Never Resist a Rake (23 page)

She jerked her face to the side. It would serve the man right if she retched on him. “Anything you think to put in my mouth will be in extreme danger of being bitten off.”

“Spirit. I like that. In small doses. It gives me reason to discipline you.” He grasped one of her arms and forced it behind her until she was bent over at the waist. Then he snugged her bum against the hard bulge on the front of his trousers. She gasped in shock and struggled to get away but stopped when he twisted her arm so hard that she saw stars and feared he'd snap her limb like a dry twig.

“Let me go this instant or I'll scream,” she spat out.

“No, you won't. By the time anyone came, I'd be on the other side of the room, shaking my head over your attack of the vapors. No one will believe I said such things to you—or did such things to you.”

He reached under her hem and ran his hand up her leg to squeeze her buttocks painfully.

She cried out, but then clamped her lips together. He was right. She would be the one who would be publicly censured if she made a fuss that drew a crowd.

“If I want to ride you like a mare in heat, you'll get down on your knees and beg me prettily to do it harder. And if I wish to pass you around to my friends, you'll serve them as you would me. I'll know because I'll be watching. I may even charge admission for others to do so as well. It's not every day of the week a baron's daughter plays the whore, and believe me, that's what you'll be by the time we're done.”

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut but couldn't shut out the ugly images his words slammed into her brain. “And then you'll cancel my father's debt.”

“No, that's only the down payment. If I like you, and you'd better pray that I do, I'll set you up as my own little ladybird. Nothing too ostentatious, you understand, but we'll need some privacy for what I have in mind, my dove.” He twisted her arm again until she whimpered. “You see, I've lately become enamored of the writings of the Marquis de Sade. He's convinced me that pleasure and pain exist side by side. Of course, I mean to conduct my own inquiry into that philosophy. There are depths of pain I cannot plumb with the game girls of Whitechapel. The bullies who protect them always interfere just when things become interesting.”

Rebecca tried to draw breath but found nothing about her was working right. Her vision darkened, but she fought to stay conscious. Who knew what he'd do to her if she passed out?

“You will be my willing participant,” he hissed. “You'll work off your father's debt one stripe, one pinch, one prick at a time. You'll come to love it, need it even, eventually. At least that's what the marquis discovered in his subjects, a deep-seated need for pain. I shall be happy to oblige you in yours.”

The darkness began to seep toward the center of her vision. If she didn't get away soon, she'd drop in a heap. “You are beyond vile.”

“Oh, my dear. Just you wait. I shall exceed your every expectation.”

Desperate, Rebecca raised her knee and kicked backward, landing a solid blow to his shin. It wasn't enough to hurt him as she wished she could, but it surprised him enough so that she was able to wiggle free and skitter across the room.

“My father can't have known what you're planning.”

“He can and does. You see, while your father is a fool, he'll sacrifice anything to protect his wife—even his dear daughter. How do you think being destitute will affect Lady Kearsey's already-precarious health?”

“No, no, no,” she chanted as she backed away. “John won't let that happen. He'll take care of my mother. I know he will.”

“John, is it? You think yourself safe because you're cozy with Lord Hartley? Calling him John doesn't mean a thing. I called him Fitzhugh for years and had no inkling of who he really was. You don't know him any better. But I suppose you think he'll come to your rescue like he did in that boxing crib. John the backwoods bumpkin who's lately fallen into Lady Chloe's clutches? That John?”

“Yes. He won't allow you to hurt me or my family.”

“He doesn't have any say in the matter. And I'd advise you against telling him anything about our little agreement.”

“We have no agreement.”

Blackwood pulled a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “I have your father's IOU, remember. The law, the
ton
, even Lord Kearsey's own twisted sense of honor is on my side. Nothing can stop me from having him prosecuted for this debt. Except you.”

Rebecca wanted more than anything to flee, but it was as though her slippers had been nailed to the floor.

“I'll take your silence as consent. Here's how we'll begin. On the night of the ball, you will profess a headache and repair to your chamber by midnight. I will join you shortly thereafter, and we shall…become better acquainted.”

In the silence that followed, there was a little squeak, as if someone were suppressing a cry followed by the loud snick of a latch.

“Who's there?” Blackwood demanded.

