With Lord Edmond Waite! He had been inside her body. She spread one palm over her mouth and closed her eyes. Dear God, inside her body. Where only Lawrence had been before. And no one for seven years. And now him.
When her bathwater had arrived, she sent Rachel back down to the kitchen to fetch a brush. And she scrubbed at her skin with it until the soapsuds were almost overflowing onto the floor and her skin looked rather like that of a lobster. But he had been inside her. She could not scrub him away.
He had said he would call on her during the afternoon. But she did not want him inside her house. Perhaps he would not come, she thought. But perhaps he would feel obliged to come. Perhaps he would feel obliged to offer for her. Would a libertine and a jilt feel obligated to offer marriage to the woman who had seduced him during a thunderstorm? The thought of marrying Lord Edmond Waite made Mary laugh most hysterically as she stood up and wrapped a towel about her shoulders.
Or perhaps he felt he owed her some apology. Did such a man ever apologize? Perhaps he would not come. She hoped and hoped that he would not come. Ever. She hoped she would never have to face the embarrassment of coming face-to-face with him again.
And it could not be avoided any longer, could it? she thought, wiping the suds angrily from one foot and losing her balance and hopping around on the other. There had not been only that encounter at Vauxhall, for which perhaps she could forgive herself. There had been that horridly sordid house, which was obviously his love nest, and that sickeningly vulgar room with its scarlet velvet hangings and wide soft bed. And her almost inexplicable lack of resistance to being taken there.
With how many other women had he lain in that bed? she wondered, and felt again as if she must vomit. It had been a certain gratitude, perhaps, a certain embarrassment that had taken her there unresisting. He had done her an enormous favor at Vauxhall. There could be no arguing about that, sordid as their encounter there had been. Dear Lord, on a tabletop … She shook her head clear of the thought. And there had been some leftover terror, the need to cling, the fear of being alone. And a certain lassitude left over from that first encounter. A certain curiosity, perhaps? She shuddered. For whatever reason, she had found it impossible to refuse him.
And you enjoyed what you got there. The inner voice was almost audible in the room. You enjoyed every moment of it. Mary shook her head again, but the voice could not be hushed.
She had always been something of a passive lover, though she had always given herself with willingness and tenderness. Certainly Lawrence had never complained or accused her of coldness. And men, she had always thought, liked to do the loving. Women, she had thought, were the receptacles for their pleasure. Not that she had ever lacked pleasure herself. Lawrence had pleased her.
She had not been passive the night before. Her frenzy was understandable at Vauxhall when the storm was raging. But there had been no storm that first time in the scarlet room. And yet … And yet … Oh, God.
You enjoyed every moment of it. And you gave every bit as good as you got.
She closed her eyes very tightly. She could not have. She could not. The man repulsed her. He was everything she found most repulsive.
And most attractive, the voice said, unbidden.
Surely he would not come that afternoon, she thought. Surely, like her, he would wake up that morning appalled by what had happened between them the night before. But he had said he would come. She would not be there, she decided. She would go out. But she had told him she would be at home. She could not go out.
She dressed herself with shaking hands and brushed through her damp curls. She could still feel where he had been inside her. Well, she had asked for it to be slow, and slow it had been. The resulting soreness was inevitable. It had been seven years.
She rang for the bathwater to be removed.
THE BOTTOM FELT rather as if it had dropped out of Mary’s stomach when the doorbell rang during the afternoon and she waited in the downstairs salon for her visitor to be announced. But when the door opened, she found with enormous relief that it was Penelope who was following the butler into the room, not Lord Edmond Waite.
“Mary,” Penelope said, reaching out her hands to take her friend’s, and kissing her on the cheek. “What a relief to find you at home. I was half afraid that you were still wallowing in some mud at Vauxhall. What on earth happened to you? Adrian had to almost drag me home. There was no point in our waiting around for you, he said, when doubtless you had taken shelter somewhere and were not alone anyway. But, Mary …” Her eyes grew saucer wide. “You were not alone! You were with Lord Edmond Waite, of all people. Do tell all.”
