Surely he wouldn’t begrudge her the cab fare? Though he might relish the blow to her pride if he refused, he wouldn’t wish to appear ungenerous in front of his friends.
The hackney pulled to a stop outside the coffeehouse—a rowdy, masculine establishment thick with smoke. Sarah scanned the bow windows that gave out onto the street, but failed to see Brinsley within.
There was nothing for it. She would have to look for him inside. “Wait here, please,” Sarah called up to the driver. “I won’t be a moment.”
“Eh? Now, see here, ma’am—” But in a fair imitation of her mother’s haughty bearing, Sarah pretended not to hear and swept across the flagstones.
Inwardly, she cringed at the prospect of seeking her husband in a public coffeehouse to beg for money. She prayed he wouldn’t make the task more difficult than it needed to be. She detested scenes.
A large hand gripped her elbow, stopping her. She gasped and swung around, to see the hackney driver’s reddening face.
She swallowed hard. “Let go of me. I told you, I’ll only be a minute.”
“Where’ve I ’eard that before?” scoffed the driver. His hold tightened. “I’ll ’ave my money first, ma’am, if you please.”
Before Sarah could answer, there was a blur of movement and a dull crack. The driver dropped Sarah’s elbow with a grunt of pain, cradling his wrist. Sarah’s gaze snapped upward. Standing between them, looking down at her with those deep, dark eyes, was the Marquis of Vane.
“Did he hurt you?” He made as if to take her arm to inspect the damage for himself, but she stepped back, evading his frowning scrutiny.
She shook her head, insides clenching, heart knocking against her ribs. There didn’t seem enough air in the world to breathe. “A-a misunderstanding, merely. You are very good, but please don’t—”
Vane lowered the cane he’d used to break the man’s hold and switched his glare to the driver. “If you don’t wish to feel this stick across your back, make yourself scarce.”
The jarvey was a thickset man, but Vane towered over him, all broad chest and big shoulders and pure, masculine power. The driver blenched a little, but he retained enough spirit to mount a case in his defense.
Vane didn’t appear to listen, but nor did he stem the flow. In the jarvey’s eagerness to explain himself, he described Sarah’s excursion in unnecessary detail. He even remarked how upset madam had seemed after visiting that dirty old house off Pudding Lane.
Sarah stiffened, so humiliated she couldn’t bring herself to argue. Of all the men in the world who might have come upon her in this predicament, why did it have to be Vane?
His swift glance held a gleam of curiosity. She lifted her chin with proud disdain. She mustn’t reveal the slightest hint of weakness. He’d show her no mercy if he sensed how susceptible she was, how fiercely she longed for him in the night. She’d never acted on that yearning, never allowed Vane the slightest liberty, not even a chaste kiss on the cheek. But the shame of lying in her husband’s bed while she ached for another man’s touch was slowly corroding her soul.
The marquis gave no sign he believed the driver’s story, but when Sarah said nothing to contradict it, he flicked a coin to the jarvey and dismissed him with a nod. Before she could protest, the man was gone.
Vane turned to her. “Come, I’ll escort you home.”
His low, resonant tone stroked down her spine in a warm, velvet caress. A shocking wave of heat rolled through her body, left her trembling from head to toe. It was an effort to stop her voice from shaking like the rest of her. “That won’t be necessary, thank you,” she managed. “It is but a step.” She gripped her hands together. “I haven’t the funds with me, I’m afraid, but my husband will reimburse you. If you’d be so good as to find him . . .”
Vane followed her gaze to the coffeehouse and his jaw tightened. “I don’t want repayment,” he said harshly.
No, of course he didn’t. Vane’s wealth surpassed most men’s dreams. There was only one thing he’d ever wanted from her. He still wanted it. She knew by the suppressed violence in him, the tension that held his large frame utterly still. As if he needed to exercise restraint over every cell in his body to stop himself from touching her.
She was in no better state. Her senses feasted on him—his dominating presence, the deep as midnight voice, that unique masculine scent. His dark hair was cropped brutally short, with no attempt to soften the slightly hawkish nose and sharp cheekbones that stood out from his lean cheeks in high relief. He carried himself like a Roman general, with the grace of an athlete and a habit of command.
