Folly! How could she even consider doing such a mawkish thing? As though she could keep him with her, if only she might capture his scent.
Sarah passed a hand over her brow, half expecting to detect a fever. But her skin was cool, a little clammy from the perfume vapor that rose from the vial heating over the flame of her small distillery. One thing was certain—she needed to stop mooning over Vane and get to work.
Bracing a cone of parchment in the circle of a wire ring, Sarah tried to steady her hand as she poured in a thin stream of the rose petal decoction she’d prepared. She couldn’t afford to spill any of the precious liquid extract. Her resources had been stretched as it was; now that her savings were gone, she needed the money from selling this batch of perfume to buy ingredients for the next.
She’d managed to supplement their income for some years now by selling perfume. Her sole client was an apothecary who knew nothing of her noble connections and wouldn’t have cared if he did. He had little interest in the more cosmetic side of his trade, but his customers went mad over the subtleties of Sarah’s perfumes, so he was pleased to keep ordering them from her. And charge his customers extra on top of whatever he paid Sarah for them, of course.
The strained syrup dripped sluggishly to collect in the glass vial beneath, as if to mark the slow, inexorable stretch of living she had left to do. Married to Brinsley. Till death do us part. Sarah closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
Vane. Was it possible to go mad with longing? She wanted him with a ferocity that terrified her. If only they’d never met. If only she could forget him, his passionate, sensual mouth, the heat in his eyes. The large body that looked as if it could shelter a woman from all of life’s storms.
Those bitter words he’d spoken that afternoon. Almost as if he truly cared . . .
When the straining process was complete, Sarah set the parchment aside and wiped her hands on the baize apron she wore to protect her gown from spills and splashes.
She spread her fingers and watched her hands tremble, then turned them over. The sight always shocked her. Perhaps she’d never grow used to the damage her new profession had wrought. Her palms showed crisscrossed scars in a network of accidents—a dire contrast from their translucent softness in those far-off days when her greatest concern had been a torn fingernail or an incipient freckle on her nose. Her lips twisted. She was a working woman now.
After her ill-fated expedition that afternoon, she needed to turn a profit from her perfume more than ever. Without money, she could do nothing about Tom’s situation. She tried to think of some way to raise funds quickly, but she’d sold everything she owned of value years ago.
Except . . .
Sarah took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door. She left the attic and hurried downstairs to the set of rooms she and Brinsley rented. In their bedchamber, hidden in the bottom drawer of her bureau, was a mahogany box. She drew it out and opened it.
Her pistol, balls, a powder horn, flint, bullet mold, and small cleaning rod lay inside. The pistol was an elegant, la dylike weapon, designed to be carried inside a muff. She turned it in her hands and watched the candlelight’s gleam slide along the silver barrel, glittering around the intricate scrollwork engravings that decorated the action.
Her father had given it to her when she turned seventeen. He’d taught her to use it, too. She’d loved target shooting—the precision, the deadly power contained in one small weapon. Those days spent perfecting her aim with Papa at her side were her last fond memories of her indulgent parent before Brinsley’s easy charm swept her off her feet. The last time her father had figured as the most significant man in her life.
Now, she rarely saw the man she’d worshipped all those years. Despite her estrangement from her mother, she might have made more of an effort to preserve her close relationship with the earl. But she couldn’t bear his disappointment, the remoteness in his eyes whenever they met. He was a man of the world. More than anyone, he must guess what her life had become as Brinsley’s wife. The thought sickened and shamed her.
Yet, even after all her jewels and silks had gone, she’d kept this pistol, hidden it away from Brinsley’s grasping hands.
Sarah carried the case into the parlor. She wouldn’t trust Brinsley to sell this for her. She’d have to find a pawnbroker on her own, one who wouldn’t rob her blind. To part with it would be a wrench—the final snap of threadbare ties with her family—but what was a fond memory beside the welfare of a small boy?
Papa would understand. The earl had always stipulated the importance of honoring one’s obligations. He’d taken care of his wife’s love child, hadn’t he? He hadn’t sired Sarah’s younger sister, yet he’d acknowledged her as his own. Papa was the very best of men.
