Mary Balogh

by A Counterfeit Betrothal; The Notorious Rake

  “Mary,” he said softly, drawing her into his arms as the musicians prepared to play. “I have made love to you. Three times. And you to me. Am I to address you formally?”

  She looked up into his eyes. “You will never let me forget that, will you?” she said.

  He wondered yet again why he was pursuing her so relentlessly. She was so much older and plainer than most of the other dancers. At least he thought she must be. He could no longer remember if she was pretty or plain, old or young. She was Mary.

  “Do you mean that you would forget it if I were not here to remind you?” he said. “I think not. I think that you remember every moment of every day. I think you relive those encounters every single night. You cannot deny it, can you?”

  The music began, and he moved with her, noting again how small she was—she reached barely to his shoulder—and how slender. She was light on her feet and responded well to his lead. She was a good dancer.

  “I like this gown,” he said, looking down to the pale green silk at her shoulder, “as I liked the apricot-colored one you wore at your salon. Pale colors suit you. You have a strong enough character that you do not need to hide behind vivid shades—like the pink you wore at the theater.”

  She stared at his shoulder. She was not going to answer him, it seemed.

  “Had you given Goodrich permission to send me away?” he asked. “I found his attitude most obnoxious.”

  “Yes,” she said, her face animated with anger again. “I had. But you have no conception of what good manners demand, do you? There would have been a nasty scene if I had not agreed to dance with you. I chose not to make a scene.”

  “I am glad,” he said. “I would hate to have had to punch him in the nose, Mary, or direct a pistol at him tomorrow morning.”

  She drew in her breath. “You would have done either or both, would you not,” she said, “without a thought to the distress you would have caused to a number of people? Without a thought to my reputation?”

  “I do not like to have watchdogs set on me, Mary,” he said. “Perhaps you should know that now. I would hate to have to harm Goodrich or anyone else. Argue with me face-to-face. Or do you not have the courage to do so?”

  “I do not wish to argue with you,” she hissed at him, “or to converse with you or to have any dealings whatsoever with you. I want you out of my life. Completely and immediately and forever. But you will not believe that, will you?”

  “No,” he said. “Or I will not accept it, at least. I want you in my life, you see, Mary. Completely and immediately—and yes, perhaps forever, too. I believe this conversation is becoming rather too intense for the scrutiny of all these eyes. It needs a little more privacy.”

  He danced her out through the French windows onto the stone balcony. It was rather a chilly night. There was only one other couple out there, and they were on their way back inside.

  Lord Edmond Waite and Mary danced alone. And in silence. She did not immediately resume their quarrel, and he would not. She closed her eyes, he noticed. And he drew her fractionally closer and breathed in the scent of her.

  It was eight days ago. The storm must have been in progress already at this particular time of night. He must have been holding her. Kissing her. Perhaps he had been in the process of laying her down on the table. Perhaps he had already been inside her.

  If it were eight days ago, he would have the rest of that night to look forward to. God, if it were just possible to put back the clock. If it were just eight days ago.

  Mary!

  He looked down at her and knew in some shock that he was falling in love with her.

  Had fallen.

  6

  THE AIR WAS COOL ON THE BALCONY. BLESSEDLY cool—she had become overheated in the ballroom. The music was lovely, the sort of music one could hardly resist moving to. The waltz must be the most wonderful dance in the world. Mary kept her eyes determinedly closed. She willed her partner to keep quiet. She wanted to believe that she was waltzing with any good partner anywhere.

  “Mary.” His voice was low and caressing.

  She held her breath, but he said no more. She kept her eyes closed and they danced on. Until he twirled her about and stopped. There was something hard and cold at her back—the stone balustrade. Something brushed her cheek—the leaves of one of the large potted plants that stood at intervals along the balcony. She opened her eyes. They must be more than half hidden behind the plant. He was standing very close to her, his arm still about her waist, his other hand holding hers. He was looking at her intently.

  “Mary,” he said.

  “I have danced with you,” she said, anger rising again. “I have even made an effort to be polite to you and to stop quarreling with you. But this is more than enough. I am going to return to the ballroom now—alone. And I would ask you, my lord, to leave me alone in the future. Strictly alone. I do not wish ever to speak with you again.”

  For answer he lowered his head and kissed her.

  Her one hand was not free—he was gripping it tightly. With the other she pushed at his shoulder and slapped at his face, twisting her own away from it. They struggled in silence until he had her two wrists imprisoned. He set her hands against his chest and held them there until the fight went out of her.

  “Do you wish me to scream?” she asked him. “Is that what you want? Yet another scandal? You will get nothing else from me, my lord, without a very loud scene, I promise you. Let me go, if you please.”

  “Mary,” he said, making no move to release her, “we were good together. More than good. The best. We could be so again—and again and again.”

  “You make me sick,” she said. “Physically sick. Nauseated. Are you so perverted that you like to pursue women who can vomit just at the thought of you?”

  “You did not vomit last week,” he said. “You gave every bit as good as you got. You enjoyed every moment.” He looked at her in silence for a long while. “Is it my reputation? Is it that you know I have had many women and have recently jilted one lady in order to run off with another? Is it all the rumors of excesses and reckless living? Is that it?”

