes, there is more to tell." She busied herself with adding fresh hot water to the teapot from a silver urn perched on an elegant stand. She could certainly do with a restorative cup of tea. "When everyone was ready to leave, I gave up my seat in the carriage to Emily, who could not be pried from Mr. Burnett's arm. I daresay we shall be hearing the banns read for those two any day now."

"That is wonderful news!" Marianne, a recent bride herself, was very romantic of late. There was such happiness in her brown eyes that one could hardly blame her for becoming sentimental now and then. "Mr. Burnett was so clearly in love with Emily. I am so glad to hear he was able to win the attention of that silly girl at long last. That will certainly go far toward erasing the scandal her wretched mother created over Thayne. Bravo, Mr. Burnett!"

Penelope groaned. "Pull your head out of the clouds for a moment, Marianne. The more important piece of information is that Grace gave up her seat in the carriage."

Marianne looked puzzled for a moment, then understanding dawned. "Oh!"

Penelope frowned. "You were left alone with that man, weren't you, Grace?"

"Tell us what happened," Wilhelmina said.

"Did he importune you?" Penelope asked.

"No, of course not." A blush heated her cheeks and Grace hoped her friends would think it was because of the nature of the question and not because the answer was a lie. It was not entirely a lie. Grace had allowed that kiss, after all. She had to take some of the blame, if only for being a naïve pawn to Rochdale's deliberate manipulation. "He simply brought me home in his carriage. That is why he called just now. To insure that I was all right, considering all that had happened."

"And are you?" Wilhelmina asked, no doubt reading more into those flushed cheeks than Grace was willing to admit.

"Yes, I am fine."

"After two or more hours alone in a carriage with Rochdale?" Penelope shook her head in disbelief, causing the curls about her face to bounce. "You are a stronger woman than I, Grace. He is one of those exasperating men who makes one want to either throttle him or make love to him. Well, most women, anyway. Not you, Grace. I know you do not approve of such things. Although I would not be surprised if you throttled him. You are certain he behaved himself?"

"Yes, Penelope. Nothing untoward happened." More lies. A few hours with Rochdale and Grace had fallen into every sort of wickedness. She poured fresh tea for Marianne and Wilhelmina. Penelope declined another cup. Grace poured herself a cup, sat down, and took a long, calming swallow.

"It had to have been an awkward situation for you," Marianne said. "I remember at our wedding he seemed to make you uneasy."