The Marriage Trap (28 page)

He dropped her hands and grabbed her arms. “If it's all very innocent, why didn't you tell me?”

She sucked in a breath. “You have a filthy mind, Jack Rigg!”

He gave her a shake. “And you, Miss Brans-Hill, don't know the first thing about a man's passions.”

A fine thing to say to someone who was doing her best to learn! “And you don't know the first thing about women.”

She tried to tear herself out of his grasp, and when that didn't work, she gave him a mighty shove. Caught off balance, Jack went toppling to the floor, dragging her with him. He took the brunt of the fall. She landed on his lap, her skirts hiked up to her hips, her legs splayed wide across his flanks. She had to clutch his shoulders for support.

They were both stunned by the fall. She came to herself first. Cursing him long and fluently, as only a lady knew how, she tried to rise to her knees.

With one powerful arm, he encircled her hips, preventing her from moving. “Will you stop squirming, woman?” he got out between gasps. “Give me a moment to come to myself.”

She could feel his hard shaft rubbing against her belly. She stopped squirming and looked down. His face was clenched as if in pain. His eyes were hot on hers. She knew that look. She leaned close, so close that her breath fluttered against his mouth, but she did not kiss him.

“Now tell me I don't understand a man's passions,” she breathed out, and she rubbed herself slowly, tauntingly, against his jutting sex.

She cried out when he shifted his position so that his back was supported by the bed. His hands cupped her bottom, holding her in place. His fingers spread, squeezed, caressed, and inched up under the hem of her gown till they found bare flesh.

The pleasure was intoxicating. She could hardly breathe. Her head fell forward on his shoulder, but when he adjusted her skirts, and his fingers brushed against the folds of her femininity, she came up on her knees and arched like a quivering bowstring.

He said something indistinct. She tried to focus, but her body couldn't be bothered with words when his clever fingers were driving her mad.

“What?” she panted.

His lips brushed her ear. “I said, ‘Now tell me I don't know the first thing about women.'”

She couldn't stop now even if she wanted to. But he'd thrown down the gauntlet. Her pride was at stake. She had to pick it up.

“I'm not surrendering,” she warned him.

“Neither am I,” he got out.

It was part contest, part game. Where one led, the other followed, but going one step further. Each pushed the other to the edge, then pulled back. The game was torture, but neither wanted it to end.

Drunk on him, glorying in her own power, Ellie went too far. She brushed hot, lingering kisses from his throat to his groin and the game became a race.

He dispensed with their nightclothes with a speed that left her shaken. There was no part of her he did not want to kiss and touch. His hands took his fill of her, his caresses became more desperate.

And she gave as good as she got.

In one powerful lunge, he locked his body to hers. She flung back her head in sheer animal pleasure. Racked by sensation, they moved like lightning and went soaring over the crest. Her wild cry of release was muffled against his throat. He gritted his teeth as his body convulsed, spilling his seed deep inside her.

Weak and spent, they collapsed on the floor. Jack had barely enough energy to snag the coverlet and drape it over them.

Minutes passed, or maybe an hour. She'd fallen asleep and when she wakened, she was in Jack's room and in his huge bed, looking up at the ceiling. Jack was beside her, one arm draped around her waist, making escape impossible.

Now why had that thought popped into her head?

Remembering what they had just shared, made her face burn. What he had done to her! What she had done to him! She wasn't a prude. She enjoyed—what a tepid word—what they did in bed . . . or out of it. But this last bout, she could hardly call it making love, left her feeling strangely dissatisfied.

Not so strange when she thought about it.
You don't know the first thing about a man's passions.
Passion. Lust. That's all a man wanted from a woman. If only he had told her that he loved her, she would be feeling on top of the world.

To be fair, she hadn't given him the words, either. But that was because she felt at a disadvantage. She'd compromised him. If he hadn't been dragged to the Hotel Breteuil to give her an alibi, he wouldn't have given her another thought. They wouldn't be married and he would be enjoying his carefree bachelor existence, just like his friends Brand and Ash.

She wasn't finding fault with him. He had made the best of a bad situation. He was a good man, an honorable man. But she couldn't help what she was feeling. Unrequited love left a bitter taste in her mouth.

This was childish and not like her at all. He gave as much of himself as he could give. It was churlish to expect more. But she couldn't help wondering if he had ever given those words she longed to hear to another woman.

Frances, perhaps?

She would never ask, of course.

He stirred, propped himself on one elbow, and gazed down at her. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I was just wondering . . .” She looked at him and looked away.

