by Annie Stuart
Benedick thought back to his own younger sister, married to the monster. If Miranda insisted on staying with someone so completely unsuitable she might at least have had the grace to be miserable about it, instead of ridiculously, breathlessly happy.
No, he didn’t want his sister miserable. He just didn’t want her with the Scorpion. But that was the least of his worries right now. “They are, indeed,” he said politely.
“But you’ll come the following week, won’t you? You’re the closest she’s come to an offer in years. Men seem just about ready to come up to scratch when she frightens them off. You don’t strike me as a man who frightens easily.”
If he offered for Dorothea this would be another idiot he’d have to rescue from the machinations of the Host, he thought, annoyed. And possibly his old friend Harry, as well. Three of them, as well as Melisande’s virginal trollop. He may as well do his best to bring down the entire organization—it would be easier than picking and choosing.
“I’m afraid your sister has read too much into my attentions,” he said quite formally. “While I hold her in great esteem I was not, in fact, contemplating making her an offer.”
Pennington bowed, taking his refusal politely. “I told her that,” he drawled. “Told her you were too smart not to see through her.”
“But I’m interested in this weekend, Pennington,” he went on smoothly. “I haven’t heard of any particular social event being held. Have I somehow been deemed unworthy of an invitation? I confess I’m not sure how I could have offended.” An arrant lie. He very often offended people, and while he regretted it, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about it. One thing he could say for Melisande Carstairs—she was remarkably difficult to offend.
“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” Pennington said, assessing him. “It’s…well, you know, these things are all hush-hush, secret society mumbo jumbo and all that. A bunch of us have revived a…er…fraternal organization, and we’re holding a little gathering this weekend. You’re welcome to join us.” The invitation was automatic, and then memory darkened Pennington’s countenance. “Except, of course, that it is a secret society, and we don’t let anyone in who hasn’t been thoroughly vetted.”
Benedick gave him his slow, cynical smile. “Are you telling me I wouldn’t pass the standards of this secret organization? I believe my family has been the making of it.”
For a moment Pennington lost his cool composure. “I could ask, of course. Can’t see the harm in it myself, but you never can tell. Some of the members are downright ridiculous. But then, it’s supposed to be a special gathering. Some dashed pagan holiday or suchlike. Can’t pay attention to that sort of thing. Best wait till the next time. I can bring up your name at the meeting and see if anyone has any objections.”
He could just imagine what his brother would say. “Indeed. Enjoy yourself then, Pennington. And give my regards to your sister.”
“Won’t do that… She’ll simply berate me again. Told her she should concentrate on old Skeffington. He’s got just as much blunt as you do, but he hasn’t got a title, and he’s sixty if he’s a day. Stands to reason she’d prefer you. Though I have to say the thought of my sister in bed with anyone is enough to send shivers down my back.”
“Pray, don’t think of it,” Benedick pleaded, a little horrified himself. “I look forward to hearing of her engagement.”
If Harry had seemed slightly odd earlier in the evening, he was all affability and silly stories during their card game with Elsmere and several others. He lost a great deal, but then, Harry had always had a tendency to play too deep and lose too much. At the end of the night Benedick had yet to wrest an invitation to the weekend’s festivities, no matter how many broad and subtle hints he dropped, no matter how decadent he tried to appear. There was no choice for it; he was simply going to have to show up. He wondered if he could still find the old monk’s robes that hung in his parents’ wardrobe. He never knew quite why, and when he’d asked his mother she’d blushed, a singular occurrence, and his father had changed the subject. He’d decided he’d rather not know.
Melisande had left by the time he emerged from the card room, and he felt a moment’s guilt, coupled with disappointment. He should have at least made certain she had an escort home. Clearly she’d taken care of it herself, and he should be relieved. He wasn’t. He’d been looking forward to sparring with her. To telling her he wasn’t going to touch her. Right before he did.
It was after two when he let himself into his house. The servants were all in bed. For once even Richmond wasn’t hovering. He took a candle and started up the stairs, his mind in turmoil. By the time he reached his rooms on the second floor he was yawning. His bedroom door was ajar, with faint light spilling out, and he closed it behind him, setting the candle down to unfasten his neckcloth.
And then froze as he realized he wasn’t alone.
She was sitting in the middle of his bed, waiting for him, and he stared at her in disbelief. She was wearing a nightdress, a warm, old-fashioned one, buttoned all the way to her neck, voluminous and practical. Her long, tawny hair was in two braids, and her face was scrubbed and clean. She looked like a schoolgirl ready for bed—all she needed was a stuffed doll to complete the picture.
“I’d almost given up on you,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was cold, clipped. He’d been trying so damned hard to do the right thing, and she was stopping him at every turn. He looked at her, and he was furious.
“I would think that would be obvious.” Clearly he’d done his job too well in assuring her she was desirable; there was only the faintest note of uncertainty in her voice.
“Do you really think appearing in a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night is a good idea? Men tend to be the ones who initiate these things.”
“Why?”
“Men have stronger appetites.” He watched her through slitted eyes.
“That’s ridiculous,” she announced. “You’ve already teased me on more than one occasion about my fondness for sweets.”
