The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2)

by Monajem, Barbara

  “I am not hysterical!” She took another deep breath and glanced at Colin.

  He wasn’t looking at her face. No, in typical male fashion, he was eyeing her bosom. A blush swarmed up her cheeks. Curse it, she never blushed. “This is a serious matter, and all you can do is look at my breasts!”

  “They’re lovely breasts,” he said with a rueful sigh.

  She was still blushing, and what was worse, the heat generated by his gaze had traveled all the way to her core. “Thank you, but may we get back to business? Whether you believe it or not, I am certain Martin will pursue me.”

  Colin shrugged. “We’ll cover your tracks well.”

  “I covered my tracks when I left Lancashire,” she said. “He shouldn’t have been able to find me, but he did. He shouldn’t have known about those advertisements in The Times either, but somehow he did. Evidently, he is still determined to marry me.”

  “I wonder why?” Colin mused. “He knows he’s not Sylvie’s father, and yesterday, he made it abundantly clear that he considers you a whore.”

  The minute the words were out, Colin regretted them.

  “Why indeed?” she retorted. “And yet a man may dally with any number of women, but is he considered a whore as well?”

  “Mrs. Black, we’re not here to discuss philosophy.”

  She was well into a rant. “No, he’s just being manly. Behaving according to his nature.”

  “I daresay, but—”

  “While a woman such as I takes a chance once—just once—and is punished for the rest of her life.”

  “It does seem unfair, but—”

  She rounded on him with narrowed eyes. “But what?”

  “But your story doesn’t hang together. Why would all these people—including Jed, who I understand has known you since childhood—why would they all believe Mr. Fallow? An unknown man can’t come up and claim a child, particularly in an English village where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and be accepted with open arms. There must be some reason people believe his claim.”

  She opened her mouth, clamped it tight shut, then opened it again. “They can believe what they like. I don’t care.”

  “And I don’t care whether you’ve bedded the fellow,” Colin said. “It makes no difference to me one way or another. I will still continue to acknowledge Sylvie as my daughter.”

  “I haven’t bedded him,” she gritted out.

  “But what does matter,” Colin said, “is that you tell me the truth.”

  She didn’t want to tell him any more than she already had. She’d been such a fool, and for some stupid reason she didn’t want Colin Warren to know about it.

  “It’s the most logical explanation—that he has experienced your charms in bed and will do anything to partake of them again.” He cleared his throat. “That motive I understand completely.”

  She didn’t look at him, for she feared seeing desire in his eyes—which would kindle an answering spark in hers. Why must sensual yearnings arise at such an inconvenient time? “I already told you that he hasn’t.”

  She kept her eyes on the pavement, taking note of sparrows, pigeons, mud puddles, anything rather than think about bedding Colin Warren. If she’d rekindled his interest . . . well, perhaps he would lose it again if he knew what a fool she was.

  Not likely. Men preferred foolish women.

  “Perhaps if you tell me the whole story, I shall be able to think of another motive.” How did he manage to sound so cool and matter-of-fact if he was thinking about bedding her?

  If she let herself become aroused, she would have the devil of a time saying anything at all. Fortunately, she was far too embarrassed at what she was about to confess.

  “Oh, very well.” Pause. “If you must know.” She took a breath. “I’ve known Martin all my life. He is a distant cousin on my father’s side, and he visited us several times during my childhood.” She sighed, wishing she needn’t explain.

  “When I was sixteen years old Martin came to visit us again. My father and I, that is. My mother was long dead. I fell desperately in love with him, and I didn’t try to hide it. Everyone knew, but my father forbade me to think of marrying him. He approved of Martin, in fact he loved him dearly, but Martin’s parents wanted him to marry a wealthy woman, so Father knew they wouldn’t consent.” She heaved another sigh. “Martin stole several kisses. I was young and foolish, and I thought those kisses meant he loved me in return. And yet, he insisted that I must do as my father said. I believed he was being noble and self-sacrificing and that I would lose him, so I hatched my own plan. I thought if I were ruined, my father would be obliged to consent.”

  Now for the most embarrassing part. “I did my best to seduce Martin. He kissed me and called me his darling and said he would never forget me, but again, he told me it wouldn’t be right. He was about to return to Ireland, so I had to take desperate measures.”

  “Of course you did.”

  She probably merited Colin’s sarcasm, but it stung all the same. “I couldn’t risk creeping down the corridor to his bedchamber, for the boards creak and Father had excellent hearing, so I sneaked down the back stairs and climbed the ivy to Martin’s window.”

  “A habit of yours, I see.” How could that low voice mock and entice her at the same time?

  “Martin refused to let me in. He went and woke my father instead.” All the bitter humiliation of that night roiled up. “I tried climbing down, but the ivy came away from the wall, and I was stuck clinging with one hand to the ivy and the other to the windowsill.”

  Colin snickered.

  “Yes, looking back it’s rather amusing, but I was mortified at the time. Father had Jed fetch a ladder and carry me down. Everyone learned about it—all the servants, and in due course, the entire village.” She shrugged. “Martin left the next day. Not long afterwards we learned that he had married an Irish heiress with a large estate.”