“Yes?”

She blurted out the words before she had time to think. “About Frances.”

“What about her?”

She couldn't help herself. She really wanted to know. “Were you in love with her?”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “Believe it or not, I thought I was. But that was a long time ago.”

Her smile was as mirthless as his laugh. “And I suppose you told her so? That you loved her, I mean?”

“That was my mistake. That's when she decided we were engaged to be married. I was a silly young cub then.”

“And I suppose you've fallen in love with many girls since then?”

He was threading his fingers through her hair, and missed the dangerous glint in her eyes. “Dozens of them,” he replied easily. “What man hasn't?”

Too late, he realized his mistake. She clouted him on the shoulder with her balled fist and scrambled from the bed. Her dressing gown was on the floor. She scooped it up and shrugged into it.

Jack combed his fingers through his hair. “You're surely not jealous! Those women meant nothing to me. A passing fancy, is all.”

“Did you or did you not tell them that you loved them?”

His look of bewilderment was rapidly changing to one of annoyance. “I may have. What difference does it make?”

She gasped. “‘What difference does it make?' I'll tell you what difference it makes. You have never said those words to me.”

He had the gall to smile. “Ellie,” he said, “this is foolishness. I was a boy then. I've learned since that romantic love doesn't last.”

“So, if I were to tell you that I loved you, you wouldn't believe me?”

“Of course I'd believe you.” He was yawning, stretching his arms above his head, showing off his powerful physique. “That is,” he went on gently, “you're a female. That's how females think.”

That was it? That was all he had to say to her? She'd bared her heart and he'd replied with inarguable logic?

He didn't believe in romantic love.

She was truly sorry for him. No she wasn't, she was as mad as Hades, not only because he hadn't declared his love, but more especially since she had betrayed hers.

Head held high, she sailed into her own chamber.

“Ellie,” he called out. “Come back here.”

She waited until she heard his feet padding almost to the door before she turned the key in the lock with a gratifying
click.

Jack glowered at the door, sighed, and padded back to bed. Arms folded across his chest, his back supported by pillows, he waited. He knew Ellie. She had a quick temper, but one flash and it was all over, then she'd want to make amends.

He didn't have long to wait. He heard the key turn in the lock, the door opened, and she tiptoed over to the bed. When he pushed back the covers and patted the mattress, she climbed in beside him.

“I've changed my mind,” she said without the least rancor. “I don't want to hear those words from you, and I promise not to say them to you, either. What would be the point? When you've heard them and said them to so many other females, they lose their value. In fact, they're meaningless.”

She yawned hugely. “You've done so much for me and Robbie. I'll always be grateful to you, Jack. I hope you know that.”

He didn't want her gratitude, but he was happy to let things rest there. He was back in her good graces. That's all that mattered.

He blew out the candle and nestled down beside her. He'd never thought to ask her how many men had told her they loved her and, more importantly, how many men she'd loved in her turn. The thought kept turning in his mind until he drifted off to sleep.

Ellie's little reception did not begin until ten o'clock. One hour later, it was obvious to everyone that the reception had turned into a ball. Because there had been so little time to plan for the event, no cards of invitation had been sent out. People were invited by word of mouth, and they turned out in droves.

The musicians, a quartet originally engaged to play a selection of quiet pieces that would not intrude on the chatter of the guests, were soon playing a lively selection of dance tunes at the request of the young people who were there. Carpets were rolled back. Another room had to be opened up, then another, to accommodate the crush of people. No one seemed to mind. Had they been invited to a formal ball, their measure might have been different. But as a reception, Ellie's informal party was proving to be a raging success.

Ellie wasn't aware of the general consensus. She was too busy responding to, as she saw it, one crisis after another. She was everywhere at once, and nowhere to be found. But Jack found her in the kitchens, outside the stillroom, wringing her hands as she listened intently to what her new housekeeper had to say. He hesitated. This was a woman's domain and he was reluctant to interfere.

Webster, or “Miss Webster,” as she had to be addressed since rising in the world, was calm and reassuring.

“Everything is in hand, my lady. Cook and her helpers have spent the week restocking the storerooms.”

“But,” said Ellie, “there must be over a hundred people here. I only expected fifty.”

“I'm not saying we can provide a sit-down supper. But the tables will be laden with enough delicacies to feed a small army. If you don't believe me, take a look in Cook's kitchen and the Servery.”

