Jonas’s mouth turned down in wry amusement. “I set up this house party so that I could talk Baildon into selling me half of Hampstead. Any marital contracts are purely a side issue.”
“So why are you encouraging me to pursue Lady Marianne?”
The black eyes glittered. “Because my wife is convinced you two belong together and I’m putty in that woman’s hands.”
Elias didn’t think Jonas was putty in anyone’s hands, but he’d long ago recognized the powerful bond between Lord and Lady Hillbrook. Watching them so happy together—and the similarly adoring Richard and Genevieve—had pricked like a thorn under his saddle for the last few days. He didn’t begrudge other people’s contentment. It was just dashed hard to stomach when his own courtship failed to prosper.
Last night, Marianne had given him more than a rejected suitor had any right to expect. But the chance that nothing would follow, and more bitter still, that her sweet ardor would shrivel away if she married Desborough, made him want to punch something. Preferably Desborough’s inoffensive face.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said grimly. “She’s determined to obey her father and equally determined to see me as a scoundrel.” Although perhaps after last night, that wasn’t as true as it had been in London.
“Cheer up, man. The engagement hasn’t been announced. You might yet convince her of your sincerity.”
“How the hell can I do that? The blasted money separates us like the Great Wall of China. If I say I don’t want her dowry, it sounds like a self-serving lie.” He paused. “I loved my brother, but I wish to heaven he hadn’t left the family finances in such a mess.”
“I didn’t know Peter,” Jonas said thoughtfully. “I wasn’t accepted in society when he was squandering his patrimony. But you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I’ve been watching your investments in the new industries. Once you’ve stopped feeling sorry for yourself, no doubt you’ll find your way to both solvency and Lady Marianne.”
The praise surprised Elias. He didn’t make the mistake of dismissing the compliment. Jonas was renowned for his shrewdness—and his plain speaking.
Jonas rose and offered a hand. “We need to get back to the house or Sidonie will think we’ve been washed away. And I could use a hot bath and some food.”
Elias accepted the assistance. “Thank you.” He was grateful for more than just the hand up.
“Chin up, chum. All’s not lost.”
Strangely the conversation braced Elias’s courage. Jonas was right. He didn’t underestimate the forces ranged against him—principally Lord Baildon and lack of fortune. But he had a few advantages, not least that Marianne had kissed him goodbye last night with an avidity that had singed his toes.
His hopes received a boost when he and Jonas returned to a crowded hall. Their arrival brought the entire mismatched party out to hear about the flood. As Jonas’s resonant bass detailed the situation, Elias found himself standing beside Marianne.
A happy accident, he thought, until her hand brushed his. Surprised and pleased, he glanced down. Her eyes, like everyone else’s, were focused on their host who was describing the rescue of a farmer’s family from the rising water.
“Can we do that again?” she murmured, bending her head so nobody would see that she spoke.
Shocked Elias hesitated before answering. She could only mean one thing. But would she be brazen enough to suggest a rendezvous?
Once more her fingers stroked his and for one blazing second, she raised her chin and their eyes met. Heat thundered through him and he swallowed against a surge of arousal.
“Please,” she mouthed.
“I’ll arrange something.” He twisted his hand until he pressed hers under the cover of her yellow skirts.
She crossed to talk to Genevieve. He hoped nobody else noticed the pink in her cheeks. His hand burned from the fleeting contact. He remembered how last night her scent had clung to his fingers. He’d felt drunk on the fragrance.
His heart, bolstered with fragile hope since talking to Jonas, swelled with renewed confidence. Perhaps the future he’d believed out of reach wasn’t quite as impossible as he’d imagined during the night’s bleak depths.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
Marianne could hardly bear to go through the motions of playing the perfect guest until she met Elias again. The glow of what he’d done to her last night had lingered all day. That breathtaking end to his caresses had left every muscle feeling like silk. Better than physical wellbeing was the certainty now lodged in her heart. She’d left herself open to him in every way and he’d justified her trust. Her father was wrong about Elias. He was a man of unshakable honor after all.
Last night, she’d been too overcome to tell Elias what she felt. But now, now she was ready to consent to become his wife.
She meant to marry Elias Thorne and defy her father.
Luckily at a country house party, strict standards of propriety relaxed. Back in London, arranging a private encounter would be more difficult. The sheer number of guests in the house aided intrigue. After dinner, the disparate group spread across the ground floor. Her father and his cronies, including Desborough, retreated to the library to swap endless hunting stories. The younger men played cards. Other guests passed the evening with music or joined Sidonie for tea in the drawing room.
Marianne was making her way to the drawing room when a maid curtsied to her. “Begging your pardon, my lady, the gentleman asked me to give you this.”
With shaking hands, Marianne accepted the sealed note and ripped it open. It contained two words. “The conservatory.”
Wanton anticipation spurred her. She slipped into the empty dining room and burned the note in the fireplace before setting out to meet Elias. When she hurried toward the annex, she hardly felt her feet touch the floor. Still she wasn’t completely lost to propriety. She paused before the glass doors to the large room crammed with palms, ferns and orchids. Carefully she checked to see who was there.
