The Passionate Love of a Rake: HarperImpulse Historical Romance

by Jane Lark

  Jane picked it up and put it on the table by her cup, then rose, too. She felt as though there was a tumultuous moat of misunderstanding and maybes separating them. Their impulsive embrace of moments ago was like a lost memory already.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed. “If you will excuse me, I should be off in any case.” He turned to Violet, stepped forward and, bowing, held out his hand, indicating for her to set her hand in his. She did not. Jane watched Robert rise and smile in a dismissive gesture that told Violet he did not give a damn. “My Lady,” he intoned scathingly, before turning away then striding from the room with an assured step.

  Oh. Jane looked at Violet, unsure what to do, but then, without any real thought, she set off in pursuit.

  “My Lord!” she called, halting his pace as he reached the top of the stairs. “Wait, I’ll see you out.”

  A knowing smile curved his lips.

  The infuriating man was driving her quite mad.

  When she reached him, she gripped his arm and led him on to the stairs, speaking in a whisper, “Robert, I do not want you to think—”

  “To think what, Jane? That you do not find me attractive? That you are indeed playing games?” He leaned closer to her ear. “Or that you want me still? Or that you wish now that you’d not been so hasty in your retreat the other night?”

  Her fingers fell from his arm, and as he took the next step, she did not, setting a distance between them. “What I wish for, my Lord, is that you would leave me alone.”

  He scowled, and his fingers curled into a fist. His voice was bitter when he spoke. “That is hardly the response I expect after what your friend observed.”

  She supposed she deserved that.

  He climbed a step.

  She took another upward, backward, only to stumble.

  He caught her arm, his grip firm and secure, stopping her fall, and he shook his head at her. “You need not be afraid of me, Jane, no matter what Lady Rimes has said to you. Surely you know that?”

  Her gaze met his, and she answered truthfully, “I trust you, Robert, but perhaps I do not trust myself, and there is nowhere for this to go from here.”

  His head bent to whisper again, and his hair fell forward in that familiar way. “Why? Is there someone else? I thought I had shown you the night before last where this could go. Is pleasure not enough for you? That was just a taste, Jane. It could be good between us, if you let it be.”

  Robert watched Jane’s skin pale at his words and her eyes searched his. She looked shocked. Had he just hit a mark? Was there someone else?

  He let go of her arm and faced those sharp green eyes as they darkened to jade. Her beauty was enough to knock a man off balance. My dear Jane. He wanted her still. Desperately. No matter what she wanted, he could not just walk away. He would not, and he would not bow to any competitor either. He could not think of her with anyone else. She was his.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I hardly know how to live or breathe any more.” Her voice was breathless and weighted with an emotion he didn’t understand.

  She sighed. “It is not you, Robert.”

  What on earth did she mean by that? That she did have another man?

  “It hardly matters what I want. My life has never been about choice. You have yours. Just leave me alone. That is what would be for the best.”

  The woman spoke in blasted riddles, hot and cold as the bloody English weather. Leave her alone indeed, when her body begged in her every move and look for him to stay. “And if I choose not to, Jane, what then?”

  Her palms lifted in an expression of lack of control. “I don’t want your friendship, Robert. It won’t help.”

  “It is not your friend I want to be, in any case.”

  Her eyebrows arched at him in apparent annoyance and disbelief. “No? Then perhaps that is exactly why you are so bad for me.”

  He’d made her angry now.

  Love and hate, the two emotions were closely linked. No one knew it more than he. He had learned it from Jane.

  They both engendered passion.

  “Sweetheart.” He smiled, applying a wolfish gleam in his eyes which always drew women to him. They liked the promise of something dangerous. “That, I would never deny. I shall be very bad for you, indeed, and I promise you shall love every bloody minute of it.”

  Her expression crestfallen, she climbed a step backward again, gripping the banister. “I wonder now if I ever really knew you.”