Cook's kitchen was a hive of activity. The ovens were going full blast and Mrs. Rice and her kitchen maids were taking newly baked dishes from the ovens or putting the finishing touches to trays of savories and sweets that were so tiny they could be eaten in two bites. In the room beyond, the Servery, every table was laden with trays ready to be taken upstairs.

Cook turned as she felt the draft, straightened when she saw Ellie, and hastily dropped a curtsy. The kitchen maids stood and gaped.

Ellie went forward and, over Mrs. Rice's protests, clasped the cook's floury hand. “I do thank you, Mrs. Rice,” she said, “and all your helpers, too.” She acknowledged the maids with a nod. “Without your hard work, my first reception would be an unmitigated disaster.”

Cook waited until the door swung shut behind Ellie. “Well,” she said, “that's never happened before.” She thought for a moment. “That's what I call a real lady.” Then to her helpers, “Don't stand there staring. We has work to do. We're not going to let her ladyship down.”

In the hall outside, Ellie came face-to-face with Jack. She was, he thought, looking none the worse for her labors. In fact, she was as lovely as he had ever seen her. That might have something to do with the gown she was wearing, one of Madame Clothilde's creations, a simple, white gauze with puff sleeves and a green satin sash knotted under her bosom. The ribbons threaded through her hair, now swept up in the current mode, matched the sash. There was a becoming flush on her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and bright, not in glad recognition at seeing him, but because she was harried.

He was coming to know her so well.

“Jack,” she said, “did we order enough wine?”

He removed her hand and dusted the flour from his sleeve. “Ellie,” he said, “there's enough wine in my cellars to supply several balls.”

She let out a breath. “I should have known that I'd married a paragon.”

“Yes, you should.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we join our guests? If the host and hostess can't enjoy their own party, what's the point? Besides, I want to make amends to my beautiful wife.”

His words intrigued her, but he wouldn't explain them. All became clear when they arrived at the improvised ballroom and the orchestra, at a signal from Jack, struck up a waltz.

“Let's pretend,” he said, “we've just been introduced at the embassy ball. Miss Hill, may I have the honor of this dance?”

Eyes gleaming, she bobbed him a curtsy. “Oh, milord,” she trilled, “I declare I am quite overcome with the honor you are bestowing on me. That I, a poor vicar's daughter, so far beneath your own estate—”

Her words were cut off when he encircled her waist and pivoted her into a series of fast turns.

“Vixen,” he murmured in her ear. “Your tongue is still sharp.”

“Toplofty lout,” she riposted. “I couldn't believe the change in you from that boy I remembered.”

“And now?”

“You improve on acquaintance,” she allowed with a pert smile.

Her happy smile had him smiling, too.

Their progress was watched by Frances, who stood fanning herself at the edge of the dance floor. Caro was with her.

Frances said complacently, “Well, I did warn her, and just see the result. Nothing in readiness. Everything in a muddle. Can you imagine—guests helping footmen to roll up carpets? Second-rate musicians! Mind
you
don't dance the waltz.”

Caro, who had been tapping her foot in time to the music, stopped and looked at Frances. “I don't see any harm in it. Besides, no one seems to care about rolled-up carpets. Everyone is having a good time.”

“I daresay.” Frances's voice had lost none of its complacency. “But think of the stories that will be circulating by this time tomorrow.” She shook her head. “People will be laughing at her.” She tapped her fan on Caro's arm. “You'll note that I did not invite any of my friends. They would be affronted to mix with this unruly crowd. Who are they? There are few faces
I
recognize. At your ball, we shall invite only the cream of society.”

Caro stared at her idol for a long interval. Finally, she said in a choked voice, “Excuse me. I see Robbie and there's something I've been meaning to say to him.” Head down, she hurried away.

If Robbie had known it was Caro bearing down on him, he would have taken to his heels. He considered her a sour-faced puss who looked down her long, patrician nose at anyone who did not meet her exacting standards. But Caro, all dressed up for a grown-up party, was, as far as he knew, a stranger.

“Milton,” he said, “who is that divine creature who is coming our way? Look. I think she knows you.”

Milton followed the direction of Robbie's gaze. “Of course she knows me. It's Lady Caro. I hope she doesn't expect me to ask her to dance.”

“‘Caro'?” said Robbie, crushed.

As she drew closer, the illusion vanished, and the dark-haired, dark-eyed vision in the silver tissue gown reverted to the sharp-tongued harpy he always tried to avoid.

“Milton,” he said, but Milton had had the presence of mind to melt into the crush before Caro was upon them.

He didn't waste his charm on Caro, knowing she would only find fault. “I don't dance the waltz,” he said.