  “Yes,” she said, tight-lipped. “That is precisely it. Strange, is it not, that a woman would shun such a man? And one who killed his brother and his mother, too, if all the stories one hears are to be believed.”

  She wished that anger had not caused her to add those last accusations. She knew nothing with any certainty. And usually she scorned unsubstantiated gossip. His lips thinned and twisted into a sneer. His nostrils flared, and his eyes bored into hers.

  “Ah, so you have heard that one, have you?” he said. “Well, it is true, Mary. I killed them. Are you afraid I will kill you, too? Put my hands about your neck, perhaps, and squeeze?” He suited action to words, except that he did not squeeze. “It would be a new method for me. That is not how I killed them. Are you frightened?”

  “No,” she said, holding her voice steady. “I am not afraid of you, my lord.” But she lied. She was, she realized, mortally afraid of him. Not afraid that he would kill her. Not there and then, anyway. But afraid that, say what she would, he would not leave her alone. Afraid that she would never be free of him. And a little afraid of herself, perhaps.

  “Liar,” he said. “Mary, has it ever occurred to you that all the stories you have heard, all the labels that have been put on me, do not make up the complete man? Do you not think that perhaps there is a great deal more to be known?”

  “You would try to deny it all, then?” she said. “You would have me believe that you are a worthy and upright citizen?”

  “Hardly that,” he said. “No, it is all true, Mary, what you have heard, and a great deal more that you have not heard, I do not doubt. But even so, there is a large part of myself—a very large part—that is not accounted for by such a public image. Do you feel no curiosity to get to know what you do not yet know?”

  “No,” she said. “None whatsoever.”

  “Mary Gregg, Lady Morning
ton,” he said, “widow of Colonel Lord Mornington of the Guards, former mistress of the Earl of Clifton, bluestocking, hostess of one of the most respected literary salons in London. Is that all of it? Is that who Mary Gregg is?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “Those details do not tell you who I am, only what I am or have been. And not all of those are true even. You do not know me at all, my lord.”

  “Touché,” he said.

  Her hands were still spread on his chest, she saw, though he no longer held them prisoner there. His own hands were now at her waist.

  “I do not want to be having this discussion with you,” she said. “I believe this waltz is almost at an end. I have promised the next dance to someone else.”

  “If it were not dark out here,” he said, “I should open your card to find out if you tell the truth, Mary. But no matter. The waltz has not quite ended. Kiss me.”

  She stared at one of her hands. “Please,” she said. “Let me go. I do not want to have to scream.”

  “Kiss me,” he said, and he lowered his head to kiss her neck below one ear.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed.

  “Kiss me.” He whispered the words an inch from her mouth.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Mary,” he whispered against her mouth. “Mary.”

  “Please,” she said. And one hand was on his shoulder and moving up behind his neck, and her head tipped to one side, and her lips trembled against the light pressure of his.

  “Mary,” he said. “Kiss me.”

  She kissed him, her hand bringing his head forward, her mouth opening as his tongue came to meet it. And the ache was there again, intensified a hundredfold, and she knew that he could satisfy it. That he would satisfy it. One of his hands had slid down her back and brought her against his swelling groin. She pressed herself closer.

  And then both her hands were against his shoulders, pushing firmly, and she turned her head to one side.

  “Now be satisfied,” she said. “Now have done and go away. Please!”

  “You were humoring me?” he asked.

  “How else can I be rid of you?” she said.

  “Mary,” he said, “you lie through your teeth. Your body is far more honest than you. Your body admits that it wants me, that it is fated to be mine. Why will you not admit it, too?”

  She turned her head back to look at him. “The physical is the only aspect of life that matters to you, is it not?” she said. “If I were to admit that, yes, I am attracted to you at the basest physical level, you would exult, would you not, and feel that that was all-sufficient? It would not matter to you that I do not like you, that I do not respect you, and that I would despise myself for the rest of my life for giving rein to my basest instincts.”

  “You would deny the body, then?” he asked. “It is an unhappy thing to do, Mary. We have to live inside our bodies for the rest of our lives.”

  “Some of us,” she said, “also have minds to live with. And consciences, too.”

  His smile was somewhat twisted. “Ah,” he said, “it was obliging of you to explain that. I have often wondered what can give meaning to the lives of those who do not indulge their bodies as I do.”

  She swallowed.

  “I want you, Mary,” he said, “and I mean to have you. Not just from selfish whim, but because I know that you want me, too, and because I hold the strange belief that we can find a measure of happiness together. Stop fighting me. It is a useless struggle, I do assure you.” He dropped his hands to his sides and took one step back from her. “But enough for tonight. It is time for me to find a few bottles from which to drink deep, and a few wealthy and foolish young bucks to separate from their fortunes at the tables, and a willing whore with whom to enjoy what remains of the night.”

  “I can live without having the details spelled out to me,” she said coldly.

  “Well,” he said, “that is what you expect of me, is it not, Mary? Is it not better to know for sure than merely to imagine? If I did not tell you, you might fear that you were doing me an injustice in your imagination.”