  Those words pierced him in the chest with an inexplicable pain. His weakness made him angry. He bit back just as sharply, his knife honed by years of knowing that this woman had cast him off for riches and status without a second thought. “Well, I know I never really knew you. At least on this occasion, I face you with my eyes open, Jane. Throw me out, if you will, but believe me, your body shows your words up for the pathetic lie they are. No matter how many times you tell me nay, I shall not just walk away.”

  Jane’s breath stuck somewhere in her chest as she watched Robert bend his head in a scathing bow. “Your Grace.” Then he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.

  His lips were warm, and his thumb brushed across her palm.

  “My dear Jane.” His breath whispered across the back of her hand as his eyes looked at her face.

  When he rose up, he smiled wickedly and added in a challenging tone, “Until we meet again.” Then he let go her hand, turned away, and jogged down the stairs, whistling a tune to himself as he reached the bottom step.

  The man was so self-assured, so content in his skin, and he wished her to follow his every beck and call.

  It would be easy to do so.

  She watched him accept his hat and gloves from the footman, but he did not look back before he left.

  There was a dreadful pattern forming here, a pattern she should be wary of.

  She was using Robert to escape Joshua, and in more ways than one. When faced with the worst of two evils, she was seeking solace in Robert. It was his familiarity and the memories she had of him when they’d been young which promised a false sense of security. He’d been her refuge years ago. But he was no refuge now. Those cursed memories were deceiving her.

  He’d made her feel happy then. He made her angry and afraid now. He was not the same man. And he was not safe.

  The Robert Marlow her heart clung to did not exist. The Earl of Barrington was a renowned seducer, a man who took and walked away – a man who was as much like sanctuary as the pit in a dog fight.

  She thought again of his wolf-like, predatory stare. God help her, her innocence left her like a lamb to the slaughter. The man would consume her whole if she let him, and she had no defence with which to fight. He already had her in his claws.

  Chapter Seven

  “Lord Sparks and Lady Rimes!” the all black-clad butler yelled to the open ballroom.

  Clasping the cord of her fan over-tightly, Jane’s eyes passed across Violet’s and Lord Sparks’s shoulders as they progressed to the receiving line. The sparkling, colourful, extravagant view of those milling throughout the long hall a few steps below was overwhelming. It was a portrait gallery serving as a ballroom. Tonight, the picture was the gathered mass of London’s elite.

  “Geoffrey,” their hostess exclaimed, kissing Lord Sparks’s cheek. “I am so pleased you came.” Violet had told Jane earlier their hostess was Lord Sparks’s elder sister.

  “Lady Rimes.”

  Violet lowered into a shallow curtsy. She’d declared herself more than a little nervous of the Marchioness of Kent’s welcome. She had spent a lot of time in Geoffrey’s company recently, and rumours had begun to spread.

  “It is pleasant to see you,” the Marchioness said with diplomacy.

  Jane smiled, realising the woman was a skilled politician. If she disapproved of her brother’s friendship with the notorious widow, there was not a hint of it in her voice.

  “My Lady,” Violet responded as Geoffrey gripped his sister’s hands.

  “
Sophia, you know I always appreciate seeing you. Where is Frank?”

  “With Wellington, already.”

  Jane’s heart thumped as she waited patiently, wondering if Joshua was here.

  “I will find you later, Geoffrey. We must have a proper talk,” the Marchioness closed, and Lord Sparks moved on with Violet clinging to his arm, the image of a London rake.

  Jane’s gaze reached past them to the bottom of the steps to another such rake.

  The Earl of Barrington stood there, his athletic frame ready to advance, his eyes fixed upon her in a statement of possession.

  “The Dowager Duchess of Sutton!” The Marchioness’s butler called to the room. Jane sensed a sudden shift in atmosphere, and several eyes looked towards her. Then they looked away and heads bent as people began to whisper.

  Jane faced the Marchioness, ignoring them. “My Lady.”

  “Your Grace,” the other woman stated formally, taking one of Jane’s hands. They both curtsied.

  “Thank you for extending me an invitation.”