A knock on the door shattered her reverie.
She caught her breath. Who could be calling at this hour? Even Brinsley’s creditors were not so persistent as to dun her this close to midnight.
Slowly, she turned and stared at the plain wooden door, willing whoever knocked to go away. If not a creditor, it must be one of Brinsley’s associates. A lone female would need rocks in her head to open the door to any of those degenerates.
She waited, hoping to hear receding footsteps, but nothing came. A taut, expectant quality in the silence beyond the door intensified her unease. The person—man or woman, she could not guess—must be listening for signs of life. Just as she listened.
Sarah’s heartbeat kicked up a notch. Motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, she waited.
The visitor rapped louder. She jumped, closing a hand around her pistol. Her heart pounded in her ears, underscored by the eerie, faint hum of quiet.
Fumbling with nervousness, she loaded the pistol, praying she wouldn’t need it, and that if she did, the powder would still be good after months of disuse. Rising, she primed the weapon, pointed it at the door, and willed her hand to stop trembling.
Another long silence passed.
A muttered curse outside. She jumped, nearly squeezing the trigger.
Footsteps retreated down the creaking staircase.
Sarah released the hammer on her pistol, and lowered the weapon to point at the floor. Gripping the mantel to steady herself, she exhaled a shaky breath.
As the street door opened and closed, Sarah pressed her temple against her outstretched arm. She didn’t look out the window to see who it was.
She had a strange, compelling feeling it was better not to know.
HALF an hour later, Sarah heard another set of heavy footsteps on the stairs. This time, they paused on the landing below.
Sarah put her ear to the door and heard voices. Brinsley’s and the shrill tones of their landlady, Mrs. Higgins. Cautiously, she inched the door open.
“Ooh, go on with yer, Mr. Cole!” There was a short scuffle and a rustle of skirts and a smacking sound like a kiss. Feminine giggles bubbled up from below. “You are naughty, sir! What would your lady wife say if she knew?”
Sarah snorted. I’d say better you than me, my dear.
Brinsley heaved a sigh. “Indeed, it is very bad, but I cannot help myself. And my wife is so . . . very . . . cold, while you are so very mmm . . . warm. . . .” He gave a lascivious chuckle, then there was silence.
Sarah’s lips compressed. She ought to pity the woman. Higgins believed Brinsley was sweet on her, but Sarah knew his attentions were nothing more than a clever way to avoid paying the rent. Quite apart from that, Brinsley was the sort of man who craved female attention. He needed to enslave every woman who crossed his path, whether he was interested in her or not.
After a short interval, Brinsley continued up to their floor. Sarah moved away from the door a second before he flung it open and sauntered in. When he saw her, a smile spread over his face. He’d wanted her to hear his exchange with their landlady. She would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
“My darling wife,” he said softly. As was his habit, he stripped off his coat and threw it over a cha
ir, then untied his neckcloth.
She made her face blank and swept her voice bare of inflection. “Good evening, Brinsley. I was just about to retire.”
He didn’t answer. With a tug, his neckcloth came away. He tossed it on the floor and flung himself down on the sofa, looking the picture of a beautiful, dissolute rake. But where his lawn shirt fell open, Sarah saw mottled bruising around his throat.
She gasped. “What happened to you?” For the first time, she noticed the cut on Brinsley’s lower lip, surrounded by puffy swelling. “Have you been in a fight? Let me look at that cut.”
He gazed limpidly at her as she took his chin and turned his face to the light. “Are you going to kiss it better?”
She dropped her hand and straightened, then left the room without a word.
Sarah went to their bedchamber and poured water from a pitcher into a small basin. She returned to the sitting room with the basin and a flannel and knelt beside the sofa. Wrinkling her nose at Brinsley’s ripe odor, she dipped the flannel in the water, squeezed out the excess, and dabbed at his bloody lip.
She hoped it hurt like the Devil.