“We waited out the storm, and then he brought me home in his carriage,” Mary said, and hoped she was not blushing.
“I am so very sorry,” Penelope said. “That you were subjected to his company at all, I mean. I feel very responsible, since I invited you. It never occurred to me that some of the Rutherfords’ guests would not be respectable. She is new to town, you know. He did not ravish you or anything unthinkable like that, did he?” She stifled a giggle.
“Nothing like that, I do assure you,” Mary said firmly. “We found shelter from the rain and passed the time in conversation.”
“Conversation?” Penelope said. “From all I have heard, the man is capable of only one kind of converse with women. But then, I daresay he stands somewhat in awe of you, Mary. Many men do because you dare to be openly intelligent. That is what Adrian tells me, anyway. Did you know that he killed his brother?”
“Adrian?” Mary frowned.
“Lord Edmond, silly,” Penelope said with a laugh. “Ages and ages ago. He was jealous of him, apparently, and killed him. And killed his mother indirectly, too. She died of a broken heart. I am surprised you had not heard.”
“People do not die of broken hearts,” Mary said. “And surely it did not happen quite as cold-bloodedly as you make it sound, Penny. No, I had not heard.”
“Well,” Penelope said, “it is ancient news and I do not know any of the details of it. I am glad you arrived home unravished.” She laughed. “But you have a terror of storms, do you not? Did he offer you comfort, Mary? Oh, I should not laugh, should I? It must have been quite dreadful for you, and I am sorry. I came to drag you out for a walk.”
“I cannot,” Mary said, and this time she knew that she had not avoided blushing. “I am expecting someone.”
“Oh, bother,” Penelope said. “But I will forgive you if he is tall, dark, and handsome. Who is he?”
“I did not say it was a he,” Mary said.
But the door opened again at that moment and the butler announced Lord Edmond Waite.
Mary noticed only her friend’s eyebrows disappearing up into her hair before turning to greet her visitor.
3
HE TOOK HER HAND IN A FIRM CLASP. HE DID NOT, Mary was relieved to find, raise it to his lips.
“Lady Mornington?” he said. “Mrs. Hubbard? I came to satisfy myself that neither of you took a chill or any other harm from last night’s storm.”
“None whatsoever, I thank you, sir,” Penelope said, looking curiously from him to Mary as he took the seat indicated. “But then, Adrian had the foresight to get us back to our carriage before the rain started. Was it not a dreadful storm? I cannot remember one that lasted so long.”
He was again Lord Edmond Waite, Mary thought, looking at him appalled. A stranger, elegantly attired, tall, rather too thin—no, “lean” was the better word, memory told her treacherously—with a harsh, thin-lipped face and strangely pale blue eyes. He was a man with a reputation that had always made him best avoided. A man to despise. A man who was not in any way a part of her world.
A man with whom she had spent a night of wild and abandoned passion. She shuddered.
“Nor I,” she said, and his eyes turned on her and burned their blue ice into her. “I am quite well, thank you, my lord.”
“I blame myself,” he said, “for having ignored the signs until it w
as too late. I did not know about Spain, of course, but even so, the experience of a severe thunderstorm with only a frail shelter for comfort is not a pleasant one for a lady.”
“But at least Mary had you for company, my lord,” Penelope said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “At least she had that.” He turned back to Mary. “Would you care for a drive in the park later, Lady Mornington?”
How could she refuse? It would be churlish to do so, especially with Penelope sitting there, listening with interest.
“Thank you,” she said. But she really did not want to go. How could she spend an hour or more in company with him, when they had nothing whatsoever in common? How could she let herself be seen driving in the park with Lord Edmond Waite? She would be ashamed to be seen with him.
“I shall ring for refreshments,” she said, getting abruptly to her feet. But he put up a staying hand and got to his feet.
