by Lucy Ashford
He shrugged. ‘Why not? You’re penniless but blue-blooded. I’m a miner’s grandson and rich. A good joke, isn’t it?’ He glanced at her—to check, perhaps, that she wasn’t about to jump off his moving carriage and flee his detestable presence.
She’d whirled on him. ‘Your joke fails to amuse me. And anyway, what could I possibly offer you, Mr Davenant? You talk of my blue blood, but I know how very little that counts with you!’
‘You underestimate yourself, Mrs Marchmain. You could, in fact, be very useful to me.’
‘How?’
‘I’m only talking about a temporary betrothal—a matter of a month or two. You’ll be well aware that during the next few weeks the London Season will reach its height, which is a matter of great inconvenience to me, since to be honest I can’t stand the insipid heiresses who are thrown in my path day and night.’
‘Leave London,’ Belle said flatly.
‘I can’t. I have vital business here, which involves meetings with lawyers, investors and London bankers. I also have to socialise, or appear extremely rude. But I need a respite from the fortune-hunters, and a convenient fiancée would serve the purpose admirably. During that time you would, of course, enjoy the benefits of my protection as well as my money.’
Belle burst out, ‘No. This is ridiculous. To pretend to be betrothed to you—it’s unthinkable!’
Too late she saw the dangerous spark in his eyes. ‘I have choices, but you don’t,’ he said abruptly. ‘Were you aware that your brother gambled?’
He saw the colour drain from her cheeks. ‘Yes, but that was long ago...’
‘Not long ago at all. During his recent stay in London, he ran up large debts at White’s.’
‘No. Please, this cannot be true.’
The look, the unguarded look on her face as she turned to him with such dismay in those wide, dark-lashed eyes... Adam felt, not for the first time in this woman’s presence, a sense of utter disquiet. ‘Your brother,’ he proceeded ruthlessly, ‘has debts to the tune of five thousand guineas.’
‘Five thousand...’
‘But,’ went on Adam remorselessly, ‘I have bought them up.’
‘You have bought—’ No. Please, no.
Adam wondered if she would spend the rest of the afternoon echoing his words. But after that she became so still, so frozen that for a few moments he wondered if she would ever speak again.
* * *
Belle felt that the park was whirling around her. That she was clinging on to reality only by a thread. She said at last, very quietly, ‘I know, Mr Davenant, that you cannot have purchased my brother’s debts out of any sense of duty, or liking. I can only assume you have done this to further my family’s humiliation.’ She cleared her throat. ‘No doubt you expect me to promise to pay you back. But I fear that such a sum is beyond me or my brother, for the present at least...’
‘I’ve already explained,’ he said without expression, ‘how you can pay me back, Mrs Marchmain.’
‘You—you have?’
‘Yes. I will consider your brother’s debts cancelled if you do as I asked and agree to a betrothal.’
The colour drained from her face; she looked suddenly fragile.
They’d entered a quieter area of the park, where trees sheltered them from the general throng. She realised he was pulling his horses to a halt. He gazed down at her, his eyes slate-grey, his mouth a thin line. ‘I will try not to make your new position too detestable for you, Mrs Marchmain,’ he went on. ‘But I’d like you to appear in public as my fiancée, until mid-July when society retreats to the country. I think you’re as aware as I am that such an arrangement can be easily ended.’
Oh, he would enjoy discarding her. Clever. So clever.
She said, at last, ‘Am I going to be punished for ever, Mr Davenant, for those comments I made about you on Sawle Down?’
He shrugged. ‘Punishment? Call it that if you like, but it’s your chance to ensure I’ll not serve notice on your brother for his debts. Do you or do you not accept?’
Oh, God. What choice did she have? She felt dizzy and sick. She twisted the ring she wore and drew a deep, deep breath. ‘I fear you will find you have got yourself a bad bargain, Mr Davenant,’ she answered quietly.
He was silent a moment. Then: ‘I’ll take you home, Mrs Marchmain’ was all he said.