  “I am most sorry to hear of your loss. My condolences.”

  At that, Jane found herself with no words.

  “Of course, my husband knew the late Duke of Sutton,” the Marchioness continued. “They quite often met at Westminster. He was sorry to hear of your husband’s passing.”

  Jane wondered if she was offering censure, as the other women in the room were. Jane had heard enough whispers to know society disapproved of her socialising while in full mourning. “Who does that little upstart think she is?” ”It is disrespectful to the old Duke.” ”She was nobody before she wed the Duke.” ”A money-grabbing, little chit.”

  Jane lifted her chin, but made no comment.

  The Marchioness leaned closer and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Pay no heed to others. I know I do not give a fig for their opinion, and you have the advantage of being a Duchess and a widow. You may do as you please. I am sure you are in need of a little light-hearted company if all my husband has said of Sutton is true. Enjoy yourself, my dear, and feel free to call upon me if you are in need of another friend.”

  Jane smiled, grateful for the kindness, and said, “Thank you.” But she knew she would not call. Her necessarily private nature of previous years was now instinctive. It would be unthinkable to offer any sign implying the Marchioness’s judgement was correct, and she certainly did not wish to speak of it. Having taken her leave, Jane descended into the long, narrow hall, where she immediately faced her next obstacle, the Earl of Barrington.

  “Your Grace.” He stepped forward, instantly enveloping Jane in his overpowering presence, and his fingers touched her elbow as though claiming her for the evening.

  “Jane?” Violet intervened, her voice full of questioning concern over Robert’s sudden occupation. Her eyebrows lifted too, visibly asking if Jane wished for help.

  Even Lord Sparks threw Robert a look of rebuke.

  Gently shaking her head, Jane warned them both not to make a scene.

  “What do you say to a hand of cards?” Lord Sparks interceded, looking at Violet.

  “An excellent idea,” Robert responded, despite the fact the invitation had not been offered to him. “We could make up a four for whist. How do you fancy that?” he asked Jane as Lord Sparks sent him another warning look. Violet spun away, deserting them all.

  Lord Sparks threw Robert an even blacker look before following.

  Robert’s fingers increased their pressure on Jane’s elbow, and he began leading her into the crush, his head bending to hers a little as they walked. “Well, it appears the card game is off. What about a dance instead?”

  Jane looked sideward at him, her back stiffening as his gentle touch became a caress, his fingers slightly stroking her elbow. “I cannot dance, as you well know, my Lord.”

  “Forgive me. I had forgotten.” His response dripped with disdain. “Of course, you’re grieving.”

  She was tempted to pull away and leave him standing. Across the room she saw Violet disappearing into the card room and Lord Sparks following.

  “He is hooked, you know.”

  The comment made Jane stop and turn to Robert.

  A smile slashed his face, one of those smiles which had turned her stomach to water when she was young. Now that it was delivered with an artful rakish prowess of sheer deviltry, it transformed her entire body to aspic, scattering her wits. She echoed his words, “Hooked?” her train of thought not following his at all.

  “Sparks,” he answered, the smile fixed firmly on his face. “With your friend. She has him by the—”

  “Robert.” She stopped him before he could utter the vulgarity.

  “Well, I am only saying what others think. The man’s panting after her all day long. Sadly, once she’s had her fun, she’ll throw him off.”

  “Robert,” she chastised again. The grip on her elbow firmed, and he led her on, weaving a path through the parties in conversation about the walls, while undaunted, he continued their conversation with a jovial vein of dismissal.

  “Why, Jane, did you not know what she is like? I have long thought it why she so dislikes me, because, in me, she sees herself reflected, and so chooses not to face the ugly truth. We are both restless souls, my dear.” The humour-filled comment was thrown away, and yet Jane could not help but sense something far more intense beneath it.

  She stopped again, looking up, and met his unfathomable deep brown gaze.