“I shall not interrupt your visit with Mrs. Hubbard, ma’am,” he said. “I have business that needs to be attended to. I shall return for you at half-past four?”
“I shall be ready,” she said. “Thank you.”
And he bowed to both ladies and took his leave.
“Well,” Penelope said, looking closely at her friend’s flaming cheeks after the door had closed. “Mary?”
“How could I have refused him?” Mary asked. “Could I have refused him, Penny?”
“You could have been expecting other visitors,” Penelope said. “You could have had another appointment. You could have been indisposed, though of course you had just said that you took no harm last night. You could have simply said no.”
“But he showed me a kindness last night,” Mary said.
“Did he, indeed?” Penelope said. “What exactly did happen last night, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“Nothing,” Mary said. “Nothing happened.”
“Nothing.” Her friend looked at her curiously again. “And yet you blush more scarlet than scarlet and feel obliged to take a public drive with London’s most notorious rake. Mary!”
“And that will be the end of it,” Mary said. “I shall thank him for staying close to me and talking to me all through the storm, and he will be satisfied that indeed I took no harm. And then this whole nasty situation will be at an end.”
“He is an attractive man,” Penelope said. “I know that many women find him so. And to many his reputation is just an added attraction. You are in a vulnerable position at the moment, with the Earl of Clifton gone. You were very fond of him, I know. I think you were perhaps in love with him, though you would never admit as much. I insisted you come to Vauxhall last evening mainly because you were in low spirits. You will not turn to Lord Edmond, will you? Oh, anyone but him, Mary. There must be any number of perfectly respectable gentlemen who would be only too pleased to befriend and even court you. You are only thirty years old.”
“Turn to Lord Edmond Waite? Penny, please!” Mary looked expressively at her friend. “The very thought of him makes me shudder.”
“We are talking about his person, not the thought of him,” Penelope said. “I am more sorry than ever about not asking Mrs. Rutherford who her other guests were to be last evening and about the unfortunate chance that put you in Lord Edmond’s company just when the storm began. But I do believe that like everyone else, he could have predicted its start and hurried you back to our carriage. It was just like the man to trap a lady into a forced tête-à-tête. He did not try anything, Mary?”
“No,” Mary said firmly. “He did not try anything, Penny. Do you think I would have allowed it?”
“No,” Penelope said without hesitation. “Of course you would not. And among all the bad I have heard of the man, ravishment has never been part of the list. Enough of that unpleasant subject. Who is coming to your salon the evening after tomorrow? Anyone of special interest?”
Mary was relieved at the change of subject, relieved not to have to be telling more and more lies. What would Penny say if she knew the full truth? she wondered. The full truth did not bear thinking of. The more her mind touched on it, the more incredible it all seemed. It could not have happened, surely.
But it had.
Penelope stayed for half an hour before rising to take her leave.
“I shall look forward to the evening,” she said. “I always enjoy listening to Mr. Beasley’s theories on reform and to all the animated argument that his radical views inevitably arouse. If Sir Alvin Margrove does put in an appearance, there are sure to be sparks flying. It was courageous of you to invite them both on the same evening, Mary.”
“When a person holds such extreme views,” Mary said, “it is always desirable to have someone who holds the opposite, just so that the rest of us ordinary mortals can form a balanced opinion ourselves.”
“Well,” Penelope said, “I must be going. Shopping tomorrow? Can we possibly persuade ourselves that we need new bonnets or silk stockings or cream cakes?”
Mary laughed. “Definitely not cream cakes,” she said. “But I am sure we can find some purchase that we cannot possibly live without. My carriage or yours?”
And then she was alone again, with an hour and a half to kill before Lord Edmond Waite was to return for her. An hour and a half in which to develop pneumonia or typhoid or something equally indisputable. If only she could put the clock back twenty-four hours, she thought, closing her eyes briefly, and find an excuse—any excuse—not to go to Vauxhall. If only she could.
But she could not. And that was that.