  She glanced at Colin, who merely looked thoughtful, not as if he were judging her harshly.

  “I married Johnny Black when I was twenty and went to live with him in Manchester. Johnny died only six months later of inflammation of the lungs. I had my man of business let the Manchester house to strangers and returned home to nurse my ailing father. I was terribly sad, missing my husband, knowing my father didn’t have long to live. I rode into Preston one day to shop and saw you in the street.”

  His dimples peeked out. “Yes?”

  “I thought I could remedy at least one thing that my life now sorely lacked. What harm could there be in one night of pleasure, a few hours of happiness? I believed I was barren, or I would never have taken the risk of seducing you. When I realized I was expecting a child, I didn’t know what to do. I avoided telling my father, due to his weakened condition, and he soon died.” She grimaced. “Martin says my father suspected my pregnancy and wrote to him, asking him to take care of me. It’s true that my father was frantic for a letter from Martin—but it didn’t come. He says it must have been lost in the post, and I have no valid reason to disbelieve him.”

  “But you do.”

  She shrugged. “I asked my man of business to let the house and left almost immediately for Ireland, saying I wanted to spend my period of mourning with relations there. Inevitably, Martin found out. He was very unkind about my pregnancy. He acted as if I’d betrayed him.”

  Colin cast his eyes heavenward. “What a tedious fellow.”

  “And absurd, since he was married to another woman. When Sylvie was almost two years old, the tenants left my father’s house. I was homesick for England, so I returned to Lancashire, pretending Sylvie was Johnny’s child, conceived just before his death.”

  “Very tidy,” Colin said. “Did people believe you?”

  “I thought so. No one questioned my story until Martin
arrived with his ridiculous claim. Needless to say, the busybodies remembered that Sylvie had seemed rather undergrown for her age. A few months often makes quite a difference in babies, but my story was entirely believable until Martin arrived with his version, that I’d gone to him for consolation. Everyone remembered how much I’d been in love with him. They even suggested I’d loved him all along, even when I was married to Johnny, which is so—so unfair.”

  Good grief, she was getting all teary-eyed now. She slowed to dab at her eyes.

  “You loved Johnny, didn’t you?” Colin’s voice was unexpectedly tender.

  Which made hers shake. “Very much so.”

  He sighed. “It sounds pleasant. Love, that is.” He tossed a penny to a lad sweeping the crossing, and they moved forward again.

  “It wasn’t just pleasant,” she retorted. “It was wonderful.”

  “No one in my family even believes in love,” Colin said. “It’s understandable; we’re a depraved bunch.”

  “You don’t seem particularly depraved to me.”

  His lip curled, but only slightly, and his dimples remained hidden. “I don’t think I am anymore.”

  “What a pity.” She shouldn’t have said that.

  He arched a brow at her.

  “I wasn’t referring to myself,” she explained. “I was feeling sorry for the women who will be deprived of your prowess in bed.”

  “Not sad for yourself? Judging by one of your advertisements in The Times, you were willing to spend another night with me.”

  “Out of desperation,” she said hurriedly. “You weren’t responding to my advertisements. I will resort to that only if I must.”

  “Only if you must,” he repeated. “God forbid that I should force a woman to bed me. You needn’t worry.” He cocked his head to one side, his gaze warm. “I thought you enjoyed our time together.”

  “I did,” she said, unable to keep the wistfulness from her voice.

  “But you don’t want to do it again?”

  “Want to?” she cried. “Of course I want to. Every day of my life I want to. It’s the hardest thing about widowhood. I miss it so much.”

  Colin swore under his breath. His cock was finally showing signs of life after months of inactivity, and he was obliged to ignore it.

  Or seduce her, but that was probably a bad idea.

  “I miss it too,” he said, another faux pas. Before she could start asking what he meant, he said, “Come, let’s have a drink. I could certainly use one.” He steered her to a nearby inn. “This isn’t the sort of place to take a lady, but it’s what’s here.”

  She flapped a hand. “Nor is Jed’s.” They went into the coffee room, which was empty but for a lone artist or maybe a printer, judging by his stained fingers. “What are they making in the kitchen?” she asked the landlord. “It smells wonderful.”

  “Them’s Cornish pasties, ma’am,” said the landlord. “The wife hails from there.”

  “One sensual treat in place of another,” Colin muttered. He didn’t seem to be able to help himself; his cock must have taken over for his brain. “We’ll have some. Ale or coffee?”

  She ordered coffee, while he asked for a heavy-wet and led her to a table as far from the other occupant as possible. They ate in silence, savoring the pasties. He wondered if she would bring up the subject he’d deliberately cut off, or had at least tried to. His relationship with her was already difficult enough.

  But if she missed it as much as she did, and he was actually feeling something for once . . .

  Bad. Idea.

  “I was ravenous,” she said. “I hardly had any breakfast, we were in such a rush.”