Chapter Eight
All the way back from Hyde Park to the Strand Adam had been aware of a restless tension simmering inside his powerful body. This woman was, quite frankly, turning his hitherto well-organised life upside down.
It wasn’t just that she was strikingly attractive—he’d known that from the start. It wasn’t just her outfit, that ridiculous military-red affair devised to put her breasts almost on full display. It was—everything. Her clothes, her dark curls, her figure—all combined in some incredible allure that made every man in the park snap his head round and stare after her with pure lust.
Adam was accustomed to mere beauty. The difference with Mrs Marchmain was that she was defiant—and vulnerable. She was a twenty-seven-year-old widow, a woman who had lost her husband in the cruel war, yet survived on her own with some success. A woman who despised him. But he felt himself aching to hold her, to protect her... Face it, Adam, you long to get her in your bed and kiss every inch of her.
Damn. He glanced down at her as the traffic at the corner of Bedford Street came to a standstill and saw how the bodice of that outrageous crimson dress had slipped apart again, showing the delicious upper curve of her breasts. Thanks to the motion of the curricle her slender legs beneath her gown kept unavoidably brushing his; he couldn’t help noticing how some loose curls of her raven-black hair had escaped from her damned hat, trailing down the soft nape of her neck just where he’d like to place his lips...
She must realise the effect she had on any normal red-blooded male. Yet her name had never been associated with any man’s since her widowhood; his secretary Lowell had told him so. Lowell had even suggested that she had loved her husband.
Adam had scornfully rejected the notion. Hadn’t Jarvis said she was out for what she could get? Hadn’t Mrs Marchmain herself offered her services to him, in return for those blasted sheep her brother had stolen?
He’d pulled the horses up a short way from her shop because a delivery dray made it impossible for him to draw up outside. ‘Will you be all right if I set you down here?’ he asked curtly.
She was clearly endeavouring to pull that gown together again. She said, in a voice that sounded more than a little distraught, ‘Mr Davenant, I really think you ought to know that I am completely lacking in what—in what I realise you will require from me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She jerked her head up. ‘I mean in the matters of the bedchamber.’
No. Was that another tear shining in the corner of her eye? Was this all part of her act? Adam offered her his pristine handkerchief as the disturbing urge to put his arm round her and simply offer her comfort unfurled again in his gut. Stop it. He said, ‘I should, I think, have stressed from the very beginning that you will dictate the nature and the pace of our relationship, Mrs Marchmain.’
‘What?’ She was turning, white-faced, to look up at him.
‘People will assume, of course,’ he went on, his voice perfectly calm, ‘that our relationship is an intimate one.’
She dropped his handkerchief.
‘But their assumptions will be wrong,’ Adam went on imperturbably, ‘because you will not share my bed. Unless you choose to, of course.’
He wasn’t even looking at her now, but was staring straight ahead. Belle felt her stomach pitch. Oh, God. All this. Why?
Because she’d insulted him quite lethally—and her brother had offered him the weapon of revenge that Davenant had probably been looking for ever since. She straightened her bonnet and uttered a light laugh. ‘La, Mr Davenant, so you’re not even going to pretend to be seduced by my charms? I swear, you put me to the
blush!’
He turned to her and said, ‘In the eyes of the general public, I’ll play the perfect suitor, believe me.’ He lifted his hand and very, very gently stroked the pad of his blunt forefinger across the smooth velvet of her cheek and down to her full lower lip. Belle hadn’t known that a simple touch could be so sensuous.
She jerked her head away to avoid that intimate caress, but all she did was present him with the opportunity to trail his hand across the nape of her neck, his fingers briefly massaging her tender skin there in a way that sent shivers of incredible warmth fluttering through her veins to pool at the very pit of her
abdomen.
She pulled away again and tugged her foolish gold-trimmed crimson gown tighter to stop him seeing how her breasts, with their tautening nipples, betrayed her body’s treacherous reaction to his sinuous caress.
To this devilish man’s touch. To his mere touch.
And he knew. Dear God, she felt sick with shame. He was watching her calmly like a hunter preparing to strike. Her pulse still raced tumultuously; her ribs ached with the need for air. He said, ‘I repeat: I will expect nothing of you that you’re not prepared to give, Mrs Marchmain.’