LORD EDMOND WAITE had not gone back to bed after taking Mary home. He had gone to his own home, saddled his horse, and gone for a brisk gallop in the park, there being no one else there at that time of the morning to object to his speed. Not that a few objections would have slowed him anyway. And then he had gone to Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and sparred for a few rounds.
He would normally have gone to Tattersall’s or the races in the afternoon, and then sought out a decent card game at Watier’s. Dinner at White’s and a visit to the theater or opera house to see what new talent if any had arrived fresh from the country—there had been a dearth of good talent lately. A look-in at some ton entertainment if there were no interesting prospects to pursue at the opera house. A perusal of all the young things at the Marriage Mart and a sneer at all their mamas, who would inevitably note his arrival and his raised quizzing glass with some alarm.
As if he were interested in bidding at the Market for a gauche and innocent little virgin.
The life sometimes became a trifle tedious. But then, there was no other that he knew of. He might have been happy with Felicity—he would have been happy. He would have taken her all about Europe and the British Isles. He would have wanted to show her off to the world. He would have wanted to give her the world.
Well, he wished her joy of her country swain. She would doubtless settle down with him to a life of dull respectability and half a dozen children and never know what she had missed with the man she had jilted.
But devil take it, he missed her and the chance at happiness he had glimpsed for the merest moment. He might have been happy. But he would not have been. It was not in his nature, not in his fate, to be happy.
One fact about his planned elopement with Felicity he would never regret, anyway. It had enabled him to get rid of Dorothea. Ignobly, it was true. His reputation would probably never recover from the blot he had put there by abandoning her. The note he had sent her had been very stark and to the point. He had not let her down gently.
Well, he thought as he climbed to the driver’s seat of his curricle late in the afternoon, at least he was about to embark on a new adventure in his life. It would brighten the dullness for a while at least. Lady Mornington! Who would have thought it? If anyone had told him twenty-four hours before that by this time today she would be his mistress and that he would be more than eager to repeat his bedding of her, he would have laughed with the loudest scorn. Lady Mornington?
B
ut he had seen her with new eyes when he had called upon her briefly earlier in the afternoon. Her small, slender figure had looked pleasing to him because he knew what she looked like without the clothes and what she felt like beneath him on a bed, her legs twined about his. And her eyes had looked lovelier because he had known what they looked like when she was making love. Her hair had looked pretty because he knew how softly the warm curls twined about his fingers. Long hair would not suit such a small lady.
And he had no longer been afraid of her—had he really been afraid? She might be a bluestocking, she might be intelligent. But she was also a woman—his woman.
Lady Mornington—looking as dignified and prim as ever, and looking totally different than she had ever looked to him before. He had almost laughed aloud, and probably would have if her friend Penelope Hubbard had not been with her. It was a shame, that. He had been looking forward to being alone with her.
She was coming down the stairs when he was admitted to the hall of her house. She wore a spring-green dress with a matching pelisse and an unadorned straw bonnet. She would, of course, be outshone by a hundred ladies on fashionable Rotten Row. But it did not matter. He had been infatuated with Felicity because she was the loveliest woman he had ever known. Perhaps he was ready now for the opposite. Though not quite the opposite, either.
She smiled at him. “Some fresh air will feel good,” she said.
“You have not been out today?” he asked her. “I suppose you slept the morning away.”
She did not answer, but concentrated on drawing on her gloves, and waited for her manservant to open the front door.
Outside, he helped her up to the high seat of his curricle. “I hope you would not have preferred a carriage or barouche,” he said. “But I always believe that during a drive in the park one must both see and be seen. It is the nature of the game, is it not?”
She smiled again. “This conveyance is fine,” she said. “Is it new?”
They conversed so politely on the way to the park that Lord Edmond almost laughed. They were behaving like strangers. Who would have thought that only a matter of hours ago they had been in steamy embrace in his scarlet room? He could hardly believe it. He could hardly believe that she was the same woman.
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