by Olivia Drake
On the pretext of cleaning a stubborn place beside her nose, Maddy leaned forward to peer more closely into the mirror. She spied him standing to one side behind her, his shoulder propped against the wall in a relaxed pose. The filthy beast was watching her. His gaze roved over her as if he were trying to peer through the dense padding beneath her black gown.
She pivoted on the stool. “Blast you! Just go! I’ve already made my choice, anyway.”
“Without reading the bids? You’re bluffing.”
“Actually, I’m not.”
“Who’s the lucky fellow, then?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
In utter disregard for her wishes, Lord Rowley sauntered closer, coming to stand by the dressing table. There, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. An enticing hint of his masculine scent drifted to her, and his nearness caused an irksome pulse in her loins.
“I did a bit of research on the men you invited to the auction,” he said. “Bachelors, all of them. You must have an aversion to engaging in an affair with a married man.”
Paying him no heed, Maddy resumed cleansing her face. It wouldn’t do to admit he was right, that she could never steal another woman’s husband. The very thought repelled her.
“So who is the chosen one?” the viscount asked. “I can’t imagine you’d pick Lord Netherfield. He’s too much the whiner.”
She ignored Lord Rowley. Any answer would only encourage him.
“I also very much doubt you’d favor a loudmouthed boor like Gerald Jenkins,” he mused. “Or a nefarious rake like Dunham, no matter that he’s heir to a dukedom.”
Lord Rowley and her cousin had spoken to each other as Dunham had been leaving the theater. She badly wanted to ask what they had said, but restrained herself.
“No,” he went on in a speculative tone, “you’d go for a man you can control. A fledgling like Mr. Stanford, perhaps.”
She rubbed the last of the putty from her chin. Let Lord Rowley blather all he liked. She had the training and discipline to pretend he wasn’t even there.
“The trouble is, young Stanford lacks the funds to keep you in high style. I rather doubt his offer will suffice.”
Maddy concentrated on her image in the mirror. Her skin was rosy from all the scrubbing and shiny from the linseed oil. So much the better. Maybe if Lord Rowley deemed her unattractive, he’d go away.
“That narrows the field,” he continued. “I’m guessing you’d select a dull dog who’s rich enough to keep you in jewels, yet will allow you free rein to do as you please. Perhaps a scholar who spends most of his time in the library. Like the Marquess of Herrington.”
Her fingers paused ever so slightly while wiping a trace of putty from her hairline. Quickly she schooled her expression into blankness.
He leaned down suddenly, planting his hands on the edge of the dressing table. “I’ve guessed him, haven’t I? It is Herrington you favor.”
Maddy thinned her lips. This time, she couldn’t help but turn her head to glare at him, only to find his green eyes on level with hers. They seemed to peer into her very soul. How was it that he could read her thoughts so well?
Flustered, she jumped up from the stool. “And what if it is him? He’s a marquess and a gentleman and I’ll be exceedingly happy as his mistress!”
Maddy stomped over to the washstand, grabbed the pitcher, and filled the basin with water. She seized the sliver of soap and lathered her hands vigorously, then bent over the basin and scrubbed the last traces of makeup from her face. How foolish of her to answer Lord Rowley. She should not have let him goad her like that. And if he imagined his mockery of her suitors would induce her to change her mind in his favor, he’d be sorely disappointed.
The soap suds burned her eyes. Blinded, she splashed water over her face, then groped for the towel where it always hung on its hook. Her fingers found only bare wood. “Blast it … Gertie! Where’s the—”
A linen cloth made its way into her hand, and she felt the unexpected touch of Lord Rowley’s warm, rough skin against hers. Startled, she backed away while blotting the water from her face and rubbing her eyes.
Through damp lashes, she glowered at him. “Are you still here, my lord? I vow, you’re like a swollen pustule that won’t go away.”
Rather than take offense, he chuckled. “I wonder if Herrington knows that you can hurl insults like a fishwife. He won’t be happy to have his peace and quiet disturbed.”
“There will be no outbursts with the marquess, for he merits being treated as a gentleman.” Maddy flung the wet towel at him. “Unlike a tedious wretch like you who deserves to be cursed from here to perdition.”
He easily caught the towel with one hand. “Call me whatever you please, Miss Swann. I happen to like your colorful curses.”
His grin held a genuine appreciation that Maddy found perplexing. Any other gentleman would be insulted, infuriated, affronted. Perhaps he truly was a madman.
“I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense,” she said crisply. She tried to cross her arms, but it was awkward with the padding around her midsection. “I should like you to go now.”
“So you can piece together Herrington’s bid and see how much he’s offered you to warm his bed? Don’t waste your time.”
With that, Lord Rowley strode to the dressing table, gathered up the proposals, and tossed the lot into the rubbish bin.
Maddy lunged forward to rescue them, but his long legs blocked her access to the container beneath the dressing table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “Move out of the way, you tyrant.”
“None of them can possibly match my offer.” The viscount reached inside his coat and produced a folded paper. “Here, do yourself a favor and have a look.”