Rebecca didn't wait to see. Suddenly her feet felt free. She hiked her skirt and fled out of the gallery as fast as she could. Blackwood had to be lying. Her father couldn't have known what the man had planned when he practically shoved her into Blackwood's arms. He simply couldn't.

* * *

Oh
Lud, now I'm for it.
Theresa clattered down the back staircase as if the hounds of hell were on her heels.
I
never
should
have
gone
up
to
the
gallery
tonight. And I especially shouldn't have stayed to listen to the Quality Folk…only now I know some of 'em ain't such Quality after all.

It shocked her to her curled toes that a highborn lady might be treated as if she were a common gutter tramp. Her mum was right all along. Women had no say in this world. None at all.

Well, Theresa was going to have a say. She was going to tell…

That was just it. Who could she tell? Mr. Hightower would likely be as shocked as she at the treatment of Miss Kearsey, but Theresa would have to admit to eavesdropping in order to have known about it.

Such a thing was likely to cost her her position.

She couldn't lose that. Her mum depended on the extra blunt Theresa sent her each week.

But she couldn't let that horrid Lord Blackwood get away with his plans, either. And while she mulled over what to do, she'd do what she could as Cook's assistant.

With a little finagling in the kitchen and a little help from the footman Toby, at the very least, she'd see to it that nice Miss Kearsey was avenged. Lord Blackwood would find a spider in the bottom of his breakfast teacup on the morrow.

Adversity brings allies together. Well, it would, wouldn't it? If there is no common foe, nothing is more likely than squabbles among even the dearest of friends.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

John put on a good show of being attentive to Lady Chloe while they played loo, but he knew to within a finger-width where Rebecca was at all times while she was in the drawing room. When she left on Blackwood's arm, he watched the minutes tick by on the ormolu clock on the mantel and resented each one that passed.

Blackwood was the only titled gent who'd befriended him when he'd first arrived in London. John owed him a bit for that kindness. Compared to the raucous time they'd spent together in London, the viscount had behaved like a choirboy at Somerfield Park. John knew of Blackwood's darker proclivities, even if he didn't share them. The thought of Rebecca being alone with the viscount, even within the confines of the great house, made him uneasy.

He excused himself from the card game after throwing the last hand and headed through the doorway Rebecca and Blackwood had used. All the rooms on the ground floor of the house seemed to run into each other, one after another. John hurried through parlors and salons, a music room and library, before he turned a corner and Rebecca practically ran into his arms.

She didn't seem to recognize him in the dimness. “No, let me go,” she demanded when he snatched her to him.

“Steady on. It's me,” John said, hugging her tight. She collapsed into him then. He cupped her head and pressed it to his chest. Her cheeks were damp. Had she been crying? “What's wrong?”

“Oh, John. I…I can't tell you.” She trembled like a birch in a breeze.

“Did Blackwood hurt you?” he demanded.

“Well of course he did, or she wouldn't be so beside herself.” Lady Chloe's voice came from behind them. She lifted the candle she carried and lit a wall lamp, sending the shadows scurrying away. “Honestly, men are so thickheaded sometimes. By the way, if the two of you are still trying to convince everyone that Hartley prefers me above all, holding each other so tightly I couldn't slip a piece of parchment between you is probably not the best way to go about it.”

Rebecca stepped out of the circle of John's arms. “You're right, my lady,” she said. “It's a good thing it was you who happened upon us.”

“Assuredly,” Chloe said. “Come now, Miss Kearsey. What did that cur do?”

Rebecca bit her lower lip. “I can't say.”

“Of course you can. If you don't, Hartley and I will be forced to guess what foul thing Blackwood's up to, and I haven't the patience for it. If I wanted to play charades, I'd have joined Lord Somerset's group in the far corner of the drawing room. Lud, what fools they were making of themselves over there, all that capering about. Now, tell me, dearie. And don't leave anything out.”

Lady Chloe reached out her hands, and to John's astonishment, Rebecca took them. Chloe truly did possess the ability to charm everyone she met. He had no idea why she didn't unleash that ability on the
ton
.

Perhaps, like him, she preferred to push Polite Society away before they had time to reject her.

“She's right, Rebecca,” John said. “You should know by now that no harm will come to you while I breathe.”

“It's not my harm I'm worried about.” The stricken look on her face put the lie to that. She was truly afraid. “It's my parents I fear for.”

“Oh, you poor lamb.” Chloe put her arm around Rebecca and led her to a nearby settee. “Tell us everything.”