Fire momentarily kindled in her eyes, but it was soon quenched. “I'm not allowed to dance the waltz, anyway, not until . . . oh, that doesn't matter. What I wanted to say is . . .”

She looked into his frowning face and rushed her last words. “I've been such a fool. I just want you to know that I think this is a lovely party.”

Stupefied, Robbie watched her as she threaded her way to her grandmother's side.
Now what is that all about?
he wondered.

He didn't think about it for long. He was under his sister's orders to mingle and make sure there were no wallflowers at her party, and Lady Harriet, Sedgewick's daughter, had just entered the room. He liked Harriet immensely. She didn't give herself airs or expect a fellow to act the gallant. More to the point, she didn't mind sitting out a dance. They could talk about horses or hunting or whatever took his fancy. Harriet was easy to talk to. She might even be interested in a little surprise they had planned for Ellie before everyone went home. Harriet would like that. She was very fond of Ellie. And she was a good sport.

He scanned the room. No sign of Harriet's mother. Good, because if Lady Sedgewick was there, he wouldn't be able to wedge a word in sideways.

It was close to three in the morning when Ellie stopped to catch her breath. The party was winding down. Some of her guests had left already. Others were waiting for their carriages to be brought round. She wasn't sure what the young people were up to, but they were within hailing distance, across the road in the park, ostensibly taking a last look at the night sky before their coaches arrived to take them home.

She sipped her iced lemonade, half concealed by the curtain of one of the window embrasures in the upstairs hall. She wasn't hiding; she was taking a moment for herself, enjoying her sense of accomplishment. Her expectations for her little reception had been widely exceeded. Over one hundred guests crowded into three rooms, and that did not include the library, which Jack had opened up for the gentlemen who wished to smoke.

The secret of her success was revealed when Ash and Brand arrived, bringing with them no less a personage than Beau Brummel. The realization that she wasn't the drawing card to her soiree, that word must have circulated that
the
Beau was expected, hadn't deflated her one bit, just the opposite. It relieved her of the horrible suspicion that she'd become a curiosity, like one of the performing bears in Astley's Circus, and that's what people had come to see.

The Beau wasn't the only one who had contributed to the success of her party. Ash and Brand rarely missed a dance and, along with Jack, managed to keep Frances purring—a heroic task, in Ellie's opinion. Robbie and Milton had been pressed into service. They drew the line at dancing, but they mingled with the young people and tried to keep them entertained. And she and the dowager did much the same with the older generation.

What she really wanted was to find Jack so they could gloat together. And she would, just as soon as she had done her duty by her Cousin Cardvale and Dorothea.

They'd arrived with the Sedgewicks, including Harriet, and she'd made a point of introducing them around, but other than a few stilted words of conversation, she hadn't known what to say.

That was Jack's doing. She was seeing them in a new light and it made her feel awkward around them. This was nonsense! As Jack said, all he had to go on was hearsay. The rest was speculation.

She knew that he hadn't confronted Cardvale with his suspicions, because he'd promised to wait until he had more to go on. She toyed with the idea of subtly introducing the subject of her mother's recipe book. It wouldn't work. She didn't know how to be subtle, and she didn't want to embarrass her cousin in front of his wife.

Better keep to a safe topic of conversation. The Cardvales' house was being renovated. It would do.

She found Dorothea in a quiet corner of the music room, talking in low tones to a group of ladies of varying ages who were following her words intently; Lady Sedgewick was there, as was Mrs. King, whose husband served on one of Jack's parliamentary committees; Mrs. Dearing, whose husband did something similar; and the Misses Honeyman, in their fourth season and enjoying themselves as much as if it had been their first.

There was no sign of Cardvale or Lord Sedgewick, and Ellie's overheated imagination pictured them fighting a duel. The Misses Honeyman put her right. One patted a chair, inviting Ellie to join them, then whispered in her ear, “Alas, we've been deserted by the gentlemen for the smoking room.”

“But we don't mind,” whispered the other. “All they talk about is politics. Lady Cardvale's story is much more interesting. Her diamonds were stolen in Paris, did you know?”

Ellie groaned inwardly. She'd thought she'd put this behind her. Evidently, these charming ladies had not made the connection between Miss Hill in Paris, and the Lady Raleigh who was married to Jack. Why couldn't Dorothea let it go?

She wouldn't let it go because she truly believed that Ellie and Robbie had stolen the diamonds. That's why Paul Derby had been asking questions. He must be the one who had broken into her lodgings in Henrietta Street.