Even in the open, bustling street, Sarah felt crowded, oppressed, overwhelmed by him. Her pride refused to let her take a backward step. But oh, she wanted to. She wanted to run.
All she could do was conceal her fear behind that familiar mask of ice. “Thank you. I’m obliged to you,” she said in a colorless tone. She’d repay him the minute she could. She dreaded being beholden to him, even for such a negligible sum.
He continued to stand there, waiting, as if he expected something from her. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew it was more than she could possibly give. She glanced at the coffeehouse. She needed to get away.
“So cold,” breathed Vane. “You are . . . quite the most unfeeling woman I’ve ever met.”
Sarah forced her lips into a thin, cynical smile. How little he knew her. The danger had always been that she felt far, far too much. An excess of sensibility had led to the great downfall of her existence. But she’d learned a hard lesson at the tender age of seventeen. She’d never let emotion overtake her good sense again. She’d paid for her impulsive choice every day for the past ten years.
The suffering had increased a hundredfold since she’d met Vane.
They stared at one another without speaking. The everyday world rushed past in a muted blur, as if she and Vane were surrounded by smoked glass. Those compelling dark eyes bore into hers, determined to read her secret yearning, searching for a response.
Her heart gave a mighty surge, as if it would leap from her chest into his. But she’d built a stronghold around her heart from the flotsam of wrecked dreams. That irresponsible organ was in no danger.
The miracle was that she still had a heart at all.
Someone jostled her as they hurried past. The strange bubble of suspended time burst and the world flooded back, swirling around them. Sarah turned away.
And there, in the bow window of Brown’s Coffeehouse, stood Brinsley, her husband.
Watching.
THE Marquis of Vane flicked a glance at Brinsley Cole across the card table, betraying no hint of the animosity he felt. Vane was—as ever—in control.
The murmur of hardened gamesters intent on play surrounded them, punctuated by rattles of dice and the clack of a ball skittering around the E.O. wheel. Occasionally, a low rumble broke out after a win or a loss, but the object of this hell was serious play, and the general mood was quiet and tense. Even the doxies attending each table knew their charms paled next to the turn of the card and delayed their lusty propositions until the hand was done.
Vane hardly knew what brought him here tonight. He didn’t care the snap of his fingers for games of chance, and still less did he care to bed any of the unappealing women who graced the establishment. Whatever had prompted him to visit Crockford’s, he wished he’d ignored the impulse. Then he would not have to suffer Cole’s infernal smugness, nor remember with every breath that Cole possessed what Vane desired more than anything in the world.
She was fresh in his mind, a rapid, hard pulse in his body, an ache that never quite abated, which had flared to burning agony when he’d stood so close to her that afternoon.
He’d wanted to leave as soon as he saw Brinsley Cole already seated at the card tables tonight, but that might have created talk he wished to avoid. So he’d smiled, and sat and played cards with a man he’d sooner never lay eyes on again. He doubted he fooled anyone at all.
“How fares your lady wife, Brinsley?” Rockfort slid a glance at Vane as he dealt the cards.
In spite of himself, Vane tensed. Braced for the reply.
Cole lurched to his feet, spilling a buxom trollop from his lap and a dash of claret down his gold embroidered waistcoat. A sneer crossed his angelic features as he raised his glass for a toast.
“To the Lady Sarah Cole! The woman who can out scold a Billingsgate fishwife, freeze a man’s balls off with her frosty green glare. My lords, gentlemen—my damned virago of a wife!”
Cole flourished a bow and drank deep.
The gaming hell faded to oblivion. Vane heard nothing above the roar in his ears. The wild beast inside him raged to lunge across the table, wrap hands around that slender throat, and choke the life out of Brinsley Cole.
Muscles bunched and aching with the effort of restraint, Vane composed his features into a disinterested mask and picked up his cards. He had no right to defend Lady Sarah against her own husband. If he spoke up, people would assume he was her lover. He glanced around the table. Perhaps they already did. He was famed for getting what he wanted, and he’d wanted Lady Sarah from the second he’d laid eyes on her seven years before.