As if he’d needed any further proof of her innocence. “Not that kind of appetite, you little idiot. I’m talking sexual appetite.”
The word sexual made her blink, and he allowed himself an evil half smile. She wasn’t nearly as bold as she was trying to convince herself she was.
“But if women have weak…sexual appetites then how do you ever manage to have affaires? It seems terribly mismatched.”
“Those with strong appetites tend to drift together, just as couples with little interest in bedsport do, as well.”
“Which are you?” she inquired in a dulcet voice.
It was a weak attempt to rile him, and he didn’t allow himself to react. “I think you know perfectly well the extent of my sexual appetites, Lady Carstairs.”
“You called me Melisande before.”
“And clearly you mistook it for a carte blanche. How can I make this any clearer? Bribery won’t work. I’m not going to let you get involved in this mess any longer, and all the offers won’t have any effect on me. I don’t want you. I don’t desire you. You have nothing I look for in a mistress—you’re inexperienced and clumsy, and your choice of a life of continuing celibacy was probably a very wise decision. Now put your clothes on while I go summon my coach.”
He was almost at the door when he heard the sound. It was just a small noise, something choked back, and he paused. He who hesitates is lost, he thought. And turned.
He’d expected her to rage at him. He expected fiery eyes and flashing words and high dudgeon. Instead she looked as if he’d shot her puppy. Despite the silly high-necked nightgown, she looked stripped bare, whipped and broken, and he cursed his nasty, vicious tongue that he’d never been able to control.
She struggled, bravely, beautifully, giving him a ghost of her insouciant smile as she pushed back the covers. “You know, I think I’ve changed my mind.” She swung her legs over to the side of the bed, and he could see
the strapping on one foot.
It was her toes that did it. He’d forgotten about her lovely, straight, pink toes. Absurd, because he never noticed women’s feet—there were always too many more interesting parts to observe somewhere to the north. It was the fragility of them. The humanity of them. He’d been sparring with her for days, thinking of her as an annoyance, entertainment, the enemy, and yes, a sexual toy.
Now she simply looked human, and shattered by his deliberately cruel words. They’d done what he’d intended. She would never come near him again, never look at another man.
And he couldn’t bear it.
He leaned back against the door, closing it again, and he reached behind his back and locked it, pulling out the key. “Too bad,” he said. “Because I’ve changed my mind, as well.”
25
She’d been a complete and utter idiot, Melisande thought, staring at the cool, cynical beauty that was Benedick Rohan. She was doing her best to hide her misery, but he was looking at her from hooded eyes, and she knew he saw through it. He saw her a little too well, past all the careful defenses she’d built up. He’d known her cool self-assurance was mostly a lie; he’d known she looked at him and something inside of her melted, every time, despite his caustic tongue.
Foolish creature that she was, she’d thought she could handle him without getting burned. Of course he would be willing to bed her, she’d thought, never considering that he might outright refuse. After all, she was a widow, not a virgin. He had no reason to demur unless he simply didn’t want her.
He was watching her, reading her every emotion. She tried to summon up her cheerful smile but for once it deserted her. “Changed your mind?” she echoed. “I’m afraid the offer is withdrawn.”
He held out the key. “Convince me.”
Anger flared, hot and hard, and she slid onto the floor, her toes flinching at the cold of the floor-boards. The fire had burned down and the room was chilly. Perhaps Benedick Rohan preferred to sleep in a chilly room. She would never know.
She’d imagined lying in his arms, against his strong, warm body, safe and protected. She’d glossed over the whole unfortunate business that involved naked body parts and wetness and grunting, concentrating on the absurd glory of the way he’d touched her, wanting that again, willing to let him do his worst in order to have it.
But surely someone else could provide the same thing. Granted, Benedick Rohan was an accomplished lover, even the professionals that made up the gaggle knew that. But with their intimate knowledge of half the men in London they could doubtless point her to someone else just as talented and far less…threatening.
And if she found him threatening, why in God’s name had she come here?
Her clothes were in his dressing room, but she couldn’t see disappearing in there and putting them on again. Her cloak lay across the chair by the fire, as well as her thin evening shoes. She could leave in those.
She held on to the bed as she tried her bad ankle. It was tightly taped, with a rod of wood to give her further support, and she managed relatively well once she got her balance. She let go of the bed and limped toward the chair and her discarded cloak.
He was frowning at her. “You’ll catch your death.” In a few quick strides he’d crossed the room. Before she realized what he intended he scooped her up in his arms and deposited her back on the bed, pulling the covers up around her before she had time to react. “Stay there while I build up the fire,” he ordered.
She started to push the covers away again, but he simply caught her shoulders and shoved her back onto the bed. “The next time you try to get out of the bed you’ll most likely regret it,” he said in a lowered voice. “At least, at first.”
The threat in his voice was sexual—she wasn’t so untried that she didn’t recognize it. Then again, everything about Benedick Rohan seemed that way. His words were cold and clipped, the expression in his dark green eyes was threatening, but the fingers on her shoulders were absently caressing, the thumbs rubbing against the tight muscles, unconsciously soothing her.
