“Well, then you will be pleased to know that I have no expectations, either. You needn’t marry me on that account.”
Conrad exploded. “The hell I needn’t. You’re a young lady of quality, Winifred Langston, however much you try to pretend otherwise, and for once, you’re going to behave like one and do as you ought instead of as you want. And what you ought to do, when you have been as thoroughly ruined by a gentleman as you have by me, is marry him…and be grateful that he offered of his own volition.”
If he wanted to rub salt into the wound he’d already cut open, he could not have chosen better, more effective words. But he also could not have chosen better, more effective words to prove that she was in the right to reject him.
Later, she would allow herself to feel the pain. For now, all she felt was an unnatural calm. A kind of emptiness, so hollow and cavernous, she might fall in and never claw her way out.
When she spoke, it seemed as if someone else was saying the words. “I am grateful for the offer, Conrad, but I still refuse it. There are only two people who know I am ruined, and no one else will know unless you or I tell tales. I have no plans to do so, and I cannot imagine you are anxious to confess our sins to my brother.”
“And if you have conceived a child? I will not permit our child to be born into bastardy. Not to mention that the truth would come out rather quickly.”
She sighed. A pregnancy would be impossible to conceal, and Nash would soon wring the facts from her. The only thing that could be worse than marrying Conrad because he demanded it would be marrying him because her brother demanded it.
“We should know within a few days. If my flow does not arrive on time, then I’ll send word to you.”
“And you will marry me then?”
She nodded. “I am not so selfish that I would put my own desires before the best interests of my child.”
Conrad swallowed and turned away. He probably didn’t want her to see the relief flooding his face. And in all honesty, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry at him for feeling that way. She’d pushed him last night, forced him into doing things he’d never have done without temptation. Kissing her, spanking her, and—she had to close her eyes to prevent herself from swaying with the deliciousness of the memory—fucking her.
She had fancied she was doing him a favor, giving him permission to reveal and revel in a part of his nature he felt compelled to repress. Instead, it seemed she had only managed to give him a glimpse of a side of himself he reviled. Conrad didn’t long to be wilder and less inhibited, didn’t secretly ache to live his life with more passion and less restraint. He liked being a staid, upstanding English gentleman.
Most of all, he certainly didn’t long for a wife like her. What he wanted was a proper, well-bred lady who would wear only skirts, stitch samplers, and lie quietly beneath him while he bred his heirs upon her.
Just because she’d got him to play the part of a ruthless highwayman didn’t mean that was who he wanted to be. But if he wasn’t the bold, demanding lover she’d been with last night, then he wasn’t the right man for her because she could no more imagine lying quietly while her husband did his business than she could imagine giving up breeches or making clean, neat stitches in a piece of cloth.
Weak, silvery light filtered in around the edges of the boarded up window. It was time to end the charade.
“It’s dawn,” she said. “We should be going, or Nash will wonder why we’re late.”
Conrad nodded as he finished knotting his cravat. Freddie’s heart squeezed so tight, she feared it might have stopped beating altogether. Clad entirely in black but for the small triangle of his white shirt peeking out above his waistcoat and that blindingly white strip of linen around his throat, he was painfully handsome. Somehow, her intimate knowledge of the fine architecture of the body that lay beneath those layers of clothing only intensified his attractiveness.
She wanted nothing more than to drop to her knees in front of him, open the fall of his trousers, and take that beautiful cock of his back into her mouth. If she thought it would change his mind—if she thought it would make him love her—she would have done it.
But in her heart of hearts, she knew it would only be more proof that she wasn’t the proper lady he craved. Freddie felt fairly certain that just as well-bred English roses didn’t ride astride or smoke cheroots, they didn’t love sucking cock or being fucked like one of Miss May’s paid harlots. But Freddie did, and that wasn’t going to change. Especially not now that she knew precisely how wonderful those things could be.
A wry smile touched her lips. Odd that, although she hadn’t made it to Miss May’s as she’d originally intended, she’d learned exactly what all the fuss was about when it came to mating. For that, she could not bring herself to be sorry.
Conrad started for the door.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He paused and looked over his shoulder at her, his brow furrowed. “I don’t think so.”
She pointed to the table, where his black highwayman’s mask lay in crumpled ball. He had to be wearing it when he turned her over to Nash for the “ransom.”
If she hadn’t known better, she might have mistaken the expression that crossed his face as one of regret. She might even have imagined that he’d forgotten the mask on purpose, hoping she wouldn’t notice, so that they’d be caught out.
“Oh, right,” he said, nodding. “Foolish of me to forget.”
He held out his hand. She tossed him the mask, which he caught and donned without further comment.
The charade was over; let the charade begin.
The one where she impersonated someone who didn’t have a broken heart.
9
“Viscount Langston is here to see you, sir.”
Startled, Conrad looked up from his morning coffee. At not even ten of the clock, it was far too early for standard social calls. Peele, the butler, made this calm announcement from the arched doorway that separated the dining room from the main hall. Pressed, polished, and proper as always, the aging servant appeared utterly unperturbed by this anomaly. But then, it was Peele’s job to be unperturbed by even the most outlandish events.