It occurred to John that Chloe had cut him off from Rebecca as effectively as another gentleman cutting in on the dance floor. He narrowed his eyes at the lady, wondering what her game was now.

But he couldn't fault her results. Rebecca's troubles spilled out of her as if the floodgates had been opened. John grimaced at the tale of her father's feckless gambling and ground his teeth together when she told about how Lord Kearsey all but shoved her into Blackwood's arms to settle the debt. Rebecca was certain her father believed the viscount was making an offer of marriage for her, and the threats were simply his way of making sure she couldn't refuse. She couldn't accept that Lord Kearsey knew anything about Blackwood's true intentions, but John wasn't so sanguine.

A gambler would do anything to feed his habit—even make himself believe the unbelievable.

“Well, there's nothing else for it,” John said. “I'll call Blackwood out.”

“No,” both the women exclaimed in unison, then Rebecca went on. “I won't have you dueling over me.”

“But he insulted your honor.”

“Which will not be made whole by letting Blackwood blow a hole of a different sort in your chest,” Chloe said.

“You're assuming he's a better shot than I am,” John said.

“It's no assumption. It's a fact.” Chloe rolled her eyes expressively. “Lord Blackwood has been involved in no less than three duels to my certain knowledge, and he killed his man in two of them. The third lived, but…well, suffice it to say he will never father children.”

Eyes pleading, Rebecca stood and put a hand on his arm. “Please, John. Don't risk yourself on my account.”

Didn't she know by now that he'd risk anything for her?

“Besides, a duel would be pointless in any case,” Chloe said, tapping her fingernails on her very white front teeth as she considered the matter. “The problem isn't merely the insult to Rebecca, though that was horrid and not to be excused. But the fact is, she escaped unharmed.”

John put an arm around Rebecca's waist and drew her close. “She won't remain so if Blackwood has his way.”

“Then we must make sure he doesn't.” Chloe stood and paced, her skirt swishing on the hardwood as she made each pass. “As I see it, the crux of the matter is that IOU. If we can retrieve that, Blackwood has nothing but a handful of fingers. He'd have no way to demand anything of anyone.”

“My father would still owe him a debt,” Rebecca pointed out.

“But not an enforceable one,” Chloe said. “It would be Blackwood's word against Lord Kearsey's. Did anyone else see them enter into the wager?”

Rebecca cocked her head to one side, searching her memory. “No. Blackwood said he and my father were the last two in the poque game.”

“Then by whatever means, we must relieve him of those vowels,” Chloe said.

“Where would he keep them?” John asked.

“I think I know,” Lady Chloe said, pulling out her fan and waving it languidly before her. “But it would be indelicate of me to say where and even more indelicate to say how I know.”

John and Rebecca both sent her looks of indignation.

“Oh, very well.” Chloe snapped the fan shut. “Blackwood keeps important things tucked into his smalls. Now, none of that. Wipe that smirk off your face, Hartley, or I'll not help you a bit.”

“I'm not smirking,” John said, trying to school his expression so the smirk he felt inside wouldn't show outside. “I'm sure you have a perfectly innocent reason why you know Blackwood keeps his valuables in his smalls, but the deuce of it is, that certainly makes them hard to steal,” John admitted grudgingly.

“But we can't simply steal them. It's dishonest. That would make us as rotten as he. My father must have lost to Lord Blackwood fairly, or he'd never have…” Rebecca stopped herself. It was still too painful for her to admit Lord Kearsey had tossed her at Blackwood as if she were a stack of banknotes.

“Well, that settles it. If you don't want me to shoot the blackguard, and your sense of rightness won't let me lift the vowels from him, I shall have to win Lord Kearsey's IOU back,” John said.

“Blackwood will never hazard them,” Chloe said.

“He will if he doesn't know he's doing it,” John said. “I have a plan.”

* * *

John escorted Rebecca to her chamber. Once she went through her door, he leaned on the doorjamb to keep her from closing it right away. He knew he shouldn't hang about her room, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted more than anything to be invited in, but she'd had enough trouble from men this night. He didn't want to add to her unease.

“I'm sorry to be such a bother,” she said.

“You could never be that. I don't want you to worry about your family or anything else.” He cupped her cheek. He couldn't seem to help himself. He'd kept his distance from her over the past few days, and his insides were strained to the breaking point. It was touch her or die.