“Ow. Owww, stop it.” Brinsley ceased playing the wounded soldier, whisked the flannel out of her grasp, and dropped it on the floor.
There could only be one reason for Brinsley’s condition. Money. She stood and folded her arms. “How much did you lose tonight, Brin?”
Clear blue eyes gazed, unblinking, up at her—his Archangel Gabriel face. “Did I not give you my word I would not play?”
“That is not an answer to my question.”
Sarah sighed, so tired of these games, this endless charade of interrogation and evasion. He must realize she knew him too well to be taken in. Sometimes, she thought he lied to her just for the practice.
She set a pot of water over the hearth to boil. Their staff consisted of a daily maid and Brinsley’s valet, who refused to perform any duties outside the exceedingly narrow sphere of his expertise. Tonight was Hedge’s night off, so no doubt Brinsley would expect Sarah to brush his coat and remove his boots.
How different from the house she grew up in, where one tripped over a powdered footman or a bustling housemaid every few feet. She used to think life at Penrose Hall grandiose and tiresome. What wouldn’t she give to be back there now?
But in wedding the divinely handsome, unacceptable Brinsley in a fit of girlish romanticism, she’d made her choice. Her family had done nothing so dramatic as to cast her off. Such emotive histrionics were beneath the Earl and Countess of Straghan. But she hadn’t the wherewithal to move in their circle and would accept none of their charity. The connection had not been severed, but rather, allowed to lapse.
Sarah busied herself making coffee, almost spilled the hot brew down her cambric gown when Brinsley came up behind and wrapped his arms around her waist, dug his chin into her shoulder.
She stiffened. He wanted something. The poor deluded man still thought he could seduce her to his will.
His wine-fumed breath stirred in her ear. “What would you say if I told you that you, my lady, could make us rich?” He pinched her waist. “We could buy a house, employ servants, go to ton parties. You could have your old life back.”
Brinsley’s words were far more seductive than his clumsy, probing fingers, but Sarah kept a clear head.
“I would say, Brinsley, that there must be a catch.” She twisted, trying to meet his eyes. “What would I have to do?”
“You know Vane?” Evading her scrutiny, he bent to kiss her collarbone.
She stifled a gasp, and he probably thought the small sound signified pleasure at his attentions. But at the mention of Vane, her mouth dried and the blood raced through her body, a reaction Brinsley’s determined prodding failed to elicit.
She swallowed hard, kept her voice cool. “The Marquis of Vane? Yes, I know him.” Desired him as she’d never desired any other man in her life. Not even Brinsley, before they married.
But desire led to . . . this. A lifetime of regret. She glanced around their cramped, shabby little parlor, which their landlady had long ago decorated in vile shades of brown and bilious green. Even as Sarah toiled endlessly to scrub away the grime, it never, ever seemed quite clean.
Brinsley slobbered at her neck, rubbing his growing erection against her bottom. “Vane wants you. He offered me ten thousand pounds for just one night.”
“He offered . . .” Ice closed over her heart, froze her racing blood to a standstill. It couldn’t be true. Yet, the look in Vane’s eyes that afternoon . . .
The ground shifted beneath her feet, as if the rock-solid earth she’d stood on for years had crumbled, pitching her into a storm-tossed sea.
Well, she’d go down fighting. She didn’t know any other way.
Sarah wrenched free from Brinsley, lanced him with her gaze.
“And you, sir. What did you say?”
Need she ask? Of course, he’d agreed. No doubt he’d auc tioned her like a prize filly on market day. She wondered how many bidders there’d been, whether Tattersall might claim a commission.
He opened his mouth to deal her one more lie, and suddenly, she couldn’t bear to hear it. She pressed her fingertips to her temple, then flicked them, dismissing him. “Never mind.”
Sarah paced the floor, chewing on the pad of her thumb. Instinct told her to pack her meager bags and leave, but where would she go? Her sister Marjory lived abroad with her diplomat husband, and Sarah would rather die than return to Penrose, admit she’d been wrong, hang her head in shame. Her friendships had fallen by the wayside since her marriage. There was no one she could rely on but herself.