Conrad took another slow sip of his coffee in an attempt to soothe his rattled nerves. It had been nine days since the night at the woodcutter’s cottage. Freddie had promised that she would contact him if she suspected a pregnancy, but what if she hadn’t? What if she had conceived but hadn’t kept her word to let him know? If Nash had found out…
Conrad’s chest felt weighted by concrete blocks. He’d trusted her promise and spent the better part of the previous week on tenterhooks, alternately hoping that she had conceived a child and that she hadn’t.
He was a seething mass of contradiction on the matter. He wanted her. Ached for her. To the point that he lay awake at night, stroking himself until he was spent as he replayed every wicked moment of their encounter. He doubted he would ever again find a woman whose craving for submission and surrender seemed so perfectly to mirror his own need for domination and control.
And yet…and yet, she was still Freddie. Wild, irrepressible, intractable Winifred Langston, who always did exactly as she pleased and never obeyed anyone. Except him when he had ordered her to take off her clothes, spread her legs, suck his cock, fuck him.
Hell and damnation, he had to stop going there.
But that was the real problem, wasn’t it? He would go there with her. For the rest of his life, if he married her. He would never be able to treat her like a wife; he would always treat her like a mistress. Like a whore. And that unsettled him for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, even to himself.
Added to that was Freddie herself. She might bend to his will in the bedroom, but would she be equally compliant when it came to the demands of being an aristocratic wife? If they married, she would one day be his countess, and his countess must be a model of domestic feminine virtue. Even if Freddie consented never to wear breeches and hencef
orth to ride sidesaddle, he doubted she would ever fit anyone’s picture of a proper English lady.
Least of all his own, because he would be fucking her every night like anything but a lady. How on earth could he ever reconcile that?
“Sir?” Peele repeated.
Conrad cleared his throat and set down his coffee cup. “Yes, of course. He’s waiting in the front parlor?”
The butler nodded, bowed, and turned to depart.
“Er, Peele?”
The servant promptly faced him. “Yes, sir?”
“Did the viscount seem…well, out of sorts? Angry?”
Peele’s expression almost never hinted at emotion, but his sparse, graying eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “I’m sure it isn’t my place to say, sir.”
“I’d like you to make it your place.” Conrad needed some hint of what he would face when he greeted his friend.
The butler frowned, clearly displeased with this directive. “In that case, I would say his lordship not only did not seem out of sorts, he seemed quite cheerful. One might even say jolly.”
With these words, Peele bowed and beat a hasty retreat, no doubt concerned he would be asked to do something else he considered improper.
Conrad made his way to the parlor, feeling more puzzled—and worried—than ever. If Nash wasn’t here to demand satisfaction for his ruined sister, then why had he come so early? Even out here in the country, where the day began and ended much earlier than it did in Town, no one made rounds until at least noon.
When Conrad reached the front parlor, a large room that was made to appear much smaller by the fussy, frilly décor his mother favored, he found Nash pacing in front of the fireplace. His friend caught sight of Conrad as he came through the open door and greeted him with a grin that was nothing if not jovial.
“Ah, there you are. I was afraid I’d caught you still abed. Sorry to have come so early, but I wanted to see you before we leave for London later this afternoon.”
Conrad blinked. Leave for London? This afternoon? “I thought you weren’t planning to leave until the first of October.”
“I wasn’t, but that’s changed, and it’s all thanks to you, my friend. I don’t know how you did it, and Freddie won’t tell any of us what happened—not even Walter, and she tells him everything—but whatever it was, it worked better than I could have hoped. She’s completely chastened. Not only has she given up her breeches, she actually demanded yesterday that we leave for London as soon as possible. She says she is anxious to begin the search for a husband, if you can believe it.” Nash shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself.
“Is she?” Conrad asked mildly, even as his innards churned with a strange mixture of hot and cold rage.
“Yes. Quite a surprise, don’t you think?”
Not as surprising as you might think. Conrad could think of at least one very good reason for Freddie to be anxious to find a husband. But as he considered this possibility, it dawned on him that even if his suspicion was wrong and she wasn’t carrying his child, the very notion of her marrying another man made him want to tear something apart. He could no more imagine her in another man’s bed than he could imagine himself in another woman’s.
And that, really, made what he had long believed was too complicated and impractical to ever work seem simple and even sensible. Why couldn’t he marry his friend’s younger sister? Why couldn’t he marry his younger brother’s friend? And why shouldn’t his wife be his mistress? It would certainly be much more efficient that way.
“In any event,” Nash went on, oblivious to Conrad’s inner dialogue, “I just wanted to come by and let you know just how much I appreciate what you’ve done. I know you weren’t keen on the notion, and frankly, I wasn’t entirely convinced she wouldn’t sniff out the masquerade in a minute or simply shrug the whole thing off as an amusing adventure. But somehow, you frightened her straight out of her breeches, and for that, I owe you a debt of gratitude.” He thrust out his hand.
