Pain of The Marquess: (The Valiant Love Regency Romance) (A Historical Romance Book)

by Deborah Wilson

  “Please,” she whispered. Her hand was already snaking around the back of his neck.

  “This is not why I pulled you from your party.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I’m just glad you did. I’m so glad you’re here. You make everything so much better.”

  Had anyone ever spoken such words to him? From any other woman, he’d have known it was a lie, but he could see the truth in Irene. He’d kissed her once and had become a demigod in her eyes, a being with flaws but not enough to turn her away.

  A being she thought she owned when she didn’t.

  Her gaze was patient. Warm. Her eyes turned to slits as she tilted her head.

  He wanted to know what she was thinking. He wanted to know what she saw in him but didn’t dare ask and didn’t give her the chance to share.

  Somehow, this woman had found the means to call to the depths of him and cause his blood to steam. He could barely gather his breath. “If I give you this… will it be enough? Will you be satisfied then?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  And he knew it was a lie, but there was no stopping him.

  The little minx.

  He bent forward and their mouths opened in unison. Their lips clashed. Their tongues searched. In the heat of her mouth, he looked for answers to the deep-rooted feelings she had for him and she… He didn’t know what she looked for, but Clive felt something erupt in his chest. Her hand was there, over his heart. Her other held him hostage by his neck, not that he wished to end the kiss anytime soon.

  Her mouth may have looked out of place on her face, but it felt right against his own. Too right.

  He pulled away. “There.” His voice’s steadiness belied the ache within him. “Now it’s done.”

  She bent forward and rested her head over his heart. “Yes, it is done.” When her eyes lifted to his, he was certain her meaning of ‘done’ was different than his own. Her soft fingers slipped into his hair before she pulled them away.

  Her usual gaze of fondness seemed different as she took a step away from him. Her eyes penetrated him and filled him with regret and fear over what he’d done.

  He thought to apologize, but again, he didn’t wish to upset her.

  She laughed and the bird bobbed in her hair, just as it had all those years ago. “We better return to the party before anyone realizes we’ve gone.”

  “But we haven’t spoken yet.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. Then they shimmered with affection. “Another time.” She walked past him and slipped beyond the door without another word. Clive waited and then followed, apprehension lacing in his every step. Something had happened. Something that went beyond a kiss, and he braced for the outcome.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  1 1

  * * *

  Irene stared at herself in the looking glass on her vanity. She laughed and then laughed again as the pin began to bob up and down before slowly coming to rest. She smiling at herself and a rare feeling of beauty came over her. Clearly, Clive saw something, didn’t he? She was more than a piece of art to him. Most people didn’t kiss art, and the Marquess of Fawley had kissed her with a heated passion that ripped away the last stitches of her reservations to give him everything.

  She loved him. She’d almost told him so but decided she would wait until he proposed.

  And the proposal would come. She could feel it now. After six years, the seal over their courtship had been broken. He was in her reach. She was done being coy— not that she’d been the coyest person before, but it was time she started to demand more from him.

  Irene saw movement in the room.

  Her heart jumped.

  She stared frozen in the looking glass. She saw nothing.

  She blinked.

  Fear strangled her. She caught sight of the cloaked man in the corner of the room. He hid from the light. This was the first time he’d ever appeared to her before she’d been in bed.

  “Did you enjoy your party?” The words were an accusation.

  She nodded as she pretended this man didn’t put fear in her blood.

  “Half the men in there wanted you dead,” the visitor said. “They want you dead because of your father. How does that make you feel?”

  “I don’t wish to discuss my feelings with you.”

  He chuckled. “Irene, I grow impatient. It is getting harder to visit, to avoid the men who watch your home.”

  She frowned. “What men?” Did he mean her footmen?”

  “I’ve another company for you,” he said instead.

  She turned to him. Her fingers gripped the back of the chair. “Which one?”

  “I saw what you did at the paint factory and Southfield market. You told me what happened with the silk merchant.”

  Irene cut her eyes away and just as she did the day she found out the truth about the silk merchant, she took long breaths in order not to vomit. Before the assailant approached her, Irene had led a rare innocent life. She’d known the basic sins to avoid. Stealing and disobedience to one’s parents, but the things she’d discovered recently made her question humanity.

  There was an illness in mankind, one that was contagious and spread like wildfire. She felt ill for simply being aware of the tainted minds in England. The more she saw, and the more she saw them connected with her own business affairs, she was beginning to wonder…

  “Are you a believer now?” her nightly visitor asked. “Perhaps, it was possible that the former Lord Van Dero wasn’t aware of one business’ nefarious affairs, but for three of his businesses to have been polluted in the same manner? Surely, you are not this blind, my lady.”

  “This doesn’t mean my father was involved in anything,” Irene said. “It could have been Mr. Crow.” His excuses were getting weaker with every business she cleared of the sickness.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “People assume you are a clever woman, one of the cleverest in London. Don’t prove them wrong tonight. Tell me you believe.”

