by Liz Carlyle
She tried to shove him away. “Take your hands off me. I mean now. I am free to marry where I please.”
“Are you?” He stood over her, lean, tall, and deeply dangerous—not a man to be trifled with. “Tell me, Freddie,” he whispered silkily. “Does that old flame realize he’s getting damaged goods? And does he know who had you first?”
A spike of rage seized hold of her then. Unthinkingly, Frederica drew back and slapped him hard across the face.
“Why, you vicious little hellcat,” he growled, snaring her other hand in his.
“Let go of me, you pig! Next I shall scream.”
There was a slight, scornful curl to his mouth. “Go ahead, Freddie love. Scream. Have the whole bloody lot of ’em up here. I’ve nothing to lose, and I’ll give them plenty to gossip about.”
She looked at him hard and swallowed. He meant it. Oh, he really did.
He sensed her uncertainty. “Just tell me, Freddie,” he growled, pulling her back to him. “Why are you marrying someone else? Tell me why.”
This time, she heard the strange little catch in his voice. And that telling phrase—someone else. Frederica tried to reason. What was he thinking? What did he want? Did she owe him an explanation? He clearly wasn’t leaving without one, and she just wasn’t up for a fight. “I must do what my family thinks best,” she said vaguely. “That is a woman’s lot in life, Rutledge. Others decide what is best for us, and then we do it.”
Fleetingly, something which looked like grief twisted his beautiful face. “Oh, Freddie,” he said softly. “That does not sound like you. You are far too stubborn for that.”
Suddenly, she could bear it no longer. “Yes, and what has my stubbornness gained me?” she exploded, fighting down her tears. “Nothing but trouble, that’s what. And do not lie, Bentley, and say that you’re jealous, for we both know it isn’t so. You didn’t really want me all those weeks ago, and you don’t want me now. I accept the blame for what happened. I was stupid, and now I am sorry. But I don’t know the rules of this game you seem to wish to play. I don’t know what I am supposed to do. And I certainly don’t know why you would care.”
Her tirade ended on a quavering note. In the ballroom below, the music, too, melted into silence, and for a long moment Bentley simply stared down at her, his gaze burning white-hot with an emotion she did not understand. Yet something in it touched her, almost broke her heart. And then, just as a strangled sob escaped her throat, Bentley caught her firmly by both shoulders. For a moment, it was as if he sought to hold something back, some raging emotion, a physical blow, she hardly knew what. And then she felt a tear slither down her cheek, and he snapped, shoving her hard against the marble column and covering her mouth with his.
For a moment, Frederica could not think, could not even breathe. She tried to twist her head. Tried to shove the heels of her hands against his shoulders. But his mouth was unyielding, his touch desperate. His hands slid from her elbows to her shoulders, the broad palms searing the skin laid bare by her evening gown. He forced his tongue into her mouth, and somehow, Frederica came fully against him. Then he was cradling her face in his hands, imprisoning her between his palms, stilling her mouth to his. Tonight there was nothing of the lighthearted rogue in his kiss. Instead, a raw, unfettered emotion seemed to drive him. A gasping hunger. An untamed need.
Fleetingly, he tore his mouth away. “Don’t cry, Freddie,” he rasped. “Oh, God, please don’t.”
Then his long, strong fingers slid into her hair, gently restraining her as he thrust deep, plumbing the depths of her mouth and leaving her body trembling. Frederica could smell the starch in his cravat, the spice of his cologne, and his simmering male heat. Again and again, he slanted his mouth over hers, raking her skin with the faint bristle of his beard. Frederica was frightened, more frightened now than when he’d taken her virginity. Then he’d been just devil-may-care Rutledge. But this man was an emotional tempest.
She must have cried out beneath him. Still framing her face in his hands, he lifted his mouth just a fraction, his breath hot and swift on her skin. For an instant, he hovered. And then, as suddenly as it had come, his grip relaxed, and the raging storm died.
Only then did Frederica realize she’d been kissing him back, that her hands had slid down his shirtfront, around his waist, and beneath his coat. Her breath, too, was coming in short, urgent gasps. She had to fight the urge to follow his lips with her own.