He thrust the folded bid into her hand. She felt a strong compulsion to rip it into shreds and throw it at his too handsome face. But then he would continue to plague her with his presence. It was clear Lord Rowley wouldn’t leave until he’d had his way.
As much as she disliked being forced to capitulate, reading the proposal might be her best course of action. Then she could reject it soundly and send him packing.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Hissing out a breath, Maddy broke the silver wax seal and unfolded the sheet of paper. She angled it close to the oil lamp on the dressing table. Written in bold black penmanship, the offer was brief, concise … and utterly astounding. Her legs wilted and she sank down onto the stool to scan the words a second time.
She cast a disbelieving look up at him. “You want me to be your wife—not your mistress? This must be a jest.”
“Oh, it’s quite true, Miss Swann. All the other bidders will keep you hidden away like a dirty little secret. I, on the other hand, want you at my side as I enter society. I’m offering you the honor of my name along with a generous stipend. You will be Lady Rowley—and a wealthy woman in your own right.”
The masculine angles of his face revealed a firm resolve. As an actress, she’d made a study of facial expressions so that she could reproduce them on stage. Lord Rowley was indeed telling the truth.
All of a sudden she understood why Gertie approved of him. He must have told her of his plan to offer marriage. Nothing would make the maidservant happier than to see Maddy with a ring on her finger and a title to her name.
But that didn’t explain his motive for the startling proposition.
Why would a nobleman wish to wed a lowborn actress whom he had only just met? In fact, he hadn’t even met her when he’d written up the bid. One possibility jumped to the forefront of her mind. Perhaps he was like Edmund. Perhaps Lord Rowley needed a convenient wife to cover up his secret predilections. “Are you one of those men who prefers … other men?”
He stared at her, then chuckled softly. His hand reached out to caress her cheek. “Hardly. I can assure you, Miss Swann, this marriage will be consummated. I’ve every intention of making love to you. Thoroughly and completely.”
His ligh
t touch unfurled a ribbon of heat that descended deep into her body. The sensation was so potent, so pleasurable, that she immediately pictured herself lying naked in his arms while he explored her most forbidden places. It was a disturbing fantasy, for she couldn’t deny that a part of her burned with lust for him. Another part, however, rejected the prospect of submitting to such a conceited rogue.
She sprang up from the stool again. “I haven’t agreed to this marriage. How can you expect me to commit the rest of my life to you on the basis of one meeting? We don’t even like each other—or at least I don’t much like you!”
Lord Rowley shrugged. “You need only tolerate me for one season—perhaps three months in all. Then I will leave England for good. And I shan’t ever return.”
“Leave? Why?”
“I’ve numerous business interests abroad. As part of our agreement, you will be required to remain here in London. You’ll have the income and the title—along with the expectation of becoming Countess of Gilmore upon the death of my father.”
When Lord Rowley mentioned his sire, his jaw tightened slightly and his lips firmed. That hint of tension in his expression sparked a realization in her. Slowly, she guessed, “You intend to use me to embarrass your noble family.”
“Indeed.” He prowled the confines of the dressing room before turning to face her. “You strike me as a clever woman, Miss Swann, so I shan’t mince words. The Earl of Gilmore will be livid to learn that his heir has taken a notorious actress as a bride. He’ll be even angrier when he discovers we’ll be living at Gilmore House with him.”
“Why do you despise your father so much?”
“My reasons are my own,” he said sharply. “You are not to question me on the matter. In return for my generosity, I’ll expect you to perform as you’ve done tonight—by hurling insults and playing the guttersnipe. The more outrageously you behave, the better. Feel free to swing from the chandeliers if it suits you.”
A deep anger underscored his words. Lord Rowley truly hated his father. Enough to foist a low-class female into the earl’s household as a member of the family.
She wondered what terrible circumstances could have inspired such a powerful animosity in him. Was that why he’d been abroad for the past ten years? Had he come back to England for the express purpose of setting into motion this odious plot to punish his father?
Her every instinct warned Maddy not to entangle herself in the scheme. Lord Rowley expected her to behave as a coarse, foulmouthed termagant. No wonder he had found her actions tonight so entertaining. She had played right into his hands. She fit the profile of the slattern he wanted to wed.
He intended to parade her before his aristocratic family and all of society, too. They would scorn her as an ill-mannered commoner. She would be snubbed at every ball, every dinner party, every drive in the park. They would never accept her as one of their own. No matter how lofty her title, she would always be the scandalous actress who’d been purchased at auction by the Earl of Gilmore’s heir.
So why did she feel tempted to accept?
It wasn’t the money. One of the other noblemen could provide her the funds to open her shop. In a year’s time, the affair would be over and she would gain her freedom.
But Lord Rowley would set her free, too, and much sooner. He would leave England forever in a few months and then she could open the ladies’ apparel shop she’d always wanted to own. Her elevated status would bring the wives of merchants flocking to her store. They wouldn’t care that society had shunned her. It would be enough for them to rub elbows with a lady of high rank …
“Well?” he prompted as he came to stand in front of her. “I need your answer, Miss Swann. In exchange for a title and wealth, will you be the trollop who causes an uproar in my father’s household?”