  He ignored her observation, reached to the tray of a passing footman and grasped a glass of champagne for her. She accepted it, and he reached for another. “So, no dancing, no cards.” He smiled at her in a dark flirtatious fashion. “What option does that leave us then?”

  Ignoring his innuendo, she looked at the dancers.

  Robert followed her gaze, as she looked at those dancing. He felt more out of his depth than he’d done for years. Yet, when he turned back to her, he saw longing in her eyes. She may not be allowing herself to dance, but she desperately wanted to.

  Lord, she was so beautiful. When he’d seen her standing alone and uncertain at the entrance, behind her far more confident friend, he’d felt an age-old ache in the region of his chest.

  Her dress was black satin with a deep V neckline, revealing a delicate but ravishing show of cleavage. And the V was mirrored in the back between her shoulder blades. As she moved, the gown reflected light, a soft shimmer flowing over the outline of her limbs. The fabric ran across the plane of her stomach and the contours of her hips and thighs like water, and, far from giving the appearance of a woman in grief, the black stood her apart from all others, like a desultory beacon. It drew every eye in the room, setting her beauty up on a pedestal no one else could reach. Even Lady Rimes did not compare. Yet something told him the gown was not Jane’s choice, but her friend’s.

  His gaze skimmed over the back of Jane’s head. The waterfall of dark jet curls coiled about white rosebuds and descended artfully to her nape.

  He was beginning to like Lady Rimes considerably, despite her objection to him. How could he not like a woman who put such effort into setting Jane up so well? Jane’s appearance put every woman who condemned her behaviour in to shadow.

  “Where did you meet Violet?” His gaze continued absorbing every detail as she turned back to face him.

  Her dark sculpted eyebrows arched. “My Lord?”

  She’d been busy picturing herself among the dancers, he realised. “Your friend, Lady Rimes, where did the two of you meet?” he said above the orchestra’s crescendo at the close of the minuet.

  She hesitated, clearly trying to read his expression and understand the motive for his question. Then finally, she gave a slight shrug and answered, “In Bath.” She sipped her champagne, and he knew she’d given him a useless answer deliberately.

  He smiled at her and let his gaze chastise her refusal to engage.

  She looked away to watch the couples exchanging partners. The musicians began a country dance. R
obert touched the soft skin visible at her back between her shoulder blades, and his gloved fingers slipped ever so slightly beneath the fabric of her gown. He longed to caress her without boundaries.

  He bent to her ear, and his lips brushed the upper curve. “As we can neither dance nor play cards, what do you say to a walk in the garden?”

  Her face turned, her eyes darting up to meet his again. There was uncertainty there, yet, equally, he saw his own need reflected, the same hunger which had brought her to him in Violet’s drawing room this afternoon, the same impulsive attraction which had drawn her to his bedchamber that first night. It was addictive.

  Desire darted to his groin as she turned.

  The pressure of his fingertips allowed him to guide her from the room via the open French doors and out on to the terrace. It ran the length of the Marquess of Kent’s town villa.

  A few other couples promenaded in the lukewarm night air, illuminated by a string of lanterns.

  He did not stop there, but guided her on towards the steps which dropped to the vista of the lawn.

  It was lit only by the bright silvery full moon. In the distance stretched the ink-black Thames, glittering in the moonlight.

  At the foot of the steps, Robert turned Jane to the left and followed a narrow gravel path. He heard a fountain somewhere behind the tall yew hedge which lined the central lawn, and followed the sound.

  She did not speak, but he could hear her shortened, nervous breaths.

  The path disappeared behind the hedge. He followed it, guiding her into the first garden room.

  Robert had stayed here with Sparks as a boy, on holiday from Eton. Sparks’s older sister had been more like his mother in Sparks’s latter years at Eton, and they’d played numerous games throughout the formal garden rooms.

  Robert drew Jane on through a Tudor love knot woven in box hedging.

  The next room was divided into quarters and heavy with the thick scent of many roses in their first flourish of blooms. He did not stop but carried on, passing through. Each room was dressed in pitch-black shadows cast by the moonlight.