by Robyn Carr
He thought for a moment, a deep scowl on his face. “Do you will it otherwise, Jocelyn? Would you rather leave now to a place of your own design and procured by my pension—to have the misery behind you?”
“No, my love,” she said, her eyes moist and her voice soft and sweet. “The moment you tell me you do not want me here, I will go as graciously as I might. But until then, I will relish your affection and play for you the willing mistress. I love you, Trent.”
He smiled and his eyes warmed. “Then let us put these troubles aside and have a happy day.”
She forced a smile that came through sincerely, once ignited by his dark, smoldering eyes. She strengthened herself from a place deep within. A moment or two of melancholy was earned, for her future did look precarious, but she vowed she should not dwell on trouble that had not yet found her. Although she knew these dark clouds would pass with regularity, she could do nothing about that future problem before it arrived. And she would not spoil both his Christmas and her own with a sour mood and useless fretting.
“Let’s do,” she finally said.
THIRTEEN
“Ogre! Beast! Knave! Baboon!”
Tronnier relaxed on a settee in front of a sitting room fire and leisurely sipped from a goblet of wine. He leaned his head back and let his eyes close, a smile growing on his lips as the young woman alone with him in the room paced back and forth and shouted at him in a fit of temper.
“Your mother was a gutter-crawling slut,” Adrienne shot at him.
“It’s quite likely,” he replied easily, seeming either bored or perhaps mildly amused by her tirade.
“You’re a blackguard and thief and murderer,” she railed.
“Now, my dear,” he said calmly, “I told you that myself. You can hardly shock me with the news.”
“But you lied to me,” she wailed, her lower lip beginning to tremble and tears glistening in her eyes.
“You may weep if you like, but I promise I won’t be deeply moved by it. I rather enjoy watching women wrenched with sobs.”
“Ohhh, you are the most insufferable, horrible, treacherous bastard I have ever known!”
He rose slowly and walked toward her, a rather serious curve to his usually playfully smirking mouth, and gently stroked her upper arm as if to soothe her. He looked down into her sparkling green eyes and spoke slowly. “I tried to warn you of that. But you are impetuous, my dear, and had to learn the hard way.”
“But what am I to do,” she cried.
“You might speak to your uncle about a quick marriage. Or, fancy this, Adrienne. You’re an adventuress at heart—run away and ply your trade among those sultans and kings in foreign lands. They will keep you in your accustomed fashion.”
Her eyes widened with genuine shock. Her name-calling and shouting may have been inspired, but Adrienne was seldom truly shocked or horrified. She sank onto a chair, still looking up at him with those large, unbelieving cat eyes that finally welled with tears, and she fairly stammered.
“Oh! You are a monster!” And then she let her face fall into her hands and she wept convincingly.
Troy sighed and moved to the cabinet in the sitting room and poured a small draught of brandy into a glass. He watched her from across the room and allowed that he was indeed the most vulgar character who’d ever lived. It was not the first scene of this type, in which he played the conceited cad, but for some reason he felt a twinge of regret at being so callous. She was, after all, quite young and vulnerable. And he did rather grieve the quality of entertainment he would be losing when she made her final, angry departure. “I’m getting old, that’s what,” he thought to himself.
He hoped she wouldn’t wake the entire household of servants, but if she did it would matter little. It was untidy, this settling with a maid. A great deal more trouble than he liked to be bothered with.
He had been away for several days and was told upon his return that Lady Adrienne had been calling every evening of his absence. He hardly expected that she would pass up the first night of his return, so he stayed in and bolstered himself with a good Rhenish wine he had in stock. Now he considered his foolishness; he could have gone to Whitehall or a tavern and possibly avoided this conflict. He faced it only to have it over with.
He pressed the brandy into her hand. “Here. Drink this and calm yourself. You’re bright and beautiful. You’ll get over this rather easily. In fact, if you’re very clever you can marry an old earl who will die shortly and leave you well fixed and in a position to enjoy life to the fullest.”
She gulped the brandy, choked and wheezed, and then with watering eyes and a pink nose, she looked up at him. “I hate you,” she mouthed, the sounds barely audible.
He chuckled lightly. “That, too, will pass with time. In fact, my grande dame, we may meet again on the same pleasurable ground. After you’ve buried your first husband, of course.”
“I’m going to tell my uncle everything and have you shot,” she promised hotly.
Troy laughed loudly at that. “Oh, pray be merciful, Maid Adrienne. Poor Julian will die of a stroke if you tell him. And who could he possibly find to shoot me? Unnecessary murder hardly seems your style.”
She dropped her head into her hands again and resumed her weeping. Troy sighed, again, and walked to the cabinet. He tilted the crystal decanter and poured more brandy. This time when he attempted to press it into her hand, she took it and fired it across the room, the glass splintering into many tiny shards and the brandy staining the wall with an amber splash. “Terrible waste of decent brandy,” he muttered, returning to his settee and idly sipping his wine while she wept.
He considered his poor timing and bad judgment. He seldom made love to a woman who might hinder his business. Every time it had proved unwise. He had allowed Adrienne’s close presence while questioning her carefully about her uncle’s pursuits, finding it more difficult each time she was near to deny a hunger for her young, sensual body. She finally tempted him too well and too often.
All Julian Kerr had to do to provoke his niece into Troy’s bed was to forbid her to see him under any circumstances. The very next night she was in his home, while her uncle slept and enjoyed peaceful dreams. Still, he had fought the temptation for as long as he could.
