The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  “No, really,” called Ward. “I shall return directly.”

  He was coming to fetch her. She ran swiftly back to the bench. Quick light steps were approaching as she opened it. The resultant confusion was chaotic. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “But there are no cats, you know.”

  The steps were very close. She let out a discreetly quiet scream, and swayed convincingly.

  A startled exclamation. Swift movements, and a strong arm was supporting her. She could smell the fragrance of him. A faint essence of shaving soap; a hint of a clean, manly scent. She sagged limply, not daring to peep. Her pulses leapt with triumph when she heard a quick intake of breath, then felt a kiss pressed tenderly on her brow. He would do better than that, surely? She had not long to wait. His lips were soon caressing her cheek, her throat. Her heart began to thunder when the kisses moved lower. Ward was more daring than she had thought. Much more daring! She shivered to an electrifying thrill.

  And she knew. Her eyes flew open.

  With a mocking smile, de Villars bent above her.

  “You!” she exclaimed, leaping back.

  He bowed. “Am I not the most fortunate of men to have been delegated to come and fetch you?”

  “You are despicable!” she raged. “Have you not insulted me enough?”

  He put up his quizzing glass and scanned her flushed face with offended innocence. “Insulted you? How?”

  “You know what you just did!”

  “I do,” he grinned. “But you should not, for you were swooning, I think.”

  “Well, I was, but— Oh! I thought you were Sir Peter!”

  “You surprise me. I’d no idea he was such a naughty boy.”

  “He is not! You know—I mean—I would not have—”

  “Not have objected had he—ah, caressed you as did I?” He swung the glass gently at the end of its red velvet riband, and murmured shrewdly, “Or did you perchance fancy you had entrapped him—at last?”

  With a snort of impotent fury, Rebecca turned on her heel. And was seized, wrenched around by hands of iron, and crushed against his muscular body. “Foolish, most enchanting little creature,” he breathed huskily. “Why will you persist in denying your heart?”

  His mouth was very close; his eyes ineffably tender. And whether or not it was denied, her traitorous heart was trying its best to jump right through her poor abused ribs. “I—I do no such thing,” she asserted, and demanded feebly, “Loose me … at once.…”

  He did not loose her. Instead, his lips sought hers with a fierce insistence. She seemed to melt under them, and that same heady weakness was overpowering her faint decision to scratch him. A fundamental need to draw breath rescued her from this disgraceful delirium. She tore her head away and dragged a hand across her mouth.

  Still holding her, de Villars murmured, “I love you, sweeting. More, I swear, than I have ever loved. Forget this sordid pursuit of fortune. It would not serve, for—”

  “Sordid!” She pushed him away and, because she was very afraid, half sobbed, “Let me be! Oh—let me be! Can you not see that I do not want you? And you do not love me! You desire me, only, and try to force me. But—love cannot be forced! Have you never learnt that?”

  He stiffened. With a curl of the lip, he said, “Were Peter Ward as—as penniless as I—would you choose him, I wonder?”

  “Yes! And yes! Were he poor and had no title, I would still honour him, for he treats me always with respect. Not once has he grabbed me as though I were the merest trollop! Never has he forced so much as a hug upon me, much less crushed me like a demented bear and smothered me with odious unwanted kisses!”

  His mouth became a thin, hard line. He gave a grunt of cynicism and with anger flaring in his eyes said curtly, “The more fool he!”

  “How typical that you should think so! Oh, you may say ’tis only that I long for position and—and security. But the truth is that Peter Ward offers so much more!”

  One brow lifted in surprise. “Offers? Have you then manoeuvred him into a proposal of marriage? My felicitations, ma’am.”

  The choice of words, the contemptuous sneer made her shiver with rage. “I have manoeuvred him into nothing! But—but if he should—”

  “Come up to scratch?” he supplied.

  “If he should offer,” she said, fixing him with a look of withering scorn, “I am perfectly sure it would be with honour!”

  De Villars contemplated the small, angry face, the flashing eyes, and his own gaze fell. “And—what if I were to make you a—er, similarly ‘honourable’ offer?”

