The Dutiful Rake (20 page)

Marcus slumped into a chair, his head in his hands. Hell! What on earth was he to do now that she was regretting their marriage?

A
week later, Marcus sat frowning as he watched his wife pick uninterestedly at her breakfast. She had eaten very little and seemed, in his opinion, to be existing on a diet of dry toast and tea. It was her business, of course, but he was conscious of a nagging, barely acknowledged worry that she was not looking her best. Faint shadows showed like bruises under her eyes and she looked so pale in the mornings, which was about the only time he saw her, here in the library having breakfast. She always came down, no matter how late she had been the night before. And he sat there absentmindedly consuming sirloin while longing to consume her instead.

And there she sat, pushing her egg around her plate with a look on her face that suggested it exuded an unpleasant odour. What the hell did she come down for if she were just going to sit there playing with her food? Except, of course, for the tea and toast.

‘Is there something wrong with the egg?’ He had not meant his voice to sound so harsh and mentally kicked himself. Frustrated desire was doing absolutely nothing for his manners.

Sure enough her face froze into an expression of indifference. She would not willingly allow him to see anything of her feelings, he realised. Not even that she didn’t like her egg.

‘I am not terribly hungry,’ she said, with a cool detachment she was far from feeling. In fact, she felt thoroughly nauseated, a normal state of affairs for her in the mornings just now. The smell of the egg was revolting and the sight of Marcus gobbling beef in that odiously insensitive way made it worse. About all she could face was tea and toast. And she had no intention of telling her husband. It was none of his business!

‘Then why come down to breakfast?’ inquired Marcus, before thinking how that might sound. His tact was suffering along with his manners, he thought with an inward groan.

Meg flushed. Why, indeed? The only reason she came down was to see him. They rarely dined together now, except in company. If they found themselves at the same social engagements, it was more by coincidence than design and on more than one occasion she had suspected that he had left a ball early after finding her there. No doubt he wished to avoid having to dance with her.

So she came down to breakfast each morning to see him, even if not to speak to him since he was invariably buried in the paper and returned the briefest of monosyllabic grunts to anything she said.

This query about her egg had engendered the longest conversation they had had in days. And she was certainly not going to tell him the truth. Not after he had made it quite plain that her presence was unwelcome.

She summoned up a brittle smile and said, ‘I beg your
pardon, my lord. I didn’t realise that I was expected to be fashionable at breakfast time.’

‘What the devil do you mean by that?’ A note of anger resonated in the deep voice. The little baggage was possessed of an uncanny knack of wrongfooting him!

Good! I’ve stung him out of that maddening self-control, thought Meg with undutiful relish. Aloud she said, ‘Merely that I will in future breakfast in my room. I am not stupid, my lord. I can take a hint.’ Despite her best efforts, a note of bitterness crept into her voice.

Marcus noted it at once. ‘Meg, I did not intend—’ He stopped. How long was it since he had called her Meg? Since he had spoken to her gently? He went on with difficulty. ‘I only thought you looked pale and wondered if you were feeling quite well, getting enough sleep…’

Meg wavered for a moment. The urge to tell him everything was almost overwhelming, the nightmares about Winterbourne, the tiredness, feeling sick in the mornings. And most of all she longed to tell him she had not meant to refuse him her bed, that she missed him, did not wish to take advantage of their bargain, that she loved him, wanted only him. But the habit of years held her back. After being taught so brutally not to confide, not to let anyone know what she was thinking, she hesitated fatally.

Misinterpreting her silence, Marcus said stiffly, ‘I have no desire to interfere with you. I merely wished to exercise my duty of care as your husband.’ He forced back the words he longed to say. She obviously did not wish to be pestered.

Duty of care? Duty? Damn him! Why did he have to say that? I don’t want to be a duty!
It was all Meg
could do not to burst into tears of frustrated despair. Fool that she had been to think that marriage could remove the hated stigma of being a poor relation, a charity case, that she would be able to live with Marc and not care how he regarded her.

Her voice commendably steady, she said, ‘Then you have done so in asking after my health. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an engagement with my cousins.’ She rose to her feet, trying to ignore the fact that he had risen as well to escort her to the door and open it.

