Candice Hern (8 page)

Grace and Rochdale had been the only witnesses to Marianne and Adam's wedding. He had leered and grinned and generally made what ought to have been a joyful day a misery for her. Marianne had been beaming with such happiness, Grace had assumed she was oblivious to Rochdale's behavior. But that day paled beside what had occurred last night.

"It was not a comfortable journey, to be sure. He is a rather ... unsettling person." A greater understatement had never been uttered.

Penelope laughed. "That he is. And devilish handsome, of course. Too bad he's a terrible scoundrel. You know how much I'd love to see you let down your hair, so to speak. To truly be a
merry
widow. But he's not the man for you, Grace. He would chew you up and spit you out without a backward glance.
And
he wouldn't care who knew of it. You are fortunate that he did not try to seduce you in that carriage. It would be just the sort of thing he would do."

"I believe Lord Rochdale can be a gentleman when he wants to be," Marianne said. "Or so Adam keeps telling me." Her husband, Adam Cazenove, was one of Lord Rochdale's closest friends. It had been through Adam's help that they'd been able to track down Emily to Rochdale's Twickenham villa. "And it sounds as though he did not touch poor Emily after all, so perhaps he is not always the blackguard everyone believes him to be."

"Oh, he is a blackguard, all right," Penelope said. "I was there at the Littleworth ball when he turned his back on poor Serena Underwood and walked away."

"So was I," Grace said. It was a troublesome memory that had haunted her for the last two days.

Penelope shuddered. "It was horrid, Marianne. You would not be so willing to give him the benefit of the doubt if you'd been there. Serena was hysterical, pleading with him to marry her because he'd ruined her. I will never forget it. The room was silent as a tomb. No one spoke, of course, not wanting to miss a single moment of such a juicy scandal. The music stopped. Everyone was watching. And Rochdale, calm as you please, peeled her arms from around his neck and said, 'Never.' Poor Serena sank into a collapse while he simply turned and walked out of the room. Dreadful man!"

"Serena went into seclusion the next day," Grace said, "and I cannot blame her. I certainly do not condone her behavior in allowing him to seduce her and then letting everyone know of it. But he was the worse villain for abandoning her in so ungentlemanly, and so publicly, a manner. Her reputation was destroyed utterly. I do not believe she has been seen in town since that night."

"She went into seclusion to have his child," Penelope said.

"I had heard that rumor," Grace said.

"I am somewhat acquainted with Lord Rochdale." Wilhelmina cast them each a look that said she would not be questioned on that topic. "He is not a monster. I daresay he has a side to this story that we will never know. He should not be so severely judged without knowing all the facts." Her soft voice held a note of reproof. She hated gossip, and for good reason. For much of her life, she'd been the subject of it.

"Quite so," Marianne said. "Adam believes Rochdale enjoys the villainous stories about himself and so does nothing to contradict them. His bad reputation amuses him. Even Adam is never sure what is true and what is apocryphal."

"Many woman are drawn to danger," Wilhelmina said, "and Rochdale knows it, which is why he cultivates the rakish image. A man who cares for nothing but his own pleasure, who is liable to do something frightfully bad at any moment, is exciting to certain women. They enjoy the risk he brings to a liaison."

Grace remembered his words to her:
A bit of risk now and then adds a hint of piquancy to the everyday humdrum of life. You should do it more often.

Not likely. Look what happened to Serena Underwood for taking a risk. Not to mention the unnaturally wicked direction of her own thoughts after risking one carriage ride with him.

"Where there is smoke, there is fire," Penelope said. "Rochdale may enjoy being bad because he
is
bad. In any case, I am sorry, Grace, that you were forced to sit beside him in a cramped vehicle for two whole hours."

"I am, too, my dear," Wilhelmina said. "Rochdale may not be the ogre Penelope paints him to be, but you must be careful. He is certainly warm-blooded where women are concerned, but he can be cold-hearted, too. I don't think he likes women very much."

Grace uttered a very unladylike snort. "I rather thought he liked them too much." Even prim and prudish bishops' widows.