“God.” His whisper was like a prayer. “Oh, God.”
Then he dragged her hard against him, his arms binding them chest to chest. For a moment, she gave in, surrendered to the madness, and let herself go limp in his embrace. She could feel the incredible power in his arms. His body thrummed with vitality and strength. And she felt so weak. So tired and so confused. Beneath the silk of his waistcoat, she could hear his heart pounding.
“Now, tell me, Frederica,” he rasped, his voice unsteady. “Is that what you feel when your fiancé kisses you? Does his touch steal your breath? Leave you weak in the knees? Tell me yes. Just say it. And I swear to God, I will walk down those stairs and out of your life.”
But Frederica made no answer at all. How could she? There was no one else, and there never would be. Worse, she knew, suddenly and instinctively, that no one would ever make her feel the way this man did. That was a part of the danger, wasn’t it? Just a few short weeks ago, she had been a foolish girl who had thought she’d understood what passion was. And now, she was a ruined woman who knew too well the power of pure human lust.
She was afraid to speak, afraid to trust her own emotions. She had a child to consider. A child she whose security and well-being she could not jeopardize. No, not even for this—this plunging, dark desire which drew her down into its depths and promised such sweet, perfect pleasure. She did not want to want Bentley Rutledge. She wanted desperately to forget his perfect pleasures. But her body answered his, and she was suddenly afraid. Afraid she did not possess the experience—perhaps not even the will—to fight it.
Her silence seemed to frustrate him. A little roughly, he set her away, and Frederica slid gratefully from his grasp. Bentley did not turn to look at her. Instead, he braced one hand high on the marble column and stared down at the spot where her feet had been. Then he drew a breath which shuddered through him. For a long, expectant moment, the silence was broken by nothing but the laughter and gaiety below.
Finally, he spoke, his head still bowed as if he’d been beaten. “Just say it, then, Frederica,” he rasped. “Just tell me what you want, and have done with me, damn you.”
Frederica felt her heart stop. “Have done—?”
Without lifting his hand from the marble, Bentley slowly swiveled his head until his gaze caught hers. It was a look of torment and of despair. “I have been trapped in a damned perdition these many weeks, Frederica,” he managed. “If you don’t want me—if you absolve me—by God, say so. Set me free of this hellish guilt I’ve been wallowing in.”
Hellish guilt.
The phrase rolled off the tongue, awful, ugly words. Was that what he felt? And what was he offering? She had never dreamed he could look so enraged and distraught. It seemed so totally out of character.
Later, Frederica was not sure where she found the courage, if one could call it courage to tell a lie. But somehow, she steeled herself. “I am leaving England, Bentley,” she whispered. “I cannot take risks. I need a life that is safe, dull, and ordinary. And that is what I think best for the…for all concerned. You have no cause to feel guilty.” Her hand reached out, almost of its own volition, and came to rest lightly on his shoulder.
His entire body went rigid at her touch. He looked away and made a harsh, guttural sound.
“Do not feel guilty, Bentley,” she repeated. “You are right in one thing. What I did with you I did willingly. And what I do next I do willingly, too. Is that what you needed to hear?”
Bentley straightened his spine and stared into the murky gloom. Frederica held her brea
th, and she wasn’t sure why. “Aye, that was it, I guess,” he said softly. Then, without so much as a backward glance, he walked rigidly toward the gallery, turned the corner, and disappeared.
For what felt like an eternity, Frederica stood, simply listening to the fall of his footsteps as he moved through the gloom toward the gallery. Suddenly, an awful sense of regret seized hold of her. Her stomach went weak, as if with dread. As if she’d just made the worst mistake of her life. Had she? Good God, surely not? He’d offered her nothing; she’d asked for nothing. That was how it had to be. Even if he wished to try, Bentley Rutledge was not the sort of man who could be a good father. Nor would he ever be a dependable, faithful husband.