Marcus moved to her side and was overwhelmingly aware of her slender body as he walked with her to the door. She haunted his dreams at night until he could barely control his desire to march into her bedchamber and get into her bed, overpowering her resistance with his body, silencing her protests with kisses. He wanted her so badly, it was physically painful, and the sight of her each morning alone at breakfast was almost more than he could bear.

Dammit all! She was his wife, wasn’t she? With a muttered curse he grasped her shoulders and swung her around to face him. For a bare instant his scorching gaze seared into her startled eyes and then with another curse he dragged her into his arms and brought his mouth down on hers in unrestrained passion.

Meg was stunned. His mouth crushed hers mercilessly, holding her captive as surely as his arms. And she felt herself melt against him in unthinking surrender. Never had he treated her so before! He had always been so gentle, so considerate in bed. He had aroused her to passion without once allowing her to feel threatened by his own desires.

Now his mouth was ruthless, daring her to resist. She could feel his hands at her hips as he moulded her
against him, forcing her to feel his arousal. His loins were grinding against her soft belly in flagrant, undisguised need. And his tongue, possessing her mouth in brutal, plundering intimacy, told her exactly what he wanted of her body. And she wanted it too! Her brain screamed feebly that she ought to be terrified but her treacherous body was useless, trembling, her knees shaking, her thighs dissolving into heated, melting desire.

And then she felt dizzy as the nausea she had been holding at bay threatened to overcome her. For one dreadful moment the room tilted and swirled into blackness as she went limp in his arms.

Marcus felt the change at once. She sagged against him helplessly as his arms tightened instinctively to support her. Horrified, he raised his head to see her eyes shut and her face appallingly, accusingly white. Shaken with remorse, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the sofa where he laid her tenderly.

How could he have done that? Allowed his frustration and desire to ride him so that he abused her trust! Dear God, he was no better than Winterbourne to treat her so! Lashing himself with scorn, he stood waiting for her to recover for what seemed an eternity.

When at last her eyes opened, they stared up at him in unspoken hurt, shimmering with tears.

‘Why—?’

He cut her short, unable to bear her accusations. ‘I agree. Most distasteful. A regrettable interlude. You need not fear that it will happen again.’

‘I…I needn’t…’ Meg’s voice shook uncontrollably. He had found her distasteful.
That
was why he had stopped kissing her…no doubt why he had never at
tempted to share her bed again, why he had told her so brutally not to come to him.

‘No.’ His voice was icily uncompromising. He ought to hold her tenderly and comfort her, but after this he could not trust himself to touch her. For one insane moment he had thought she was responding to his passion with equal abandon. And now, as he looked down at her, all he wanted to do was to take her in his arms again and continue what he had started even if it meant he took her against her will. Swearing savagely, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

When next he saw Meg it was at an evening party two days later. She greeted him coolly as though nothing had happened. So he shrugged to hide his pain and buried himself in most of the amusements he had enjoyed before his marriage. The only problem was that he didn’t enjoy them any more.

One amusement he eschewed completely. Lady Hartleigh cast out her glimmering lures in vain. Not even to ease the frequently painful frustration he felt would Marcus avail himself of her charms. He wanted Meg and no other. But they had made a pact not to interfere with each other and, even if he told himself that she owed him children to fulfil her side of the bargain, he would not force himself on any woman, least of all her. So he greeted his wife politely when their paths crossed socially and held his tongue about the increasing air of fragility she wore.

‘Ah, good morning, cousin.’ Sir Delian greeted the elegant Countess of Rutherford cheerfully as he descended the steps of his Mount Street mansion. ‘You
will find Sophia and Lady Fellowes within. A stroll in the park, is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Meg, heartily wishing she had not agreed to it. True she did not feel as sick as she had done at breakfast, but she would have given much to be tucked up on a sofa with a book right now. Or practising her drawing. Her new master seemed to think that she actually had some talent and, judging by the way he had ruthlessly castigated and torn up her first efforts, she did not think he was indulging in flattery.

The butler escorted her to the drawing room and announced her in regal accents. The Countess of Rutherford. Meg shook herself mentally. Would she ever get used to it? Stop feeling like an impostor? She stepped into the elegantly appointed room. And stopped dead. An immaculately clad figure was rising to bow gracefully.

