Wicked (43 page)

He stood outside Serena's door for a moment, drawing in a calming breath, tamping down his temper, and then he raised his hand and knocked.

Without waiting for a response, he placed the key in the lock and let himself in.

She was standing by the bed, although the coverlet was rumpled where she'd recently lain. "You can't come in."

"Too late," he murmured, shutting the door behind him, his hair almost brushing the low timbered ceiling.

"I don't want to see you."

"Then shut your eyes, because I'm here."

She tried to remain composed when his powerful presence inspired anxiety on several levels. "You must have bargained with Solignac," she said. "He has fewer scruples than Massena."

"He has no scruples, darling." His smile was one of triumph.

"I'm not your darling," she pettishly replied, taking issue with his smile and the reasons he was here. "Those were the other thousand women in your life. You left me in Florence three months ago and I've forgotten you." She lifted her chin a fraction, challenging him.

"Have you really?" he softly asked.

"Yes, I have," she lied. "So I'd prefer you not walk back into my life. I'm sorry if you paid Solignac but he shouldn't have taken the money. He doesn't have the authority."

"I thought you were a realist, de
a
r.
H
e has considerable authority at the moment, which is why I paid him. Where Massena has principles, Solignac has none. He could have killed us both, taken the money, and never missed a second of sleep."

"Well, thank you then for saving my life," she sarcastically replied. "I'm sure you had altruistic motives."

"That depends on your interpretation of altruism."

"And yours is?"

"An unselfish regard for your pleasure." She looked lush, dew fresh in her yellow sprigged muslin gown, her hair tousled from sleep, her scent perfuming the small room.

"In that case my pleasure would best be served if you left."

"I may not be
completely
unselfish," he said, his voice a velvety murmur.

"You've come a long way for nothing, Lord
R
ochefort," she reproved. "Your pleasure and mine are quite different."

"They never used to be."

"I've found new interests."

"Like Massena," he mildly said. "He paid you well for your time, didn't he? Those emeralds are worth a fortune," he murmured, stricture in every smooth syllable. "I'm surprised you left so precipitously. Did I scare you away?"

"I was captured. Solignac took me from the Uffizi, along with every painting that caught his eye," she levelly said, her gaze unflinching under his taunting scrutiny. "Why would I be interested in Massena?"

"You looked as though you were enjoying yourself when I walked into the card room."

A twinge of guilt caused her discomfort as she thought of her ready laughter that evening. "They were reasonably kind," she stiffly said.

"As I can be, darling," he interposed as though he'd been waiting for her cue. "So be practical. I came here to offer you carte blanche as my mistress along with a degree less disruption in your life. The Austrians are sure to break the truce before long and you'll very likely find yourself in the thick of battle if you stay here."

"You came all this way to offer me the position of mistress?" The icy chill in her voice would have stopped a lesser man. "What an honor, Lord Rochefort, although the roster must be lengthy by now. What number would I be?"

He didn't answer immediately and when he did, his voice was hushed. "I've never set up a mistress before."

"A signal honor then. My heart is palpitating wildly," she declared, her voice b
ri
ttle. "What did I do to deserve such recognition from London's premier libertine? Tell me because perhaps I could market those skills to a broader audience. Was it my kissing you like
d
—
o
r my instant response to your desire? Did you like that I'd stay up all night fucking you?" she sardonically murmured. "Or did my facility at cards win your approval?"

"Are you through?" he coolly inquired, his temper barely controlled, her tone galling when he thought of all the changes he'd made in his life because of her, the days and nights he'd spent drinking away her memory, the distinction of his offe
r
—
i
f not to her, then to him.

"What more is there to say? Do I kiss your hand now? Tell me, what's the protocol in the St. John family on momentous occasions like this?"

"Fuck off," he growled.

"Precisely what I was going to tell you," she derisively retorted.

"Sorry, that's not an option."

"What options do I have?" Haughty, imperious, she looked at him with a basilisk gaze.

"None."

"So," she said, drawing in a shallow breath, her nostrils flaring, "I'm to be your mistress, o
r
—"

"There's no or." Decisive, final.

"I see." The words were bitten off. "For how long?"

"Are we bargaining?" he mocked, his smile vicious.

"No
,,
it's a simple question. How long will I be your mistress? Answer me."

He couldn't of course. He didn't know and she waited as the silence lengthened and then said, "You see."

"There's nothing to see." His voice was
l
aying-down-the-ru
l
es brisk. "I want you as my mistress preferably by choice but if no
t
—
s
ome other way will suit me as well."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're mine for the duration," he simply said.

He suddenly loomed even larger in the small roo
m
— massive and powerful and don't forget wealthy, she resentfully thought, so when he spoke plainly like that people always listened. But she wasn't a dancer or a courtesan (although perhaps that would be open to debate in some quarter
s
—
b
ut she wasn't in her heart) nor was she destitute as she'd once been, or a tradesman or servant or minor nobility who wanted something from him. "You can't always have what you want," she retorted, knowing she couldn't be forced to comply graciously.

"But I can." He always had.

"Not this time, Beau. I don't care how much you paid Solignac
.
You can't force me to want you."