Lamps lit the plant-filled space to mystery. It appeared empty, but if Elias was here, he had every reason to keep out of sight.
Quietly she opened the double doors. Immediately she heard trickling water. Jonas’s collection of exotic specimens surrounded her with a pungent tropical scent. Rain slammed against the glass walls and roof, while inside, the tiles beneath her feet were warm.
Her heart raced as she made her way through the greenery, past mosaic fountains and statues of strange heathen gods. Discretion kept her from calling and the weather muffled her progress.
Finally she lifted a trailing vine heavy with waxy white flowers and saw a tall man standing in a clear space, his back to her. Disappointment struck her so hard that she released a soft groan. The blond man turned from watching the rain on the glass and grinned at her as if she was a birthday gift.
“L-Lord Tranter,” she said unevenly, retreating and bumping into the palm tree behind her.
“Lady Marianne,” he said ardently, catching her hand and bending over it. “Thank you for coming to me.”
His lips on her skin made her recoil. After admitting that she wanted nobody but Elias, Tranter’s touch disgusted her.
What on earth could she say to explain her presence? She couldn’t tell him she’d come so quickly because she’d been in a lather to see Elias Thorne. “My lord, what do you want?”
He kept grinning, deaf to her lack of enthusiasm. “My dear Marianne, your modesty does you credit. Surely you’ve guessed how I esteem and admire you.”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
Tranter’s words echoed Desborough’s and before that, Elias’s. “I’m…I’m grateful,” she stammered.
One would think after all this practice, she could respond to a proposal without turning a hair. She felt as flustered as she had last week when Elias had declared his intentions.
Tranter’s clasp tightened, preventing her from sidling away. “I hope you’re more than grateful before I’ve finished, my darling.
”
The endearment struck a false note. Before tonight he’d only ever addressed her formally. Now he claimed the right to use her Christian name and call her his darling.
“My lord—” she started in a repressive tone.
He dropped on one knee. “Marianne, I have loved you from the first. Your beauty and goodness have stolen my heart. Please do me the honor of saying you’ll be my wife. No woman will adorn the title of Countess Tranter more magnificently.”
This time, she managed to snatch free. She’d known he pursued her. He’d made his interest blatant. But after last night, his words seemed like blasphemy. The oiliness in his manner contrasted unpleasantly with Elias’s unconcealed emotion when he’d touched her.
She didn’t trust Tranter. She never had.
“My lord, much as I appreciate your interest, I’m afraid my answer is no.”
She didn’t know what reaction she expected to her refusal. Anger? Hurt? Disbelief? The too handsome face conveyed the same confidence.
“My lord, did you hear me?” she asked when he didn’t speak. “I cannot be your wife.”
“Of course you can,” he said with an arrogance that staggered her. “Your father may favor Desborough, but your wishes must count.”
She frowned down at him, burying her shaking hands in her filmy yellow skirts. “I don’t wish to marry you.”
A frown expressed puzzlement rather than pique. “There’s no need to play games, sweetheart. My title is old and respected, even if one ignores my personal attractions. I’m quite the catch.”
She stifled the hysterical laughter that rose in her throat, knowing that Tranter wouldn’t react kindly to mockery. She straightened. It was time to bring this awkward scene to an end. “Nonetheless, I must decline your offer. We will not suit.”
This time she saw that he believed she meant it. Smoothly he rose. “I’m sure we will.”
He stepped closer and suddenly Marianne was conscious that she and Tranter were alone in an isolated corner of a huge house. If she called for help, the noise of the storm would cover her cries.
Ridiculous to be afraid, she told herself, even as she backed into the palm tree. Lord Tranter was a civilized man. They’d danced together a hundred times. He belonged to a noble family and he knew everyone she did. He wouldn’t assault a woman of his own class.
“My lord, you’re frightening me,” she whispered, raising a trembling hand to the pearl necklace at her throat.
He took her hand in a determined grip. “No need to be nervous, my dear.”
Every endearment made her skin crawl. His blue eyes were clear and guileless, as they’d always been. But with each second, some instinct within Marianne screamed a louder warning.
“Then let me go.” She fought to keep her voice steady.
“Oh, no, my bird. Not until you agree to be my wife.”
“You’re not acting the gentleman,” she said, trying and failing to break away. The palm fronds scratched her bare arms, but she hardly noticed the sting.
“Needs must,” he said, and went on before she could question the odd remark. “Will you marry me, Marianne?”
She glared at him, anger swamping fear, although she was vilely afraid. “No.”
His smile was regretful. “That’s a damned pity. I’d hoped to manage this without trouble.”
“Manage what?” she asked sharply.
“Why, our engagement, of course. After all, you seemed happy enough for me to play the eager suitor in London.”
“I didn’t give you any reason to think you had my special favor.”
That regretful smile persisted. And he didn’t raise his voice. Yet she was convinced she was in danger. She edged free of the palm tree until there was space behind her. But while he held her, escape was impossible.
“My mistake,” he said unemotionally.
“Stop this nonsense.” Her heart skittered against her ribs and she shivered, despite the room’s heat.