  Right. Back to the subject at hand. “Tell you what. I’ll speak to Lord Garrison. He has a number of estates sprinkled about England. You can stay temporarily at one of them, and—”

  She interrupted—no surprise. “I can’t possibly stay at one of his estates.”

  “Why not? They’re most of them empty but for a skeleton staff. Oh, and his sister at one and a mutual cousin at another.”

  “Did you see the look he gave me at the docks? He doesn’t want a woman like me in one of his houses or anywhere near his sister or any other relation. I’m a ruined woman, your former mistress, and don’t say I’m not, because that is how the world will see it, including Lord Garrison.”

  “No, he won’t, because I’ll explain that you’re no such thing. I’ll tell the truth, that you’re a respectable widow with whom I had a brief liaison. There’s nothing unusual in that, and he owes me a favor or two. It’ll only be for a while to keep you safely out of reach of Fallow.”

  She bit her lip.

  Colin wanted to be the one doing the biting.

  He wanted to take that lush lower lip between his teeth and toy with it . . .

  He stared, transfixed.

  She let go of her lip and licked it. She shook her head. “No, it simply won’t do.”

  “I know that,” he blurted, “but—” He stopped, realizing he’d lost the thread of their conversation. Worse, she had colored up, meaning she knew what he’d been thinking.

  Damn! He hastened to recover himself. “No one will know you have any connection with me. We’ll say you’re an old school friend of Melinda, his wife, widowed and in reduced circumstances. Come to think of it, Miles might even have a cottage you could stay in permanently—perhaps not up to the standard of your own house in Lancashire, but perfectly decent, I’m sure.”

  He was babbling, inventing as he went along. There might be no such cottage, and in any event, he didn’t want to see her and Sylvie in anything but the best.

  “And what will Lady Garrison say to that?” Bridget said.

  “She won’t object. She’s a great gun—I’ve known her since she was a brat about Sylvie’s age. And it’ll most likely be temporary, so no need to fret about it.”

  She chewed her lip some more, and this time he forced his gaze away from her mouth. And her breasts. And the curve of her bum on the bench.

  He look a last swig of porter. “It’s settled, then. I’ll speak to Miles, and meanwhile I’ll have Bob and Al see if they can locate Fallow. Maybe he’s already left town.”

  She sighed and stood. “Very well. I don’t like it, but I can’t see any other choice.”

  Relieved, he escorted her back to the inn. He gave instructions to Bob and Al—not that he expected them to find Fallow, but anything to keep Bridget from running off again.

  Chapter 6

  Bridget had given in.

  The one thing she’d planned not to do. She didn’t want help, she didn’t need it, and until Martin Fallow had come along, she’d done fine without it. She badly wanted that comfortable freedom again.

  And yet . . . the fact that some of her cares were now on Colin’s shoulders meant they were no longer on hers. Only for a little while, but she could use a respite. Soon enough she would find someplace to settle, and Colin would return to his idle, carefree life.

  All at once she was so tired she could scarcely stand. She made her way slowly upstairs and peeked into the little bedchamber next to hers. Sylvie and Mary Joan were curled up together on the bed, fast asleep.

  What a good idea. She returned to her own room, burrowed under the covers, and went to sleep.

  “You’re letting yourself be taken in,” Lord Garrison said.

  Colin had gone to see his cousin late that afternoon, arriving just as he and Melinda were returning from a drive around Hyde Park with Miles’s little illegitimate daughter, Rebecca, between them. Melinda had taken on the role of stepmother without turning a hair, which was one reason he was sure she wouldn’t object to Bridget and Sylvie. But as a matter of policy, he had to broach the issue to Miles first. He waited until Melinda and Rebecca had gone upstairs
before requesting a private discussion with Miles.

  Who was proving skeptical, which wasn’t a surprise in itself, but Colin wasn’t prepared for how much his cousin’s reaction annoyed him.

  “Never did I think to see the day when a trollop got the better of Colin Warren,” Miles said, pouring two glasses of wine.

  “She’s not a trollop,” Colin said. “She’s a respectable widow.”

  Miles rolled his eyes. “And that child is your daughter. Tell me another bouncer.” He set a glass on the table beside Colin. “This is an excellent vintage. It will help clear your mind.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my mind,” Colin said. “I’m not a complete fool, Miles. I doubted she was my daughter at first, but she’s the spitting image of Emma.”

  Miles grimaced. “Damn it, Colin, your sister died close to twenty years ago. You can’t possibly remember what she looked like.”

  “Seventeen years ago, and I do remember. When this child smiles, she looks just like Emma.”

  “You’re still obsessed with her, aren’t you? Still believe you were responsible for her death.”

  “I was responsible. There’s no doubt about that.”

  “It was an accident, Colin. People drown all the time. It’s a fact of life, and you can’t let yourself be tricked into supporting a trollop—sorry, widow—and her child because you still feel guilty twenty, sorry, seventeen years later.”

  “Mrs. Black doesn’t want me to support her. She has income—rent from a couple of properties, and it’s enough to get by on. She didn’t even want me to repay her for her passage on the Annabelle. She took it only because she can’t afford to throw money away.”