She glanced at her husband. She was done with him. Finished.
But something told her Brinsley was not finished with her. His eyes gleamed. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him, as if he knew beyond doubt she would give in, that the ten thousand pounds were as good as his.
Had he always been this stupid? No, Brinsley was not stupid. So there must be something else. “What?”
“My dear, I am afraid it is more serious than you know. Vane holds a large number of my vowels which I have not been at liberty to honor.” The brilliant eyes pleaded. “Darling, he has threatened to throw us into debtors’ prison if you do not go to him.”
Brinsley caught her hand, his curls gilded by firelight, blue eyes blazing with near religious zeal. “Just one night, my love. One night with him could never destroy what you and I have.”
In a long and testing marriage, Sarah had never come so close to slapping the disingenuous smile from her husband’s flawless face. But a lady never struck a gentleman, because the gentleman could not, in honor, fight back. The indisputable fact that a gentleman would not sell his wife’s virtue to the highest bidder did not signify. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.
So she curled her fingers hard into her palms, took a deep breath, and paused to think. Was the threat of ruin real, or fabricated by her darling spouse? Was the entire story some elaborate joke Brinsley sought to play on her? She had always considered Vane ruthless and proud. But she never would have suspected him capable of this.
Years ago, once the golden angel she’d married had stamped out the last embers of her love with his clumsy clay feet, the marquis had approached her, with that burning look in his eyes that never failed to set her pulse racing. By subtle, unmistakable language, he had indicated his desire to enter into a liaison with her.
The longing to curl into Vane’s broad, hard strength had kept her awake at night, restless and aching, but Sarah had made vows before God, and she was determined to keep them.
Only weaklings gave in to temptation.
She’d said no. He’d accepted her refusal, walked away without a backward glance. She had not seen him for many months after that, perhaps a year.
This proposal—this coercion—seemed contrary to all she admired about Vane.
“He says you must go to him tonight,” said Brinsley, giving the lie to her
thoughts. “If you’re not there within the hour, he’ll assume you’re not coming and he’ll take immediate action.”
Now? Tonight? It was an enormous effort to stop her legs from buckling under her. In a daze of shock and misery, Sarah reached for her pelisse, which hung on a hook by the door. “I will go to see Vane. Talk to him. This must be a mistake.”
“Do you think so?” Brinsley fingered his damaged lip, looking hopeful. “I should be so happy to discover I misinterpreted his words. Perhaps I should come with—”
“No!” She closed her eyes against the pain. It must be true if Brinsley was prepared to let her go.
Sarah inhaled a ragged breath and moderated her tone. “No. This is between Vane and me now. I shall—I shall take a hackney.” With fingers that trembled slightly, she drew the last, precious coins from her hoard inside a hole in the sofa cushion and dropped them into her reticule.
She searched her bedchamber for a veil to wear and pinned it to her bonnet. She donned her gloves, set her hand on the doorknob, and looked back. “I have always been faithful to you, you know, Brinsley,” she said. “In ten years I have never had another man.”
Brinsley barked a laugh. “Of course I know it. If you were not such a damned icicle where bedding was concerned, I might not have strayed myself.”
She curled her lip. “If you believe that, you are more self-deluded than I thought.”
His blue eyes narrowed to slits, Brinsley closed the distance between them. “The trouble with you, my dearest wife, is you’ve not one ounce of compassion in that beautiful breast of yours.” He held up a pinched finger and thumb in her face. “One mistake, one slip, and you dismissed your husband like you’d dismiss one of your damned lackeys at Penrose Hall.” The fingers snapped. “Just like that.”
He gripped her arms to hold her still when she would have slid away, leaned in, and pressed his hot, moist lips to her ear. “Well, Lady Sarah, you go to Vane’s house tonight, and think about all that lovely money slipping through your self-righteous fingers. All the gowns and furbelows you could have, just for one night spent on your back and no one but us the wiser. And let us see how long you hold on to your disdain.”
Wicked Little Game Page 3