  “What is the name you have for me?” She was looking into all of them. Her father had owned a share of more than a hundred businesses in London. Most of them were small. Many of them had just started around his death. A few had closed. New businesses began on Mr. Crow’s pleasure and so long as Irene saw that their profits remained steady, she’d allowed him to have his pleasure, but the sickness had a root and it would have to die.

  She could no longer be blind to the fact that Mr. Crow knew what was going on. The businesses all had the same sickness and every sickness had an origin. “What is the name of the company?”

  “First, tell me what you have found on the book.”

  The Book of Affairs.

  “You have not told me what is inside of it.”

  “It’s a blackmail book, my lady. It contains the names of almost every family in London.”

  She understood that, though she couldn’t see her father keeping such a thing. “And what would you do with this book? I am trying to rid the world of evil. I will not so easily place a new threat on Society.”

  He started toward her with a mean stride.

  Irene jumped from her chair and tried to move, but the man grabbed her by the throat. She tried to scream, but no air would reach her lungs. The man turned her with ease and pressed her into a wall. She kicked out, hitting him between the legs.

  He groaned and struck out. His heavy hand clapped across her face with great speed.

  She didn’t even have the air to cry out in shock or the pain that began to throb to life.

  “Do not mistake us for friends,” he growled. “Do not mistake this for a negotiation.”

  She felt her flesh and muscles begin to crush under his hold. Tears sprang up and fell as her vision grew dizzy.

  He released her and Irene crumbled to the floor. Her hand went to her throat as she coughed. Cecilia had been right. Her visitor was dangerous. She should call for the police.

  “Perhaps,” he began. “I should have the ton informed on your f
ather’s true business practices and soil your family’s name.” It was as though he’d read her thoughts.

  “No.” Her voice was hoarse. She craned her neck to look at his face. They’d never met in the light before. What she saw almost made her cry out until she realized his face was painted back. His eyes were blue, stark against the black. His hair was either naturally dark or he painted that as well. She was never certain. His mouth was covered with a black cloth, hiding enough of him to make it hard to recognize him.

  “I want that book,” he said, his voice still a growl. “Do what you must to get it for me or my next visit will not end so well for you.”

  A knock came to the door.

  “Holtsburg Shipping,” the painted man said before he all but flew out of the window.

  A footman came in. his expression wary. He’d been one of the ones injured by her attacker a few months ago. He was brave for coming to her tonight. “I’ll go get you ice, my lady.”

  Irene touched her cheek and stiffened. “Thank you.”

  The servant left without asking if she was all right. Clearly, she wasn’t, and until she found that book, she’d never be again.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  1 2

  * * *

  A fortnight later, Clive wasn’t certain if he’d overestimated or underestimated Lady Irene. After their kiss, he’d expected to see her everywhere. He’d searched for her at parties where her friends were easily found. He even asked after her. Cecilia had declared that Irene was staying at her home, which was something Clive was aware of, thanks to the men who watched her house.

  When he asked if she were ill, Cecilia said no, but the look she gave him before she’d turned away suggested it could have been a lie.

  So, against his better judgment, and because Kent could become dangerous if he didn’t get his way, Clive had written Irene a note seeking a private invitation the moment he knew she’d returned to her own residence.

  Her response had troubled him.

  Perhaps another time, my love.

  Another time? He’d been a fool to think that having Irene’s heart left him in control of her body and mind. She always did what she pleased, and Clive thought nothing pleased her more than befuddling him.

  He was surprised when he was given entry into her family home. The butler left to announce him and then returned to show him to the drawing room they’d used on the night of her party. It was a stately blue and red room with cream and gold furnishings.

  Irene sat in the center and wore a brilliant pink muslin that clashed with the room. The flowers in her hair matched and had been paired with vibrant yellow daisies. He was surprised to find her wearing heavy powder. It made her complexion ghostly pale.

  “What did you do to your face?” he asked before he could stop the words.

  Her smile fell, and she touched her cheek. “Can you still see it? My lady’s maid assured me that the bruise was well covered.”

  “The bruise?” He walked across the room and sat at her side. “Where it is?”

  She pointed to her cheek. Her abigail had done a great job of hiding it. If only she’d selected a powder that didn’t make her mistress look like the deceased.

  He turned to the footman who stood by the door. “We require water.”

  The footman nodded and left.

  “What do you intend to do?” she asked.

  “Take that doltish paint from your face,” he said heatedly.

  She lifted her brows. Their stark coloring against her painted face made her look comical. “I thought all men liked pale women.”

  “You look silly.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Oh.” Her shoulders fell in dejection, and Clive bit his tongue to stop himself from saying anymore.

  The footman returned and brought a towel.

  Clive went to the bowl, dipped a portion the towel into the warm liquid, and walked over to Irene. “Here.”

  She took it and turned away from him as she began to remove the powder.