But the truth, it seemed, did not stop her. Frederica found herself catching her skirts in one fist and flying round the corner toward the balustrade. She threw herself against it, caught it hard in her hands, and leaned over so fast her head swam. Desperately, her eyes searched the crowd below. But the supper dance had ended. The ballroom was swiftly emptying. And Bentley was nowhere to be seen.
Do not stop. Do not look up.
Bentley moved down the steps and into the ballroom with those two thoughts in his mind. You are well out of this one, old boy, he told himself. Now, just keep moving.
As though it were a sluggish tide, Bentley forced his way through the crowd flooding from the ballroom. Color and sound blurred. The laughter about him rang with an artificial shrillness. One greeting, and then a second, went unheeded. His elbow caught someone’s arm. Glass tinkled. A champagne flute? He did not stop. Instead, he pushed from the ballroom into the corridor beyond, swiftly making his way toward the front door.
In the entrance hall, a footman stepped forward, murmuring something about his coat. Bentley did not answer. Another servant held open the door for a gentleman who was departing. Without a word, Bentley pushed blindly past them, bursting out into the chill spring air. A light fog had scuttled up from the Thames to float surreally about the forecourt and the fountain, which still spouted twenty feet into the air. In the murk made yellow by the lamplight, he hastened down the wrong flight of steps, and a cold, cascading mist settled over him.
At the bottom, Bentley pushed his way through the clamor of servants, horses, and vehicles in the carriage drive. Opposite the house, all was cloaked in shadow. Bentley plunged into the gloom until his fingertips touched the moldering stone of the distant courtyard wall. He turned then and fell against it, staring back up at the steps. He should have been thanking God. Or at least heading gratefully homeward. But instead, he wanted simply to stand in the dark and hate Frederica d’Avillez with his every fiber. Why? Why?
What did it matter? He could not do it. He’d not been able to kindle up pure, unmitigated hatred since he was a boy. Instead, there was just an old, familiar emptiness where that cathartic emotion should have burned.
He did not know how long he stood there, hatless, coatless, his clothing damp from the fog and the fountain. From time to time, his ears caught the rumble of conversation or the wafting strain of a violin as it carried through the night. Strath’s every front window, better than a score of them, blazed with a glow that looked warm and inviting. Yet he wasn’t wanted there. Not any longer. And that was his fault. He knew he should leave. But instead, he simply stared through the cold fog and listened as the gaiety continued.
After a time, the anger began to recede. He began to wonder what she was doing and with whom. He even let himself imagine her face, let himself hear again her coldly dismissive words, until it began to feel as though he were pricking at his own flesh with a keen blade. He must have stood in the shadows for some hours, but time held no meaning.
Eventually, however, the trickle of departing guests became a surge. Carriages circled through, horse hooves clattering smartly off the cobblestones as they spun under the clock tower and into the night. And then, ever so slowly, the lights of Strath began to go out. First the main floor, and then those above, until, at last, only the lower service rooms were lit. Except for one feeble flame far, far to the left. On the third floor.
Frederica slept on the third floor. Was that her room? He shut his eyes and imagined that it was. Her maid would be undressing her, preparing her for bed. He imagined that he could see the ruby silk sliding off her honey-colored shoulders. The frothy, feminine under-things sliding down her body and into a pool of white about her feet. He could almost see her small, high breasts, their nipples so dusky and perfect. Tonight, they had all but burst from her ruby ball gown, and when he thought of it, he could remember how they had tasted in his mouth—a trace of rose water, a hint of salt, and the warm essence of woman.
Suddenly, and very strangely, something struck him. Zoë’s deceptively light banter began to return to him in strange bits and pieces.
Madame Germaine had to let the bodice out.
She’s been a bit faintish lately, which is odd.
It had all sounded so meaningless. But perhaps Zoë’s words hadn’t been banter at all? He couldn’t forget how Freddie had leapt into flame at his touch and yet had refused to answer his questions. Questions which were really quite simple. Or were they? An appalling certainty began to settle over him. My God, how could he have been so blind? He jerked away from the wall, indignation coursing through his veins. This was not about what Freddie wanted, was it? It wasn’t even about what he wanted—not that he knew what that was. By God, this travesty was all Rannoch’s doing! He felt it in his bones.