She moistened her dry mouth and answered, ‘You may be quite sure I shall never freely offer you anything at all that I value, Mr Davenant. May I go now?’
But he wasn’t quite finished with her yet. ‘One last thing,’ he put in. ‘While you are—in name at least—my bride-to-be, I would prefer you not to live at your shop.’
That was straightforward. ‘My shop is my life!’ Belle cried. ‘And I will need it, for when this ridiculous—arrangement is at an end!’
‘I know that. But as my prospective wife I think you’ll agree that for you to live there would not be fitting.’
This, from Miner Tom’s grandson. She clenched her jaw. ‘You surely cannot expect me to live with you?’
‘I haven’t asked you to,’ he said cuttingly. ‘But I have a house in Bruton Street that I think would suit the purpose. I would expect you to reside there and attend social functions with me for the remainder of the Season. After all, we have to make this convincing, don’t we?’
He helped her out and she couldn’t reply, because she wasn’t able to. Why was he doing this? She somehow reached her shop, holding her head high as she negotiated the jostling crowds.
But inwardly she was shaking—because she guessed
she knew the answer to her unspoken question. Why was he doing this? Because, quite simply, he was out to break her.
* * *
Adam drove thoughtfully away, the first part of his mission accomplished. He would announce their betrothal, then as soon as possible end it; Jarvis would be satisfied and Belle Marchmain would be a target for the gossips all over town and beyond.
She deserved nothing less for the insults she’d hurled at him. Meanwhile he’d saved her brother from ruin, hadn’t he? So what was wrong? Why did he feel such a lowlife? She was proud and made no secret of despising him for his lowly background. Why, then, had his stomach clenched at the look of sheer desolation in her eyes when he revealed her brother’s calamitous folly?
Adam tightened his jaw. Business bargains were tough and there were always losers. Some deserved to be losers. He’d pay her off well at the end of it all.
But revenge should have tasted a damn sight sweeter than this.
* * *
Belle could only be thankful that her shop was for once busy for the rest of the day. So although Gabby kept casting pleading looks in her direction that said, What happened? Belle was able to keep her at bay. And that evening, shy Matt had asked Gabby if she would go with him to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, which meant Belle was by herself.
She tried to write to her brother, but her pen kept faltering. She simply couldn’t understand how Edward could have left London with those awful gaming debts unpaid. Just as she could not understand why Adam Davenant could want to make such an outrageous proposition to her.
Yes, he’d explained he needed a convenient fiancée, but surely he could have thought up a less drastic solution? Found himself a new mistress, for example, or absented himself from the social scene? No earthly need for such a convoluted form of revenge. Unless it wasn’t revenge at all... No. No. Such a man as he would never actually fall for a penniless, foolishly defiant dressmaker. Never!
She felt her lips, where his fingers had rested. Oh, Lord. She hated him for his arrogance, his cynicism. Yet—his mere touch filled her with dark, forbidden imaginings. She sat very still with her pen in her hand as the shadows lengthened.
In the end she just wrote, I am so sorry, Edward, about your baby. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.
* * *
Afterwards Belle tried to do some sewing by candlelight up in her sitting room. Anything to distract herself from her dark thoughts. At last she heard the back door opening, and Gabby ran up the stairs and came in.
‘Did you enjoy Vauxhall Gardens, Gabby?’ Belle knew that lovelorn Matt had hired sculls at Westminster to take the two of them across the river and had also booked a private box that would give them a prime view of the acrobats and the singers. He had even bought himself a new striped waistcoat. Belle fervently hoped Matt had made the most of the opportunity to press his suit and hadn’t simply sat speechlessly watching Gabby with adoring eyes.
‘Oh, yes!’ Gabby eagerly pulled up a chair. ‘We had a wonderful time. Matt danced with me and he talked extremely foolishly—oh, madame—about love!’
Good for you, Matt. Belle smiled. ‘Why do you consider him foolish, Gabby dear?’