  She frowned. “You hate yourself, don’t you?” she said.

  He sneered and drew breath to speak. But the words were never uttered.

  “Lady Mornington,” the voice of Viscount Goodrich said from just beyond the potted plant, “may I escort you back into the ballroom, ma’am? Or would you like me to throw out your, ah, dancing partner first?”

  One side of Lord Edmond’s mouth lifted in a smile. He stood quite still and looked into Mary’s eyes.

  “We have been conversing,” she said. “But the waltz is at an end, I hear. I would be thankful for your escort, my lord.”

  Although she looked at Lord Edmond, she was speaking to the viscount. She stepped to one side and around the former. He did not move, either to help or to impede her progress.

  “Good night, Mary,” he said softly. “Thank you for the dance and for the conversation.”

  “Good night, my lord,” she said, and she set her hand on the viscount’s sleeve.

  HE DID NOT believe in love. Love brought only pain and bitterness. Love ruined lives, deprived them of all meaning and direction. He believed only in lust, only in the satisfaction of the body’s cravings. And yes, she had been right. Only the physical mattered. Nothing else. Not mind. Not conscience. What did he care for conscience? Conscience had tormented him once upon a time, until it had seemed to be a toss-up whether he would end up in Bedlam or in hell, dead by his own hand. Somehow he had steered clear of Bedlam, and his hand had shaken like an autumn leaf when he had set the dueling pistol first against his temple and then inside his mouth. He had been too much the coward to pull the trigger.

  Yes, he believed only in lust. She was damned good in bed, better than anyone else he had ever had, and so that was why he craved more. It was her body he craved. He cared nothing for her mind or her feelings or for all those other elements that were a part of her in addition to her body. He wanted her body. Lust was all.

  He did not believe in love.

  And yet in the two days following the Menzies ball, liquor seemed to have lost its power to make him drunk and gaming to amuse him and whoring to give his body ease. And so he gave them up, hurling a full decanter of brandy into his fireplace late on the second night—the night of her literary salon, which he had stayed away from—having already thrown in a winning hand at Watier’s before the game was quite won so that players and spectators alike had gaped at him in disbelief.

  And before going home and smashing the decanter, he had taken a delicious little whore into his scarlet room, sat down to watch her undress, and then ordered her to dress again while he stalked from the room to summon his carriage. He had paid her twice her usual fee—merely for undressing in his sight and dressing again out of it.

  Her body had been twice as luscious as Mary’s.

  On the third day he called at Mary’s house and sent up his card. He repeated the call for the following six days. Each time she was from home and he left without disputing the message. Once he saw her driving in the park in Goodrich’s barouche. He deliberately redirected his horse so that he would pass her, and he raised his hat and gazed steadily at her until she flushed and acknowledged him with a nod. Then he rode on without even attempting to engage her in conversation.

  The word was out that Goodrich was courting her in earnest.

  He made no move to discover where she was likely to be during the week. He wanted her body, not her. There were a thousand women in London alone with bodies more attractive than Mary’s, and many of them willing bodies, too. He would choose another woman and teach her to perform as Mary had performed for him, and better. She did not want him. Well, then, he would forget her. She did not matter to him. He believed only in lust, not in love.

  But he sat in his dressing room late one night, staring at his boots and remembering that she had kissed him at the Menzies ball and that for a few moments she had been hot and willin
g in his arms, his for the taking. And he woke more than one night aroused for her and remembering her at the ball pressing herself against his groin, wanting him inside her.

  He cursed her and damned her. He conjured up a mental image of her and ruthlessly criticized every aspect of her appearance. Her legs were too short, her hips too narrow, her breasts too small, her whole body too dumpy, her hair too unfeminine, her face too plain, her eyes too … He shook his head. Well, she had one good feature. One! And she was too old and too prim and too everything else he did not like.

  It was almost laughable that he, who had always been considered something of a connoisseur of women, could not shake from his memory a woman whom no one in his hearing had ever called pretty or lovely or attractive or bedworthy. He would be the laughingstock if it were known—as it well might be if he did not forget her soon—that he had determinedly pursued the very plain and ordinary Lady Mornington and been rejected. People already knew such a thing of Felicity Wren, but at least Felicity was breathtakingly beautiful.

  But Mary! His lips curled with contempt—contempt for his own reactions to her.

  On the night of her next literary evening—she had a lady novelist and a more reputable poet than Pipkin on her guest list, he had heard—he arrived at her house again. But he did not take advantage of the fact that she held open house. He sent in his card with a note scribbled on the back. And he waited for her reply, wondering what he would do if she ignored it or sent a message that she was not at home.

  He stood in the hall of her house and bowed to Sir Henry and Lady Blaize as they entered and handed their outdoor garments to the butler before making their way to the salon. He smiled arctically when Lady Blaize openly ignored him and Sir Henry merely frowned and bobbed his head in what might have been a greeting.

  Old fools! Did they think he cared?

  The outside door opened again to admit the Viscount Goodrich at almost the same moment that Mary stepped out of the salon, Lord Edmond’s card in one hand.