Everyone, it seemed, waited for him to speak.
Vane raised his glass of Burgundy to his lips. He sipped, savored, then set the glass on the table in a precise, controlled movement. Without glancing at his cards, he threw them down. “Gentlemen, I’ve recalled a pressing engagement. I shall bid you good night.”
A murmur rippled around the table as he swept up his winnings. Cole, damn his soul to hell, smirked and waved a hand. “My lord, I’ll come with you.”
Over the players’ heads, Vane sent him a brief, scorching glare. As he turned to leave, he saw Rockfort twitch Cole’s sleeve in warning. But despite its porcelain perfection, Cole’s skin was thick as elephant hide. He stumbled out in Vane’s wake.
The frigid air speared Vane through his greatcoat but did nothing to cool his blood. Brinsley Cole must be blind or suicidal to follow him into a dark alley. The man begged to be throttled and thrown in the gutter along with the other refuse and scum.
Drawing on his gloves, Vane halted and turned around. “What do you want?”
Brinsley swaggered toward him. “The question, my lord Marquis, is what do you want? I’ll wager I know the answer.”
Vane’s sigh fogged the air. “Is this where you try to sell me another of your schemes, Brinsley? Canals in Jamaica, that sort of thing?”
His companion barely seemed to notice the veiled insult. Despite Vane’s attempt to distract him, Brinsley knew he was onto something. Vane saw it in the avid light that entered the man’s wide, soulful eyes. Brinsley scented a weakness, and he’d worry at Vane like a hound at a wounded stag until he worked out how to turn it to best advantage.
Finally, Brinsley spoke. “You want my wife,” he said softly. “You always have.”
Shock ricocheted through Vane’s mind. Brinsley knew? He’d always known, it seemed. Had Sarah told her husband of Vane’s interest? The idea sliced his chest like a finely honed blade. Suddenly, the past rushed back; events and conversations changed color and shape.
He dragged his mind to the present. He needed to remain calm, keep a cool head. He wanted Lady Sarah more than he wanted air to breathe, it was true. Her husband knew it, but what difference did that make? As long as Vane made no admissions, Brinsley could think what he liked.
“If you wish to call me out, name your friends, Cole. Otherwise, shut your filthy little mouth.” With one careless finger, he flicked Brinsley’s wilted shirt-point. “Go home, man. You are drunk. Worse than that, you are tedious.”
“Home. Oh, yes!” Brinsley chortled, enjoying himself now. “What wouldn’t you give to be in my shoes, eh? Trotting off home to my tasty little wife. And do you know what I’ll do to her when I get—”
Fury ripped through Vane’s blood. He slammed Brinsley against the stone wall, pinning him with one hand to his throat. Every fiber in Vane’s body burned to squeeze the life out of the cur then and there.
“Mercy!” Brinsley’s face was mottled red, his eyes bulging and frantic. Vane wished he’d put up some kind of resistance, but the pathetic creature made no move to defend himself, save for a feeble kick at Vane’s leather-clad shin.
Damn it, he couldn’t fight such a poor specimen, much as he yearned to dispatch him to the hottest fires of hell. Vane released his grip and Brinsley crumpled to the slimy cobbles, wheezing and coughing, clutching his throat.
Vane waited for him to recover, even lent him a hand to help him up. With a glance of disdain, he stripped off the glove that had made contact with Brinsley’s soiled person and tossed it in the gutter. “Now, what were you saying before I so rudely interrupted?”
Brinsley dashed blood from his bit lip. “You want Sarah,” he whispered, edging closer. “Badly enough to lose your famous control. That must be worth something.” He smiled. “That must be worth quite a lot.”
Vane remained silent. He willed himself to ignore Brinsley’s jibes, turn his back, and walk away. But he couldn’t pretend not to care. He must know what Brinsley planned. Though she was beyond his reach in every way, he needed to assure himself that Sarah would be safe.