‘For a grown man to talk of how his heart will be broken if I turn him down—tenez, it is absurd. But none of it as foolish as you, madame, sewing at this late hour when I hear that all your difficulties are at an end!’
Belle put her sewing down slowly. ‘What are you talking about, Gabby?’
Gabby wagged her finger. ‘Why, about Mr Davenant! I know, of course, that he took you driving in the park this afternoon. But this evening I met dear Lady Tindall at Vauxhall Gardens, and—well, it’s all over town that you and he are betrothed!’
My God, Davenant works quickly, thought Belle rather dazedly. She drew in a deep breath. ‘Listen, Gabby.’ She tried to sound calm. ‘There will be an announcement of a betrothal—’ Gabby gave a little squeak of delight ‘—but it is to be purely a matter of convenience for both him and me, do you understand?’
‘But he must have fallen in love with you, madame,’ Gabby persisted. ‘I thought, when you were so flustered by his arrival in his carriage this afternoon, that there was something going on—though I didn’t even realise you’d met before!’
‘We’ve met twice before.’ And both occasions were absolutely calamitous.
‘Well,’ said Gabby firmly, ‘it’s not as if Monsieur Davenant is lacking female company—I told you before, he is well known indeed for the beautiful women he has escorted round the town. And they still talk, so longingly, of him. Pardieu, madame, they go on about his good looks. His fine manners. His generosity. When he bids a final farewell to his mistresses—ah, how they must grieve—he sees that they do not want for anything.’ Gabby sighed, but then her brown eyes twinkled again with mischief. ‘And, of course, there is all the talk of his virilité...’
Belle froze. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean his—’ Gabby shrugged in a very Gallic way ‘—his manhood, madame. His skill as a lover!’
Belle pretended to yawn. ‘Oh, do you know, Gabby, I’m so tired. I think I’ll have an early night. I’ll just go and check that everywhere is locked up.’
‘Madame!’ Gabrielle was following her down the stairs. ‘Don’t you want to hear what they say? He keeps his mistresses at a lovely house in Bruton Street, Mayfair, and—’
Belle stood stock still. ‘In Bruton Street? His mistresses?’
‘Why, yes, madame. Are you all right? This betrothal—isn’t it what you desire? I
f not, then why...?’
Belle struggled to compose herself. ‘Dear Gabby, I’m not sure of anything just at the moment. But clearly it’s going to be the talk of the town, so let everyone think I’m quite happy with it all, will you?’
‘Of course.’ Gabby pressed Belle’s hand then turned to go to her room. Belle just stood there. Not sure of anything. It was true. She was no longer sure of anything at all—except that Adam Davenant despised her.
* * *
The next day, after Belle had spent a sleepless night, a note was delivered. It said simply, The house is ready. I will call for you later this morning at eleven, to show you round. Davenant.
The house where he kept his mistresses—his bits of muslin, his doxies. Belle wanted to weep with rage and vexation. He’d promised her he wouldn’t touch her, but shivers of warning surged through her veins at the thought of being in that formidable man’s power. He’d told her he needed her to ward off the husband-hunters—but Belle knew he was doing this to humiliate her. Had most likely bought up her brother’s debts for the sole purpose of humiliating her.
Well, it wouldn’t last long, he’d promised her that. And—Belle drew in a sharp breath at the sudden idea that smote her—wasn’t it just possible that Adam Davenant could be persuaded to end this obnoxious false betrothal sooner rather than later?
Chapter Nine
Mr Davenant called at eleven exactly as he’d promised. Belle had dressed so loudly, so brashly that even loyal Gabby’s eyes had widened with doubt.
But Adam Davenant did not bat one sleepy eyelid.
It was as if he was used, every day of his life, to escorting a woman dressed in a Spanish pelisse of raspberry-pink sarsenet trimmed with lime-green satin.
Belle adjusted her pink-kid gloves and beamed up at him. ‘La,’ she declared in her best Somerset accent, ‘I be fair up in the clouds with the idea of being your ladybird, Mr Davenant, I be!’