  “You’ve missed a spot,” he told her.

  “Where?”

  He pointed to his own chin for reference.

  She missed it again.

  He groaned and snatched the towel from her. Then he sat. “Let me.”

  She glared. “Don’t snatch from me.”

  “I was just—”

  “I will not tolerate—”

  He grabbed her chin, and she fell silent. “Hold still.”

  She did. She was also uncharacteristically silent as he worked. Her face was soon revealed. It was slightly red from the wiping, but her skin once again glowed with the health of life and the warmth of summer days.

  “That’s better,” he said. He ignored her smile and turned her head so he could see her bruise. “Is this why you’ve been avoiding parties and have been staying at Cecilia’s for two weeks?”

  “How did you know I was at Cecilia’s?”

  “She told me when I asked after you.”

  “You asked after me?” she whispered. She kept her face positioned away.. His eyes caught sight of her ear, and he realized how much he liked the slope of it. He also liked the strong lines of her throat. There was a small bruise there as well, just above her collar. He might not have seen it if he hadn’t turned her head just so.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I fell.”

  He turned her head back to him. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

  She blinked. “Do you truly care?” There was that hope again, shining in her eyes.

  “Who else would ask these questions if I didn’t?” he said.

  “Cecilia and my friends,” she said. “I have people who genuinely care for me.”

  Care, yes, but could they protect her? She was alone in this world, and Clive was partly responsible for that. He and the others had seen to her brother’s death. Garrick had been the one to fire the weapon that ended Gregory’s life, but Clive had used his talent of throwing knives to distract the man.

  Lord Gregory Hiller had been holding Garrick’s wife hostage with a knife to her at the time. They’d had little choice but to kill him, but that didn’t mean that Clive didn’t feel some guilt where Irene was concerned. Even worse, her infatuation with him would likely keep her from marrying anyone else.

  “Where is the relative who inherited your father’s title? Lord Cassius,” he asked.

  “Do you know Cass?” she asked.

  Clive shook his head. “I know your father left him his shares of the London Society Bank.” They’d changed the name of the bank to distance it from its previous owner, Mr. Maltsby. “My nephew George owns the bank. That’s how I know who controls it.”

  “He does?” she asked, surprised. “I thought Mr. Hayes owned the bank.”

  “Mr. Hayes owns a share, a smaller portion, but he’s only the manager. But at Kent’s request, he does lead people to believe he owns it. Most people would feel uncomfortable knowing a thirteen-year-old had control of their funds.”

  Irene nodded. “I bank there still.”

  “Planning to take your money out now that you know the truth?” Clive asked.

  “Is your money there?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then no.” She shrugged. “Besides, it’s been there for two years and my funds have only grown. I see no reason to change.”

  Clive nodded and relaxed.

  “Cass doesn’t like England,” she said. “My cousin spends most of his time in Scotland. Though, I thought his share of my father’s business would finally bring him here. He took over my father’s portion of the bank, I know. That surprised me. I thought, if anything, I’d get the money and he’d get the rest of this.”

  “Does Lord Cassius understand that he has a responsibility toward you?” Clive asked.

  She pulled away from his grasp. “Cass is… different. Besides, he doesn’t have any responsibility toward me at all. I’ve my own means, means he thought he would inherit. I believe he was quite cross when he did
n’t.” As any man would be, given her family’s fortune.

  “Money can only get you so much,” Clive said. “Trust me, you need a man to protect you.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What happened to your face?” he asked.

  “I already told you. I fell.”

  “From where?”

  She crossed her fingers and placed them on her lap. “My bed.”

  “What did you hit your face on?”

  She sighed. “The nightstand.”

  “And did your nightstand strangle you after you injured it by hitting your face against it?”

  Her hand went to her neck and covered the bruise he’d seen. “You’re not my father.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said.

  Her gaze turned saucy. “Indeed.”

  “The truth,” he groaned. “Tell me. Who hurt you and where?” They would need to hire more watchmen to protect her.

  “What will you do if I tell you?” She dropped her hand. “Will you go after him?”

  “Of course.”

  “To defend my honor?”

  “To rid the world of vile men like him.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know who he is. He comes through my window at night, questions me, gives me information, and then leaves.”

  Clive fought to understand her words. “Did you just tell me that a man you don’t know crawls into your bedroom at night?” He stiffened. “Does he…” His chest burned with uncontrollable fury. “Does he touch you in other ways?”

  Even with her coloring, he could tell her cheeks colored. “No,” she whispered. “No one has ever touched me that way...”

  The fury turned to something else just as intense, something Clive had no business feeling at this particular moment or with this particular woman.

  It was the kiss, he told himself. He was a man. She was a woman. Together, they’d taken the first parts of a dance that left most exhausted once completed. Only, he had no plans to complete that certain dance with Irene.

  He jumped when he felt something crawling at the back of his hair. Irene was touching him. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ve got a particular look in your eyes,” she whispered.