"He likes to take his pleasure from women, but that's as far as it goes with Rochdale. He has a kind of disdain for women, I think. He cares for no one but himself, so take care –"

Just then a housemaid entered with Rochdale's carnations arranged in a crystal vase. "Where would you like me to place the gentleman's flowers, ma'am?"

Grace's teacup rattled in its saucer. Damn the man. She rose quickly and took the vase from the maid. "I'll take care of it, Millie. You may go."

The girl bobbed a curtsy and left. Grace turned her back to her friends for fear they would see the embarrassment in her face and misunderstand it. Or worse, understand it completely. She walked to a table on the far side of the room and placed the flowers upon it.

"Good heavens," Penelope said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Are those from Rochdale?"

Grace did not turn around, but nodded her head in silence as she pretended to rearrange the ivy around the carnations.

"Well, well, well. Isn't this interesting?" Wilhelmina began to chuckle softly, then added, "Pink carnations.
And
ivy. A fascinating message."

Grace whirled around. "What message?"

"My dear Grace," Penelope said, "did your mother never teach you about the language of flowers?"

Grace shook her head. She had no idea what they were talking about, but was very afraid she was not going to like it.

Wilhelmina flashed a broad smile. "Pink carnations mean 'I'll never forget you.' And ivy means the sender is anxious to please you. I do believe you have made quite an impression on that cold-hearted, self-absorbed libertine, my dear."

* * *

"What do you think of that little dappled gray mare?"

Rochdale tore his gaze from an impressive chestnut gelding to watch the horse Adam Cazenove indicated as she was being put through her paces in the circular enclosure at Tattersall's. He wasn't fond of dappled grays, as a rule. Too showy and not enough performance, and by the time they developed their highly decorative coloring, many of them were past their prime.

This one appeared relatively youthful, however, maybe five or six years old, a nice little Arab with a lot more life in her yet. She had the small head, dished face, and thin muzzle typical of her breed, and moved with elegance and spirit.

"She has a decent gait," he said. "Good trotting action. Her quarters are well-muscled and nicely rounded. Hard, clean legs. A bit too low-bodied for speed, though."

Cazenove laughed. "I'm not thinking of racing her. I'm looking for a mount for Marianne. A belated wedding present."

The rider dismounted and began walking the gray toward the main enclosure with its famous cupola, where the horse would be auctioned. He stopped along the way so potential buyers could examine her more closely. When she stopped beside Cazenove, she shook herself all over and blew through her nostrils. She had not liked all the poking and prodding and lifting of her feet and checking of her teeth. She thought herself above such indignities, poor girl. While Cazenove made his own inspection, Rochdale scratched her behind the ears, causing her to snort with pleasure.

"I think she's a beauty," his friend said. "Head light and lean and well set on, withers high and long. Seems good-tempered. I'm inclined to believe she will do very nicely."

"Looking to bid on her, Rochdale?" A familiar voice interrupted their conversation.

Rochdale looked over the mare's nose to see Lord Sheane approaching, as cocky and smug as ever in a black and yellow striped waistcoat that made him look like a bumblebee. "Not me. Too decorative for my tastes. Cazenove here wants her for his wife. Besides, I'm holding my last empty stall for Albion."

Sheane gave a bark of laughter. "Making progress in that arena, then, are you?"

Rochdale was fairly certain he was. Grace had agreed to pony up that kiss he'd won off her. He would not have been surprised if she'd turned welsher on him, but now he knew she had a core of honor that would not bend. A potentially valuable bit of knowledge. That streak of integrity might come in handy again during the course of his seduction.

It had been a stroke of pure spontaneous brilliance that had made him set the masquerade ball as the date for collecting his winnings. She had no doubt been tying herself into knots all week, just thinking about it. And he would take pleasure in untying each and every one of them while he kissed her into oblivion.

Rochdale did not believe he was being arrogant to think that winning the wager with Sheane would be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Others might be of the opinion that he was taking too long. But some women required more foreplay than others. And he'd be willing to bet Grace Marlowe never had any foreplay in her life. She had a wealth of passion beneath that cool reserve, though, and Rochdale was just the man to unleash it.