  Was he truly offering her marriage? The Licentious Rake? The Libertine of London? Astounded, and with a sudden breathlessness quickening her bosom, she stared at him.

  He glanced up from under his lashes. The expression he had so hoped to see was not there. The incredulity in her lovely face was instead a thing so wounding that his wrath flared. “No title and small fortune present an insurmountable barrier, I see,” he said, and added with disgust, “How typical! You women are all alike.”

  Rebecca gave a gasp. He was impossible! And how dare such as he censure her? “How could you offer me a similarly honourable proposal?” she countered, just as willing to hurt as was he. “Sir Peter stands for all the things you do not!”

  He whitened. “Does he, indeed? I must congratulate the peerless gentleman. And amongst those things, you list—what? A saintly morality? Nobility par excellence? In addition to looks and money, of course.”

  Close to hysteria, Rebecca saw only his sneer and acid eyes, while the little pulse that beat beside his jaw, the spasmodic clenching of his hands escaped her. Gritting her teeth, she ground out, “Yes! Honour above all things! Courage and compassion and selfishness! Have you ever known such, Mr. de Villars? Have you ever cared for anything but your own needs? Have you ever imagined that love might be something other than the brief passion of a night spent with some lightskirt? That it might be a mutual caring and respect—a sharing of burdens and happiness and sorrows, down through the years? A growing together that becomes something more than love—more of a oneness—a belonging. The lady so fortunate as to wed Sir Peter Ward will know that, I am assured! She will never face the unhappy probability that a—a bird of paradise lures him away, or that some lovely highflyer has been comfortably established nearby! For the ring he puts on her finger will stand for all that is beautiful and holy and lasting in a marriage!”

  She paused, appalled by the forthright words temper had goaded her into uttering. She felt weak and shaken. What a speech she had made! And how still he was, how pale as he stood there, staring at her with that odd, blank look in his eyes! Lord knows, she’d not meant to scourge him so. But he had thoroughly upset and enraged her.

  De Villars drew a deep breath. “Dear me,” he murmured ironically. “I really have established myself as the complete blackguard, I see.”

  Tears blurred Rebecca’s eyes, and a lump rose in her throat. She was overwrought, which was not to be wondered at after such a dreadful scene, but she did not want him to see her weep, and so stepped quickly to the door. He made no attempt to stay her, but she could not leave with such bitter words between them and, hurriedly drying her tears, she turned back.

  He stood with head downbent, watching the quizzing glass swing slowly from one hand. He was very pale still, and on his lips that cynical mockery of a smile. Rebecca thought with a pang of remorse that, whatever else, he had spared Snow. He was not a blackguard, she thought repentantly, but before she could speak, he glanced up.

  “You play fair, I see,” he said. “Thank you for granting me time for a rebuttal.” He wandered towards her.

  Rebecca edged back uneasily.

  He lifted one hand in a calming gesture. “Have no fears. I shall not again molest you. We have, perhaps, come to know one another better in our few stolen moments than many couples who stand before the altar together. For one thing at least, I must honour you, ma’am: your concept of the married state. The relationsh
ip you so graphically described is surely one that has been yearned for by countless maids and men.” He gave a slight shrug and the sardonic lines beside his nostrils deepened. “It would surprise you to know that even I, in my—ah, dark depravity, have longed for such a blessed partnership.”

  Remorseful, she tried to speak, but again his slim hand made an imperative gesture, and he went on, “That type of paradise, however, has little to do with avarice and ambition. And I doubt will prove any easier to find by your methods, Mrs. Parrish, than by mine own.”

  * * *

  It was past two o’clock before the last card game was concluded and sleepy footmen began to snuff out the lights in the drawing room. Sir Peter handed a candle to the rather bosky commodore who still lingered in the hall, summoned a lackey to aid the befuddled gentleman to his bedchamber, and smothered a yawn. As was his habit before retiring, he went back into the drawing room to assure himself that the terrace doors were locked, and was mildly surprised to see the glow of a cheroot outside. He opened the door and, joining his guest, said, “What, you, Treve? Not quite in your style to gaze at the moon, is it, old fellow?”