‘Dear Lady Rutherford, such a pleasure to meet you in my cousin’s house. I had no idea, when I first met you, how closely we are connected!’

Meg felt sick and giddy as Sir Blaise possessed himself of her hand and kissed it. It took all of her self-control not to snatch it back. She repressed a shudder at his touch. All at once the sense of degrading foulness came flooding back into her soul. And this time there was no Marc to turn to for comfort and protection.

‘I understand you are well acquainted with my cousin, dear Meg,’ interposed Lady Fellowes smoothly. ‘Sir Blaise has offered himself as your escort this morning.’

‘Such an honour,’ said Sir Blaise. ‘To escort two such charming young ladies.’

The ensuing conversation eddied around Meg, who was experiencing waves of nausea and blind panic.
Somehow she had to control herself, let no one see her terror. He could do nothing in the park. There was nothing to be afraid of. Except fear itself.

Sir Blaise insisted on having a lady on each arm as they strolled to the park. Every nerve in Meg’s body was shudderingly aware of his touch, the loathsome proximity of his body. And she could not escape, leaving Sophia to be escorted alone. Not that she had the slightest fear for Sophia’s safety, but Cousin Henrietta had made it quite plain that she regarded Meg as Sophia’s chaperon. She would be furious if Meg left Sophia alone. Meg set her teeth and thanked God for Sophia’s giggling, simpering presence. At least it saved
her
from being alone with Winterbourne.

They had not proceeded far into the park when even this dubious protection was withdrawn. Lord Atherbridge strutted up to them.

‘I say, Winterbourne! Two lovely fillies! Demned greedy, dear boy! Demned greedy!’

‘You wound me, Atherbridge.’ Sir Blaise was all conciliation. ‘What can I do to atone? Ah, I have it! I shall relinquish my dear little cousin to you. Dear Cousin Sophia, you will not mind exchanging me for poor Atherbridge?’

Since Lord Atherbridge was possessed of a handsome fortune and was blessedly single, Sophia had not the least objection. ‘Oh, no, Cousin.’ She smiled up at his lordship meltingly. ‘It will be such an honour for me!’

Meg nearly gagged at this blatant toadeating. How could she? Never would she resort to flattering Marcus like that! And to do him credit, Marcus would be just as revolted as she was. They drew ahead, Sophia gossiping and giggling girlishly. Meg clenched her teeth. Her disgust went some way to dissipating the fog of
fear enveloping her, but she was drawn back to reality all too easily by Sir Blaise.

Not having Sophia on his other arm left his hand free to press Meg’s, captive on his arm. She shuddered noticeably and he smiled urbanely.

‘I am so delighted that we may continue our interrupted acquaintance, Lady Rutherford,’ he said, continuing to pat her hand. ‘Allow me to compliment you on your appearance in the fashionable world. You looked charmingly at the opera the other night! My companion Lady Hartleigh agreed with me heartily! ’

Suddenly furious, Meg glared up at him. ‘Perhaps you should limit your attentions to your companion! And the stage!’

He laughed softly. ‘Dear me, how very unfashionable! Coming from a lady whom I observe to be most fashionable.’ His eyes raked her suggestively, ‘From her gowns, to her…marriage.’

All of a sudden Meg felt that she could scarcely breathe. She managed a polite smile for Lady Castlereagh who waved to her from a barouche.

Winterbourne continued smoothly, ‘And I always like to be fashionable, my dear.’

The oily endearment mocked her. Marcus had once called her that. She took a shaky breath at the remembered tenderness in his voice…he hadn’t meant it either. Oh, God, that was Lady Gwdyr, looking dreadfully haughty. She must pull herself together, she’d nearly cut the icy peeress.

‘We could be fashionable together, don’t you think, Lady Rutherford?’ From his voice you’d have thought he was suggesting an outing to Almack’s, thought Meg dazedly. Instead of which his eyes, roving over her body, were suggesting something quite different, some
thing of which the mere thought sent shudders of revulsion through her very soul.

Help came from a most unexpected quarter.