It would be fun while it lasted. He loved nothing more than a good challenge, whether on the racetrack or in the bedroom. But once he'd taken his pleasure from Grace and won the gelding, he would move on to something, or someone, requiring less effort.

"Yes, Sheane," he said, "things are moving along quite nicely. I'll be ready to take Albion by the end of the month, if not sooner."

Sheane gave another loud crack of laughter, causing heads to turn in his direction. The fellow had no social grace whatsoever. "It won't happen, Rochdale, believe me. I'll be taking Serenity off your hands before you know it. A nice fresh stall is ready and waiting for her. Ha! Oh, and Cazenove ... Haltwhistle has an eye on that gray. He's been lucky at the tables of late and may have a lot of blunt to throw around."

"Blast!" Adam took another look at the horse as she was led down the colonnaded path toward the auctioneer. There were several horses ahead of her on the lists, but she caught a lot of interest from the rows of gentlemen lining the path. "The bidding's bound to go high if Haltwhistle gets involved. The animal could be a blind and lame packhorse, for all he cares."

"Very true," Sheane said. "He simply likes to own things, anything, that someone else covets. Quit staring at that dappled posterior, Cazenove, and he might not realize you're interested."

"Right you are, Sheane. I appreciate the warning. By the way, I understand you have a new painting on display." Cazenove's brows lifted in question while his eyes twinkled in amusement.

Sheane, who was a veritable font of vulgar laughter today, cackled once again so that his striped belly shook. He was an amateur painter whose subjects were not the sort one could display in public. Instead, he had a private "gallery" in his town house where he showed his works to gentlemen by special invitation. And then there were the parties, often hosted at Rochdale's Twickenham villa, where Sheane would bring along his latest model and paint her on the spot, so to speak. As the evenings progressed, other women who'd been brought to the parties would sometimes get into the spirit and bare all in order to be painted by Sheane. By the time dawn rolled around, more flesh than clothing would be on view. Rochdale had more than one of Sheane's paintings hanging at the villa, mementos of particularly lively evenings.

Cazenove was something of an art connoisseur and thought Sheane actually had some talent. He'd often teased the man about painting proper subjects that might be displayed at the British Institution, where Cazenove was one of the governors, but Sheane had no interest in it. He preferred a nice, plump female's ass, or other ripe parts, to a landscape or classical study.

"As it happens," Sheane said, grinning like a fool, "I do have a new painting. You must come by and view it, Cazenove. I think it will amuse you. You might recognize the face, if nothing else, as belonging to that new little dancer at Drury Lane, Delilah Munro."

"The redhead with the big ..." Cazenove made a curving motion in front of his chest.

"The very one," Sheane said. "She was an extremely ... compliant model, and I was able to capture a most interesting pose. I look forward to your opinion. Now, if you both will excuse me, I want to see how the bidding goes for the black filly."

He turned and walked down the colonnade, disappearing into a sea of top hats and frock coats.

"There's something devilish unsavory about that fellow," Rochdale said.

"An interesting assessment, coming from you."

"Even so."

"But what is this about Serenity and Albion?" Cazenove asked. "Do not tell me you have staked your best horse on some wager with him?"

"I have indeed."

Cazenove's eyebrows disappeared beneath his hat brim and his mouth hung open for an astonished moment. Then: "I can't believe it. I did not think you would ever give up that horse."

"I do not intend to give her up."

"Ah. A sure thing, then?"

Rochdale smiled. "Yes. The surest thing that ever was."

Grace had sent an astonished Kitty away and stood alone in her dressing room, gazing at her reflection in the pier glass. She could hardly believe she'd done it. A week ago she would never have had the nerve to wear such a costume. But a week ago, everything had changed.

Ever since Rochdale had insinuated himself into her life, his bad influence had pushed her into doing one wicked thing after the other. It was as though he had rubbed some kind of ungodly invisible ink into her hands while he'd caressed them, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't wash it off. And now, whatever she touched, a little stain of sin was left behind.

Lies — white ones, little ones — had been falling from her lips all week. Sinful thoughts — dark ones, big ones — had swirled dizzily in her head. And it was all his fault. The provoking man was some sort of evil magician. He had changed everything. He had changed ... her.