  Perched on the low wall that edged the terrace, de Villars surveyed him coolly. “Are you wearing your sword, Peter? No, I see you are not. Regrettable. I really think I might like to run you through.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air and, watching it spiral, grey against the night sky, added, “And through. And through.”

  “Good God!” Ward laughed uncertainly. “A fine way to treat your friends! What have I done?”

  “I am informed on excellent authority that you are honourable, courageous, compassionate, and selfless.”

  Ward uttered a strangled exclamation, and de Villars amended, “Forgot one. That you will be a faithful and devoted husband.”

  Sir Peter’s brows lifted. “Aha!” He sauntered to lean back against the wall beside his friend and, folding his arms, said, “The lady shows most excellent judgement. Are you acknowledging defeat, then?”

  De Villars swore softly and savagely. “You shall have my draft in the morning. A thousand, I think?”

  “Yes.” Watching the lean profile outlined against the faint glow from the windows, Ward said slowly, “She properly sent you to the right-about, eh?”

  “Oh, absolutely. She grassed me, stepped upon my loathsome carcass, and wiped her dainty shoes upon me. Had she not been such a gently bred chit, I do believe she would have spat upon me.” He ground out his cheroot on the terrace wall, smiled without mirth, and said, “I am quite hors de combat, my Peter. The field is yours.” He offered a flourishing bow, and started off.

  Straightening, Ward caught his arm. “Wait.”

  De Villars looked over his shoulder. “Never say you do not want the lady?”

  “Have I said it? She is a very choice little creature.”

  “Spare me.”

  They started to the doors together. Inside, Ward turned the key and said slowly, “What a gudgeon you are. You had two ace cards. Why not play them?”

  “I played one.” De Villars shrugged, his face unreadable in the dimness. “It did not serve. Even the glorious opportunity—so seldom given, you’ll mind—to bear my name, did not move her.”

  “You—offered for her? Marriage?”

  “Damn you, Peter! You sound as astonished as was she! Hell and the devil confound it, am I so base?” The lazy drawl had vanished, the words uneven and strained, as though torn from him.

  Ward slipped a consoling hand onto one powerful shoulder. “No, Treve. Of course you are not. You only like to make everyone believe you are. ’Fraid it’s caught up with you, dear old boy.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  “Of course I believe it!” Strolling through the dewy morning, one hand resting lightly on her escort’s arm, Mrs. Boothe said indignantly, “It is always de Villars! I vow, Mr. Melton, he is Rebecca’s Nemesis! Everything runs along nicely, and then up pops that wretched man and my poor niece’s plans are scattered to the four winds! Oh, I beg you will not ask what it was he said last evening, for she refuses to tell me. I only know she was happy and hopeful of—er, enjoying a lovely time, and then he came! She was so enraged I dare swear she never slept a wink! Is a wretch, Mr. Melton! A libertine and a—a marplot! I wish he would be gone and allow my sweet Becky to be happy and carefree once again!”

  “Well, he has, ma’am,” soothed Mr. Melton, daring to pat the small hand upon his sleeve.

  However lost in resentment, Mrs. Boothe was aware of this little caress, and she blushed becomingly. “He has?” she echoed. “De Villars is gone? Oh—are you perfectly sure, sir?”

  “My man told me his bed was not slept in, and that his valet is properly in the boughs because there has been no word from him. He has a favourite mare he always rides here, and she also is gone. I have been unable to learn more, but—” He shrugged. “’Twould seem to indicate he has left.”

  “How famous!” exclaimed Mrs. Boothe. “Might we return to the cottage, Mr. Melton? I can scarce wait to tell Rebecca—’twill make her so exceeding glad!”

  When the news was relayed to Rebecca, however, she did not seem at all glad. She said, “Oh,” in a very small voice, and promptly burst into tears.

  “My love!” wailed the dismayed Mrs. Boothe. “You had not wished that The Wicked Rake remain?”