Yet, even as those altruistic thoughts crossed his mind, a small echo of honesty forced him to admit—Brinsley was right. He wanted Lady Sarah Cole in a way no gentleman of honor should want another man’s wife. His passion for her was like a recurring fever, rising again and again to attack him in moments of weakness. No matter how hard he trained and fought and conditioned his body, his soul was hers and always would be. For seven years, the knowledge that this worthless piece of rubbish before him possessed Lady Sarah had torn at Vane with razor-sharp claws.
Now, Brinsley offered . . . what, exactly?
“You want her,” Brinsley repeated. “You can have her . . . at a price.”
Vane sucked in a breath. Disgust and desire clashed inside him. Had he misheard? Brinsley couldn’t possibly mean . . .
Though Vane maintained his indifferent expression, even managed to look a trifle bored, the very air around them seemed to thicken with his need.
“Ten thousand pounds. For one night with my wife.” Brinsley repeated it, stressed each word. “Ten. Thousand. Pounds.”
A red haze swept over Vane’s vision. He wanted to tear Brinsley apart with his bare hands. He wanted to leave without dignifying that insane, indecent proposal with a response. He wanted to forget Lady Sarah Cole existed, excise her from his mind and heart.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t save her from Brinsley’s loathsome schemes, either. He’d tried. She’d spurned him with her cold, cruel smile. But what if the villain took this offer to another man with fewer scruples than Vane? What then?
“I ought to kill you, Cole.” Vane kept his voice low, aware that a party of men had left Crockford’s and headed their way. “Exterminate you like the vermin you are.”
Brinsley didn’t even blink. “Ah, but I’m well acquainted with your sort, my lord. I know you would not kill a man without a fair fight.” He fingered his bruised throat, then shrugged. “Call me out if you wish to see Sarah’s name dragged through the mud. I won’t meet you.”
His expression darkened. “I married that little bitch, my lord marquis. Short of bloody murder, I can treat her however I damned well please. So think well before you threaten me, sir, or your sweet Lady Sarah might suffer the consequences.”
Blind rage, all the more dangerous for its impotence, threatened to overwhelm every principle Vane held dear. He faced Brinsley in the darkness, panting with the effort of keeping his hands by his sides instead of wrapping them around the bastard’s throat. This time, he wouldn’t have the strength to let go.
He’d never killed a man before. . . .
Their misted breath clashed and roiled upward. The moonlight glinted off wet cobbles, threw Brinsley’s profile into high relief. The thoughtful poet’s br
ow that hid a conniving, low mind, the noble nose that sniffed out weakness and despair, the sculpted lips that now curled in a self-satisfied sneer.
Damn him to hell. Brinsley knew he had won.
Two
SARAH had not stopped shaking since she’d met Vane. As the evening wore on, she grew increasingly fearful of retiring to bed. If she slept, she was sure to dream of him. Dreams as vivid as memories, false promises that would torment her when she woke.
In a desperate attempt to quell the riot in her mind, Sarah let herself into the tiny attic room her landlady had allowed her to convert into a small perfume manufactory.
Donning her apron, Sarah set to work. But while her hands were busy measuring and mixing, her thoughts refused to settle. They returned again and again to that brief encounter with Vane.
The air was drenched with the scent of roses, a dizzyingly strong odor for one unaccustomed to it, but Sarah had grown used to the sickly sweet fug. Rosewater was very popular among the apothecary’s clientele; after making the stuff all this time, Sarah never wished to smell a rose again.
She scanned the jars of materials that lined the shelf on the wall opposite. If she ever dragged them out of the mire of Brinsley’s debt, she might have the luxury of experiment ing. With floral essences, of course, but also with compounds and extracts from more exotic sources—vanilla, sandalwood and rosewood, ambergris, patchouli, even spice. Woods and spices imported from the East were expensive, far beyond her means, but perhaps one day . . .
Her mind drifted to Vane’s scent—barely detectable at the distance she’d kept from him today, yet she’d know it anywhere. Sandalwood, an unusual combination of herbs, perhaps a hint of lemon. Idly, she wondered how she might reproduce it. A shaving soap, probably made from a household recipe, ought not to be difficult to simulate. . . .
Wicked Little Game Page 2