Conrad took his friend’s hand and shook it, although he could not bring himself to accept his thanks. Not when he had already violated the man’s trust. Not when he had every intention of doing it again. “What time will you be leaving for London, then?”
“As soon as the coach is ready and our trunks are packed. If Freddie were any other woman, the packing alone would take days, but of course, she hasn’t much in the way of appropriate attire to bring.” He chuckled. “The one downside to this enterprise is that it’s going to cost me a small fortune in London to purchase her a proper wardrobe, but if it results in her being happily married, it will be worth it.” As the two men released hands, Nash sobered. “I know it may seem as if I’m trying to foist her off on some other unsuspecting gentleman, but in all honesty, I have genuinely worried about her since our father died. She couldn’t go on being a child forever, could she?”
“No, of course not,” Conrad agreed, although the truth was that the only people who’d behaved like children were her father and brothers. “And I’m sure the man who marries her will know exactly what he’s getting himself into.”
Because that man will be me.
Nash laughed. “Perhaps you’re right. The leopard doesn’t truly change its spots, does it? Freddie will always be Freddie, won’t she?”
“So, you’ll be heading out in a few hours?”
“Shortly after lunch, barring any unexpected delays.” If Nash thought Conrad’s insistence on knowing the timing of their departure was odd, he didn’t show it.
“Well, then, you’d better be going to oversee the proceedings.” And to give me time to delay them.
Preferably forever.
Dabney, Freddie’s lady’s maid, was delirious with excitement at the prospect of going to London. This was not merely because she had always longed to see London for herself—a Lancashire girl by birth, she had never even been as far as Manchester, let alone a city as grand as London—but because for once, she would have something useful to do. Freddie had never been much of a charge when it came to exercising Dabney’s not inconsiderable training as a hairdresser and cosmetician. Though she never complained, Freddie was well aware that her servant felt herself wasted in the service of a young lady who cared more for horses and target practice than for ball gowns, jewelry, and elaborate hairstyles.
Now, she rifled through the gowns in Freddie’s wardrobe, declaring each one more unsuitable than the last while nonetheless meticulously preparing them all for packing in the enormous trunk that occupied the center of the chamber. Her own assistance not remotely needed for the enterprise, Freddie curled in the window seat that looked out over the expansive front lawn of Barrowcreek Park and wondered if she would ever see it again.
But, of course, that was melodramatic. She would marry and live somewhere else—perhaps in London, perhaps on a country estate in some other part of England—but she would always be welcome here. She and her husband would surely come and visit from time to time, whether for house parties or her brothers’ weddings or holidays. But it would never again be her home, and that loss, along with the others she had suffered in the last few days, ripped at her heart like tiny claws.
She should have been relieved when the evidence that she had not conceived Conrad’s child came precisely on schedule. Instead, she’d been filled with a puzzling but nonetheless crushing sense of disappointment that sent her to her bed for the entire day. It wasn’t that she regretted her decision not to marry Conrad, but rather the bittersweet certainty that she would never carry the child of the man she loved. The notion was so sentimental and absurd that she stayed in bed for the better part of the following day, just to be sure she’d rid herself completely of her inexplicably feminine melancholy.
London was bound to be good for her. She needed to get away from Barrowcreek, from Winmarleigh, from Thomas and Nash and Walter. From everything and everyone that made her think of Conrad and her ridiculous infatuation with him. Her heart wasn’t broken; she was made of sterner s
tuff that. But it was bruised. In London, it could heal, and the sooner she got the damaged organ there, the better.
Blinking to dispel the tears gathering in her eyes—really, the upstairs maid ought to be sacked, for she was doing an execrable job when it came to beating the dust out of window seat cushions—Freddie realized it had been some time since she had heard the maid mutter something uncharitable about one of her gowns. She turned to see how Dabney was getting along, and—
“That was a fine imitation of Lot’s wife. For a moment, I actually thought you’d turned into a pillar of salt.”
Freddie’s heart threatened to crash out of her rib cage. Conrad. Dressed once again in black, but this time without the highwayman’s mask, he stood in the center of her bedchamber, inches from her bed and the colorful pile of gowns Dabney had stacked on it.
The world tilted drunkenly as Freddie struggled for breath, for continued consciousness, for anything intelligent to say.
“What are you doing here?” Alas, that was probably not the cleverest opening salvo.
“At this precise moment, I am pondering the incongruity of discovering you own this many dresses.”
Willing her wobbly legs to some semblance of rigidity, Freddie stood up. “You know that’s not what I mean. I want to know why you’ve come here. Does Nash know you’re here?” Before he could answer, she shook her head. “But no, of course, he doesn’t because you wouldn’t be in my bedchamber if he did. In which case, how did you get up here without anyone stopping you?” She narrowed her eyes and glanced suspiciously around the room. “And what have you done with my maid?”
“Are you done now?” His tone held a quiver of amusement.
“For now, yes.” She crossed her arms over her chest. When his gaze immediately dropped to her bosom, she uncrossed them, not because she was offended by his interest in her breasts, but because his interest in them caused an answering heat to blossom in her abdomen and between her thighs.
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