And then he released her, turning his back, and headed toward the fire. She watched with astonishment as he built it up with the expertise of a man accustomed to such menial tasks when most men would be helpless to accomplish anything so practical. The heat began to pour from the coal fire, and she realized she’d been shivering, holding her body tightly against the cool night air and her own fears.
Her fears hadn’t abated, but the room was filling with warmth, and he sat back on his heels, watching the flames with satisfaction. They threw his face into strange shadows, making him look half-satanic in the flickering firelight. He looked up at her then, a meditative expression on his face. “What in heaven’s name made you choose that nightdress for your first attempt at seduction?” he inquired lazily. “And your hair…”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” she said, offended. “This is what I wear to bed. This is how my maid does my hair so that it doesn’t get tangled when I sleep. I do realize that demimondaines wear filmy clothing, but I don’t really have any, and this is how most women dress for bed.”
“It is not, however, the way a woman dresses for her lover. If that’s what you wore with Wilfred then it’s little wonder he was a sad disappointment.”
She flinched. Of course she’d considered that possibility—that her lack of real beauty and feminine wiles had been responsible for the failure that was Wilfred. While she hadn’t communicated her uncertainties to Emma and the gaggle, they had made it quite clear that all a man really needed to enjoy himself was a naked, willing female, and she’d definitely been that. Well, not particularly naked, but most definitely willing, and she’d let him do what he wanted.
Which was disgusting. For some reason the same base acts didn’t seem nearly as foul when she thought of Rohan practicing them. And that had been her downfall. For the first time she’d considered sexual congress with a man and not felt ill, and she’d decided to act on that relative enthusiasm. Only to be summarily rejected.
“I’m certain the unpleasant nature of my time with Wilfred was entirely my fault,” she said in a cool voice as she drew the shattered bits of her self-esteem back around her like the cloak she longed for. “And you’ve made it very clear that you have no interest in me, but I’ve been too besotted to listen.” Damn, where did that word come from? She quickly went on, hoping he wouldn’t notice her slip. “You have made me see the error of my ways, and I promise I won’t suggest anything so untoward again. Now if you’d hand me my cloak I will cease to bother you.”
He rose, with that casual, lazy grace that caught her eyes every time, and he drew his neckcloth out and tossed it on the foot of the bed. “I am afraid, my pet, that you are doomed to bother me. And you’re going to have to convince me that you’ve changed your mind before I let you go.”
It should have frightened her. Outraged her, terrified her, disgusted her. Instead, as he started toward her with his lazy, sinuous grace, she felt that sudden clenching in her stomach, the tingling in her skin, and she knew if he touched her she’d be lost.
She wanted to be lost, didn’t she? At least, that’s what she’d thought several hours ago when she’d come up with this absurd scheme. Now, of course, she wasn’t so sure.
“I don’t think…” she began, when he picked up the end of one of her plaits and untied the ribbon, slowly pulling her hair free. She looked down at it, mesmerized, the tawny gold against his strong hand, the way he let if drift through his fingers. Hair had no feeling, and yet she could feel the caress in every inch of her body. He spread it out against her shoulder and then took the other braid, repeating the act, running the strands through this thumb and forefinger like fine silk.
“You really do have the most glorious hair,” he murmured in that cool, detached voice. “It’s a crime to hide it in those dreadful bonnets.”
She couldn’t move. She wanted to lift her hands, to push him away, but she was frozen, if heat could freeze, staring u
p at him. He sat on the bed, and the mattress sank a little beneath his weight, and she started to roll toward him. She put her hands down to hold herself still, and he laughed softly. He leaned down and feathered his lips against hers, and unwillingly she responded, her body rising into the touch of his mouth, and she wanted to cry. She closed her eyes, so he wouldn’t be able to see the hurt and longing in her gaze. Let it be over soon, she thought dazedly. Let me just get through the next half hour and it will teach me that I wasn’t made for this sort of thing. I can survive anything.
He kissed her closed eyelids, so gently, then her trembling upper lips, the arch of her brow, finally the lobe of her ear. And then he sank his teeth into it, biting her hard, and an electric shock went through her body as her eyes flew open in outrage and something else that she didn’t want to examine.
He sat back, an expression of bemused satisfaction on his face. “Besotted, are you? That should make my job a great deal easier.” He rose, and she felt a momentary panic. He was going to let her go. He’d made his point—she was really terrified of doing this no matter what she said. Now he would send her away and she would go, defeated and humbled, and she’d never be fool enough to…
He had shrugged out of his jacket, no mean feat given the perfect fit of the garment. He unfastened the shirt studs and set them on the table beside him, slowly exposing his sun-darkened skin to the candlelight, and she took a swift breath. Wilfred had been very pale and thin, almost scrawny. Thomas had been covered with grizzled gray hair.
She’d thought Rohan was thin as well, but she’d been wrong. He was all sleek muscle and tanned skin as he stripped his shirt off, and she stared at him, conflicting emotions roiling through her.
She cleared her throat, searching for some kind of normalcy in the charged air. “Well, it’s no wonder I’m drawn to you,” she said in what she hoped was a pragmatic tone. “You’re ridiculously beautiful, and you know it.”