"I can make you want me." Assured, confident, he spoke softly as though the words needed no inflection.

"That's a different kind of wanting."

His dark eyes slowly drifted down her shapely form. "I'll settle for that," he said, his half-smile insolent.

"You can't make me stay even then." She wouldn't; not ever when he smiled like that.

He didn't respond immediately, not with conflicting answer
s
—
n
one mild enough not to alar
m
—
r
acing through his mind. "I can keep you," he said at last.

"For how long though, tell me that," she heatedly said.

"For as long as I want."

Her brows flared upward. "I'm surprised you'd trouble yourself so," she said with dripping sarcasm. "Surely there are women enough you needn't force."

Nonplussed by the simple statement, he gazed out the window where the hum of bees resonated in the summer heat. But he'd always dealt directly with his emotions and the brief uncertainty passed. "I prefer you."

"I
don't
prefer you."

He shifted on his feet, restless, enervated by her contentiousness. "Don't make this complicated."

"Just submit, you mean."

"Jesus, Serena," he wearily said, exhaustion suddenly hitting him like a wave. "I haven't slept for days. Could we talk about this later?"

"I haven't slept much at all since you left me."

"
Me
r
de
,"
he breathed, leaning back against the door, shutting his eyes in exasperation. "Fuck," he softly swore, the expletive exhaled in a disgruntled rush of air and then he opened his eyes and pushed away from the door. Walking a half dozen steps, he dropped into a chair. The silence suddenly seemed palpable, heavy and querulous, humming with dissatisfaction, and Serena felt a drifting sadness insinuate itself into her anger and scorn. She could never have him, she thought, as if a door had suddenly closed on their shared memories.

He was contemplating the toes of his dusty boots stretched out before him when he began speaking again, his slouched pose graphic with disaffection. "I'm not sure I've slept either," he murmured, his voice a husky rasp, "not since I left Florence, but then I haven't been sober much, which blurs recall. And if other women could have made me forget you, I would have, believe me." He grimaced at the comfortless memories.

"So what are we going to do?" Serena cautiously asked. He was differen
t
—
h
is tone, his words, the insolent contempt gone.

His gaze came up and he stared at her from under his lashes. "I know what / want to do."

"You're persistent at least," she whispered.

"I'm mostly tired. If you keep talking long enough I'll fall asleep and no longer be of danger to you."

"You're not dangerous to me." His exhaustion suddenly showe
d
and
she realized with an elemental profundity that his search for her was driven by more than casual desire and force majeure.

"Come closer then." His voice was hushed, sleepy. "I won't ravish you. I don't have the energy."

She moved away from the bed and slowly approached him. "How long have you been on the road?"

She could see the effort it took him to concentrate. "Four or five days; I'm not sure."

"Because you love me." She said it very softly, trembling as she spoke, made bold perhaps by her success with Massena, thinking she had nothing to lose if she were viewed by Beau as mere chattel.

He shook his head and looked away. "I don't think so. ..." And then he shifted restlessly, slowly recrossing his ankles, leaving new smudges on the hooked carpet from his boots. "I don't know . . . maybe . . ." He slid lower in his chair as if protecting himself from demons. "But I'm resisting like hell," he murmured, contemplating some distant view out the window.

Surely not an admission to bring unalloyed joy, but Serena smiled anyway, recognizing the effort it took for him to voice the words, however ambiguous.

"I don't suppose you want to get married."

His gaze flashed upward, wide-eyed, shocked. "Christ no. I'm only twenty-two."

"We should be sensible then," she said, her happiness destroyed. "You don't want to be married. I don't want to be your mistres
s
—
i
t's such a transient role in your life," she pointed out as though he'd not noticed. It wasn't as though compromise was possible with such disparate views, she thought, and much as she loved him, she loved herself as well. "So thank you for coming after me," she went on, her voice trembling with regret, "but I don't see a reasonable solution."

It was hard to think when he hadn't slept for so long, but he didn't want to let her go and he knew he couldn't force her to stay for long. Furthermore, she'd been constantly in his thought
s
—
f
or month
s
—
w
hich had to mean something, he decided with blunt male practicality. "What if"—
h
e paused, the shocking thought paralyzing his tongue for a momen
t
—"what if we were to marry?" he cautiously negotiated, plunging dubiously into an unknown world, the words sounding foreign in his ears, incomprehensible. "Neville and Harper married and it didn't change their life much," he murmured half to himself like a convincing argument. "And Freddie Stennis too."

"I don't want that kind of marriage," she said, knowing she should be more hopeful and just say yes.

His lashes half shaded his eyes when he looked up at her. "You're damned hard to please."

"It would break my heart a thousand times to see you leave me for another woman or hear about it over tea."

"Other wives survive." He'd bedded scores of them.

"I don't want to just survive."

"Jesus," he muttered, the thought of fidelity alarming, impossible. "I don't know how to be faithful," he said. "I can't."

"I understand." And she did. He was too young and the wealthy son of a wealthy duke could aspire much higher for a marriage partne
r
—
i
n that far-off time when he could contemplate the act without such trepidation.