“It’s more likely you and I will be at each other’s throats.”
“So much the better.” Taking her hand in his, he brought it to his lips for a smooth kiss. “This is your chance to play the greatest role of your career. Only think of all the ingenious ways you can irritate my father. It shall be great fun, I promise you.”
He gave her that heart-stopping smile, complete with dimples and a flash of white teeth. It was absurd for one man to be so gorgeous—and to cause her blood to heat at his slightest touch. She must be a fool even to consider participating in his despicable plot of vengeance.
Yet who was she to stand in judgment of him? She had long dreamed of taking her own revenge—though he must never know it.
Unlike the other bidders, Lord Rowley was offering her the chance to enter society. The chance to mingle with the nobility. The chance to seek out her grandfather, the Duke of Houghton, and to punish him for disowning her mother.
“All right,” Maddy said. “I accept.”
Chapter 7
While the ancient cleric droned his way through the marriage service, Nate cast a sideways glance at his bride. Madelyn Swann stood beside him at the altar, her sapphire-blue eyes fixed on the minister. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through one of the chapel windows and illuminated her fine profile, the pert nose, the rosy lips, the long lashes. A cherry-red bonnet covered her hair, though a few blond strands had escaped to frame her face.
Good God, she was beautiful. A most delectable bit of muslin. Her disguise at the auction two nights ago had kept him from fully comprehending that fact until today.
His gaze flicked downward. Oh, yes. He’d selected that tawdry crimson dress from her trunk of costumes. The gown hugged the curves of her waist and hips while her breasts pushed in creamy abundance against the low-cut bodice. No wonder men had flocked to the auction for the chance to bid on her as their mistress.
She looked ravishing. And he could scarcely wait to ravish her.
The minister’s voice echoed in the chapel. “‘If any man can shew any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’”
The balding clergyman looked up from his black book. A long pause ensued while he squinted through his round spectacles at the chapel door, as if expecting someone to come dashing down the aisle with a long list of Nate’s sins.
Nate didn’t need to glance back over his shoulder to know that the near-empty pews held only the two requisite witnesses: Gertie, the dour maidservant, and Elias Josephson, a grizzled ship’s mate whom Nate had commandeered to act as his valet. No other guests had been invited, for no gossip must reach the ears of the ton. Not yet, anyway. Not until he had presented his scandalous wife to his family and savored the horrified shock on the Earl of Gilmore’s face.
Impatience gnawed at him, and Nate controlled the urge to snap at the minister. He wanted this church service to be over with and done. He wanted to take Madelyn Swann to Gilmore House and witness the unfolding of his revenge.
The minister resumed in a thundering tone, “‘I charge ye both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of ye know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.’”
This time, instead of looking at the church door, he stared back and forth between Nate and his bride. No doubt the cleric was suspicious at the speed and secrecy of the nuptials. Under normal circumstances, the church required the posting of banns for three successive Sundays. But Nate had acquired a special license the previous day, thanks to a note from Lady Milford to the archbishop.
His godmother had been surprisingly helpful. Although she disapproved of his purpose, she had arranged for his participation in the auction. No doubt she’d feared that he might pluck a scruffy beggar out of the gutter to be his wife.
Nate had to concede that Lady Milford had been right to insist upon advising him. He was quite satisfied with her selection. Madelyn Swann could enunciate well due to her training as a Shakespearean actress. Yet she also could spew curses like a seasoned harpy. And nothing would be more offensive to the E
arl of Gilmore than to learn that his new daughter-in-law was a commoner who’d auctioned her body to the highest bidder.
The minister cleared his throat. “‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife—’”
Nathan cut off the rest. “I will.”
The cleric pursed his lips, then turned to Madelyn Swann. “‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?’”
Madelyn Swann cast a guarded glance at Nate. Once again, he felt bowled over by her lush beauty. Those deep blue eyes. Those delicate features. Those soft lips that had blistered him with reproaches when he’d lunged out of the darkness and yanked off her wig.
She’d scarcely spoken a word to him today when he’d fetched her from her cheap rooming house. Unlike the furious vixen of the night of the auction, she had been solemn and reticent. What if she was harboring second thoughts about the marriage?
How absurd.
Madelyn Swann was a fortune hunter. The chit had agreed to his demands because she craved the status of a lady and all its attendant luxuries. What lowborn female would not? No doubt her mind must be preoccupied with daydreams of fancy balls and an extravagant wardrobe, of lording her newly elevated place over those of lesser rank.
She would not, she could not, say no.
Could she?
Her lips parted. Her voice rang out clearly. “I will.”
Nate released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His heart was thudding against his ribs. He hadn’t truly been afraid of her refusal. It was just that her cantankerous nature made her unpredictable.
On the instructions of the minister, they turned face-to-face and repeated their vows, first Nate and then her. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part …
What rot. Neither of them had any intention of honoring such a pledge. They might be wed in the eyes of the law, and he certainly meant to exercise his conjugal rights, but otherwise their union might as well be a business contract.