With motions which were resolute and angry, Bentley strode toward the lone servant who yet lingered in the courtyard. At last, it was time to leave. But he would be back. And then Rannoch—or someone inside that house—would have hell to pay.
Chapter Eight
In which Mr. Amherst does the Lord’s Work.
The Marquis of Rannoch was an early riser, a habit hard built by years of dissipation, when, as a matter of sheer survival, he’d learnt how to stay up most of the night and still draw a steady bead come dawn. Though most of his less obliging tendencies had been long since conquered, he still struggled with a few, chief amongst them his vile temper and the occasional bout of insomnia. Of late, both had worsened, because—though no one save his wife would have guessed it—the marquis was a man riddled by doubt.
This morning, Rannoch stood before the newly glazed library window, staring pensively across his coffee cup and into the gardens, which he could not really see. Last night’s haze had become an impenetrable pea soup which had swathed Strath House in cotton wool, leaving it still and silent, like some spun-glass ornament packed away after Christmas. Much of the family yet lay abed; only his wife Evie and his ward, Frederica, had risen. He feared they had slept no better than he, and for much the same reason.
The marquis was jerked from his reverie when, behind him, the library door swung open. He turned from the window and was surprised to see MacLeod. The butler carried a small silver tray with a calling card laid square in the middle of it. Rannoch made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, one which only a fellow Scot could interpret.
“Aye, milord,” answered MacLeod, his expression quite put-upon. “Verra early, it is.”
“A damned fool, then.” Rannoch grunted. “Well, go on. Who the devil dares plague me at such an hour?”
MacLeod smiled sourly. “’Tis the de’il himself, if his black look can be believed.”
Rannoch picked up the card and flicked it a glance. “My God!”
“Oh, I doot that.” MacLeod bowed. “Shall I fetch him?”
By the time Bentley Rutledge appeared, Rannoch had fortified himself with another cup of coffee. Fleetingly, he had considered something stronger and discarded the notion. God only knew what this meeting might come to. The doubt which had driven him from his bed at dawn returned twofold.
Rannoch rose stiffly when Rutledge entered. With a purposeful stride, the younger man crossed the room. Then he flicked his wrist disdainfully, sending a sealed sheet of foolscap sailing into the m
iddle of Rannoch’s desk.
The marquis was not a man given to niceties. “It is but half past nine in the morning, Rutledge,” he growled. “What the hell do you want?”
The young man glowered across the desk at him. “Only that which is mine,” he said, stabbing one finger at the paper he’d hurled onto the desk. “And I have come to take it.”
Rannoch let his eyes drift over Rutledge. He recognized too well the glittering eyes and rigid posture of a man’s barely contained fury. And he did not for one moment underestimate his adversary. Rutledge was decidedly dangerous, as he’d proven time and again. At seventeen, he’d blown his first man to kingdom come, and that hadn’t been the last. He was a seasoned gamester who ran with low company, and he’d been implicated in smuggling, drug running, blackmail, and worse. One mistress, a docklands whore, had got her throat slit in an opium deal turned nasty. Another lover—a very wealthy, much-married countess—had been throttled in her own bed. But Rutledge had a way of always ending up on the fringe of scandal, never quite in the middle—in part because, like a lion lazing in the sun, he gave the impression of being too handsome and too indolent to be dangerous. But believing that was a grievous error.
Without another word, he picked up Rutledge’s paper and slit the seal. His eyes flicked over it once. Then again. Good God Almighty. This did not bode well. “You must be quite insane,” he snapped, tossing the paper onto his desk. “Certainly you are mistaken. There is nothing here which belongs to you. Frederica d’Avillez is my ward, and apt to remain so as long as I wish it.”
He scarcely saw the hand slash out and snatch him by the coat collar. “Your ward is to be my wife,” Rutledge snarled, dragging the Marquis halfway across his desktop. “And before this day is done, you will wish it. In fact, I may have you on your knees begging for it.”