  “I hate him!” raged Rebecca.

  “Of course you do, my sweet. Who would not?”

  “He saved Snowden’s life!” Rebecca gulped contrarily, glaring through her tears.

  “Well, I know but, surely—”

  “And he is not a wicked rake! He never forced— Well, he did, but I mean— He always let me go when—when I bade him.…”

  Mrs. Boothe gave a gasp, and echoed weakly, “Let you … go? You—you mean he—”

  “No, I do not,” said Rebecca, sniffing crossly. “Not that he did not try!”

  “Well, then, dearest, I do not understand why—”

  “No. You could not, but—it is—it is only that he has … spoiled everything!”

  “Yes, but—if he has gone away…?”

  “I hope he has!” Rebecca narrowed her rather reddened eyes. “I only pray I shall never see the revolting brute again!”

  And she went off to join Sir Peter and rehearse the songs she would sing tonight, leaving her aunt staring after her, nonplussed.

  Halfway across the park, Rebecca met Snowden. He came striding up the path towards her, head down. Astonished, she saw that he wore his sword and was booted and spurred and quite muddied. She was so taken aback by his sudden appearance at a party he had earlier stigmatized as being the greatest bore in creation that she halted and stood watching him approach.

  He glanced up, saw her, and waved, and she ran to hug and be hugged.

  “Rascal!” she cried, beaming into his face. “Had you meant all the time to surprise me by coming?”

  He drew her hand through his arm and walked on with her. “Coming? Oh—to the ball, you mean. Well—er, that’s it, of course. Only I was—ah, delayed. On business, y’know. And—”

  “Forty’s business?” She laughed. “But then you learnt The Monahan was to be here, so you raced back, am I right?”

  “No, is she? Jove, that’s splendid! Have you seen—er, anyone else?”

  The tone was light, yet he scanned her face intently. Scrutinizing him in turn, she said, “Of course I have, silly. Who do you— Snow! You look downright exhausted. Is something wrong? Oh—is it your poor wrist?”

  “Pho! Never! ’Tis only that—” He checked both words and stride.

  Following his uncharacteristically stern stare, Rebecca saw that an old friend approached. “Why, it is Hilary Broadbent.” She held out a welcoming hand. “Major! How very nice to see you here. Are you also come for the party?”

  “Wish I was!” The dashing young officer bowed over her hand and, straightening, said, “I’m on duty, I’m afraid, Rebecca. How do you do, Snow?”

  Boo
the said irascibly, “Dashed poorly, do you want the truth of it. Forty and I went to look over some horses, and—”

  “Went where?” asked the major with mild curiosity.

  “Eh? Oh, Newcastle.”

  “Upon-Tyne?”

  Boothe groaned an exasperated, “You too? My sister and I had at that question before I left! It’s all of a piece. Thing is, I’ve lost Forty, and—”

  “Dashed long way to go to look at a horse, was it not?”

  Again, the tone was mild, but Boothe’s eyes sparked. “No, it was not! You going to arrest me for riding to Newcastle, Broadbent?”

  Shocked, Rebecca interpolated, “Snow! You are tired, love. I’m sure Hilary did not mean—”

  “Well, I’d like to know just what the devil the major did mean! Ain’t no law against riding north, south, east, or west, to look at a spider, does a man take it into his head to do so! And if there is, I’d like to know about it, so Uncle Quincy can raise the question in the Upper House!”

  It was one of the few times in his life that Rebecca had ever heard him mention a distant, influential, and much disliked relation. Snowden, she thought, was unusually prickly today. She wondered uneasily if he had somehow learned of de Villars’ disgraceful behaviour towards her. The very thought of de Villars brought dread of another duel, and she inserted a nervous recommendation that both gentlemen come up to the house and drink a glass of wine. The major declined, saying that he must get back to his headquarters, but he would hope to drop by for a short while this evening, if only to enjoy all the costumes. He then smiled to Rebecca, nodded civilly to Boothe, and went off stablewards.

  Boothe scowled. “I’d no idea that blasted fellow was stationed hereabouts, had you?”