Just
that
, he promised himself.
I'll only touch her face.

“I've been meaning to tell you that I asked Richard's man of business to make inquiries about the right physician for your mother. He found one in Bath who specializes in treating illnesses of the lungs. After Christmas, I'll send her and your father there, so she can take the waters and regain her health.”

“Oh, John, do you think it will work? How wonderful if it does.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Rebecca stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, obviously not caring if anyone popped out of one of the other bedchambers and happened to see them. However, the other guests seemed to be either abed already or still in the drawing room. No one else roamed the dark hallway. “Won't I be going with them?”

“No, you'll be my countess by then, I hope.” Her sweet scent wove itself around him, an intoxicating summons. He forced himself not to act on it. She'd been manhandled enough for one night. He needed to prove he respected her, idolized her a little even.

“And yet…” She walked her fingers up his chest. John was certain she had no idea how she was teasing him. “You still haven't officially asked me to marry you.”

“I'm getting to it.”
Her
hair. I'll just stroke her hair.
There was one chestnut lock curling past her shoulder. He ran its silky length through his fingers. “I'm waiting until we can announce your answer right away.”

“Then maybe you'd better come in.” She gave his arm a tug, pulled him into her room, and quickly shut the door behind him. “If someone were to catch us all tangled up by my door, you'd likely be forced into marrying me, and I wouldn't want that.”

“You wouldn't?” His body cheered the whole “tangled up” business with an aching cockstand.

“No.” She looped her arms around his neck and peered up at him in the dimness. “What girl wants to be a bride merely to satisfy the sense of propriety of the
ton
?”

“I see your point.” She was making him crowd his trousers till the seams strained. He ached to lose himself in her.

“I want to marry for love,” she said. “Undeniable. Irrevocable. Love without an ending. Doesn't that sound wonderful?”

It sounded like a tall order. John hadn't known much love in his life. His flighty mother had left him too soon to deliver love without an ending. His foster parents offered a strict, prickly sort of halfhearted affection, dependent upon his deportment and willingness to work without complaint. His family hadn't shown him any love at all.

“That's how I feel about us,” she went on as she hugged him close. “What about you?”

“I've told you I love you, but I can't honestly say I know what that means. It's too high for me. Too fine,” he admitted. “Sometimes, I don't know what I feel. I collect there's something different about you, Rebecca. I recognized it right off that day in the museum. It's as if…there's something missing in me and you've got it hidden inside you. I need you, you see. That's love, isn't it?”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, this time on the mouth. “Close enough.”

She slipped her arms under his jacket to run her hands along his ribs. Then she let them slide down to tease his bum. Much more of this, and he'd be on her in a heated rut. John grasped both her hands and held them tight between them.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Don't you like it?”

“More than my next breath, but, Rebecca…I don't want to press you for anything tonight.”

“Don't you see, John? I need you too. Blackwood made me feel so very dirty. The things he said, and…I need you to wash me clean of him. Please.”

* * *

“I am without doubt the luckiest almost-bastard in the world,” he whispered in awe.

“Yes, you are.” She grinned up at him and unfastened the top button on her bodice. Then his hands replaced hers and he undid the rest of the row.

Slowly. Carefully. His fingertips slipped beneath the muslin to brush her newly exposed skin. His breath tickled warmly on her neck as he kissed his way along her neckline. He touched her with deliberation, with tenderness, with a sense of wonder.

She'd cringed with distaste when Blackwood laid a hand on her. With John, she tingled with awareness. By the time he bared her breasts and bent to take a taut nipple in his mouth, she was trembling with need.

Articles of clothing sloughed away and fell to the floor. Whatever barriers might yet have existed between them slipped away too. Skin on skin. Heartbeat on heartbeat. Rebecca felt herself fade into John and he into her. They danced a tipsy sort of waltz to no discernible time signature, backing and advancing, turning and lifting, to make the most of the way their bodies fit together as they moved across the room.

John's breath filled her. His sharp masculine scent overwhelmed her. His mouth was the whole world, his hands the stuff of magic.

When they finally tumbled into the waiting bed, there was no more sense of being two separate people. They were one. One flesh. One heart.

One shared soul between them.

They hadn't said the words that would bind them together forever yet. Their bodies made the vow for them. There was no need for words.