“I’m afraid I can’t.” His eyes rested innocently on her face. “You see, I’ve run out of time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t. I’ve kept my ruin a secret for months, but my luck is running out.”
“Your ruin?” she echoed and the fear that she’d been battling so hard to play down coalesced into a huge gelid lump in her stomach. She hardly needed to hear his explanation.
“Sadly, the family fortune couldn’t support me as I wished and I need a nice rich heiress to rescue me from my embarrassments.”
“There…there are other women who want to marry you. Everyone envied the attention you paid me.” She felt trapped in a nightmare. To think, she’d accused Elias of wanting her fortune, when all the time, the real snake in her garden had been Tranter.
“It’s too late to find another chit to court. I left London minutes ahead of the bailiffs. I’m afraid it’s you or exile.”
“Choose exile,” she said through stiff lips. “I’ll never make you happy.”
“Oh, once we’re shackled, you can go your own way. I won’t care what you do as long as I’ve got my hands on all your lovely money.”
“You can go to the devil, sir,” she snapped.
He laughed derisively. “I intend to, my love. And you’ll pay for the trip.”
She felt as cold in this humid greenhouse as if she stood outside in the storm. “I won’t marry you.”
His smile had never wavered through his appalling confession. Now it widened and the choirboy turned intimidatingly wolfish. “Yes, you will. By the time I’ve finished, you’ll be begging for me to restore your reputation.”
Perhaps it was mad to defy him, but her spirit revolted at what he planned. She straightened and regarded him with all the loathing in her soul. “I’ll never marry a cur like you.”
He clicked his tongue in disapproval. He’d be less alarming if he betrayed some emotion beyond self-assurance. “No need to be rude. This is your last chance, Marianne. The maid who delivered my message to you has instructions to create a scene. Any moment now, she’ll bring your father, the Hillbrooks and Desborough, and anyone else expressing an interest, to this charming bower. We either greet them as a happy couple or your seduction becomes a public scandal.”
The unspeakable wretch. “You’re wasting your time, Lord Tranter,” she said icily. “I won’t marry you whatever you do.”
“Easy to say now. We’ll see what happens after your virtue is in tatters.” He loomed closer. She’d never considered Tranter a particularly impressive physical specimen. Now he dwarfed her.
On a surge of movement, she lurched forward, going for his eyes.
“You damned cat,” he gasped as her nails scored his cheeks.
Without stopping to see the damage she’d done, she twisted free, taking advantage of his shock. She dashed through the foliage, slippered feet skidding on the tiles.
She heard him behind her, blundering through the greenery. There was a loud crash as a pot smashed in his wake. Panting, she reached the glass doors and dived for the latch. Before she touched it, rough hands grabbed her shoulders and wrenched her around.
She cried out in terror and pain, then again when Tranter slapped her face. Fire exploded in her head. When alertness returned, Tranter clutched her to his chest and her hair fell around her face. She struggled, but he seemed to have a hundred hands. With a sharp rip, he tore her bodice.
“Let me go, you savage,” she gasped, biting and scratching until he took her by the scruff of the neck like a cat and forced her head still.
“I’ll happily hit you again if you don’t stop this foolishness,” he said breathlessly.
He no longer looked in control. Worse. His eyes blazed with excitement and blood trickled down his cheek. As he mashed her into his body, a hard weight poked her belly. Bile rushed into her throat.
She swallowed hard, opened her mouth and screamed her lungs out. The harsh sound bounced off the glass. So did the echo of Tranter’s next slap.<
br />
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he grated, placing a hand over her mouth. “Agree and you’ll save yourself a deal of trouble.”
She remained taut, faint with pain, wanting to kill him. His other hand imprisoned her wrists. She shrank away when his eyes dipped to her breasts, bare under her tattered dress.
“You’ve always been a clever little bitch, Marianne.” He licked his lips in a way that terrified her. “Give up the fight and admit you’re beaten.”
She made herself nod and he smiled with an approval that made her gag.
“Good girl.” He shifted his hand from her mouth to squeeze her breast and she screamed again, kicking him. But her satin slippers did no damage and he easily subdued her by wrapping his arms around her.
“Bad show, my dear, bad show.”
He jammed her face into his chest so she couldn’t breathe. The sour stench of his sweat made her head swim. She battled his hold, but this man she’d always dismissed as a cream puff contained her wriggling without apparent difficulty. She told herself to keep fighting as blackness edged her vision.
Then she was free and staring into her father’s appalled eyes.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
“What the devil is going on?”
Marianne still gasped for air, giving Tranter the chance to answer her father’s outraged demand. “My lord, we got carried away.”
Through the buzzing in her ears, Marianne could hardly believe that he sounded like her urbane dance partner and not the man who had hit her. Her agitated gaze settled on Elias who pushed through the crowded hallway. The shock on his features filled her vision. He looked ready to commit murder. His dark face was stern as she’d never seen it and a muscle jerked in his lean cheek. She hardly noticed the other people jammed into the corridor around him.
“Shut your foul mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” Tugging off his dark blue coat, Elias shoved past her father who stood fuming in the doorway. “Are you all right, Lady Marianne?” he asked roughly, wrapping his coat around her shoulders.
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