When Troy had reached the limits of his endurance and faced his wants boldly, he was momentarily surprised by her reaction. She displayed her womanly charms as openly as an experienced strumpet but balked suddenly and fearfully at the suggestion of a consummation. He could not easily know if she was a practiced tease, or if womanhood assaulted her body and had not yet reached her mind. So he urged her with his own well-honed phrases and skilled caresses. He made her feel secure enough to yield, as only Sir Troy could do.
He found the truth to it, then. She thought herself worldly but was playing a game she did not understand. Once in his practiced arms, she’d yielded to his expertise and he’d found himself showing her, for the first time, all the joys love could offer. Over the weeks she had grown from a guileless virgin to an accomplished lover.
There was barely a woman in London who had not fallen to Troy’s charm when faced with his humor, his handsomeness, and his seductive ploys. He had found it quite unnecessary to go to great lengths to develop any kind of prestigious connections—the ladies themselves trumpeted exaggerated tales of his wealthy French family, his aristocratic bloodlines, his personal wealth, and his English title.
Although he profited in the end, they did it for themselves. They could hardly be seen with a commoner, no matter how well dressed or suave he might be. Actors and acrobats and minstrels might steal into a lady’s bedchamber under the cover of night, but since Troy was not willing to hide himself, the women who favored him also built his reputation. Whether or not they knew the truth was immaterial. They believed him to be at least a moderately important nobleman.
He had not lied to Adrienne. To her questions about his family, he would grunt or sigh. His wealth? He would nod or just smile. Nobil
ity, well, he saw no reason to make a name on people dead a hundred years, but for his own life, he was knighted in battle. Yes, a fierce battle in which he was quite successful. And of course the king was there.
Adrienne, like many before her, decided that he was rich, handsome, influential, and aristocratic. He traveled, from what she could see, in enviable company. He was known by everyone. He knew the king personally. He must be decent husband material.
The only difference between this relationship and those he’d had with others before her was that Troy finally told her the whole truth. He felt somewhat responsible for the attachment she was developing. Likewise, he wished for her departure because he found her regular presence somewhat addictive. Such dependence was an unusual thing for him, and he wished freedom from it.
He told her he was simply born, had worked in both legal and illegal professions, was only modestly wealthy, mostly as a result of criminal advantage, and had no land, stock, or political influence. And he told her that afterward.
Perhaps the shock was too great for her, because she’d seemed at first not to believe him. When she left him the last time, she was still aglow from lovemaking and looking forward to his quick return. But somewhere between that night and this one, she had fully realized that he spoke the truth and that she’d given her virginity to a common mercenary, who simply gambled in Whitehall and had no real ties to the monarchy.
“I can’t believe how you used me,” she sniffed.
“You used me as well, milady. Remember that.”
“But I thought you were—”
“A product of your own wishful thinking. All things are not what they appear to be.”
“Won’t you...won’t you help me?” she asked piteously.
“There’s no way I can,” he answered honestly. “I can’t restore your virginity, but there are clever ways to get around that when you marry. I can’t give you much money, but I’ll give you some if you demand it. There is nothing I can do. I tried to warn you—which is more than I usually do.”
“You can marry me,” she said.
He laughed outright. “But I am not in your class, cherie. Your uncle would forbid it.”
Seeing something other than complete rejection, she leapt from her chair and placed herself at his feet. Her breasts swelled from her gown and her eyes were alive with sensuality. She rested her arms on his legs and looked up at him adoringly.
“Troy, I don’t care what Uncle Julian wants. I don’t care if he forbids it. We can run away and—”
“He will deny your dowry,” Troy said simply.
Her eyes became greener and brighter. “If I can convince him to pay the dowry?” she asked hopefully.
“No.”
“But it is a grand sum,” she argued. “Why should some nasty old baron get it and give it off to his brats from an earlier wife? Why shouldn’t we spend it? I don’t want to be a countess or baroness.”
“You will want to be, someday.”
“No, I swear, that isn’t important to me. Troy, I’d be as happy in a country house or even this house as I could ever be in a palace with some doddering old fool. I don’t have to have riches and—”
“Adrienne, that’s not the truth. You need expensive gowns and jewels and a big house with servants. You could never be happy as a paupered princess. I’ve watched you court every danger a young girl can just to gain more valuables.” He paused and looked at her meaningfully. “You played your games with me because you thought me rich and powerful.”
“Well,” she said, sitting back in a bit of a pout, “it’s not as if you’re poor. We might not live as the king does, but we wouldn’t live sadly. You like money at least as much as I. So, never mind if I’m not in the high fashion of a duchess, I’d be pleased to own a few decent gowns and some modest jewels.”
He chuckled and she bounced back on her heels.
“Don’t laugh at me like that. I’m being forthright at least, which is a damn sight better than you.”
“Poor Adrienne. You could get a high price for what you are and live in high style, and you’d trade it all for a life of hiding and hangings and petty theft? And here I thought you were smart.”
“Will you marry me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. With an air of the schoolteacher, he patiently spoke to her. “I am not interested in marrying. I would not be faithful, I would not manage a home and land, I would not be pleased to spend my hard-earned money on dresses and baubles, and I do not want to father children.”
“I don’t care about land and children, and as to the other, I suppose I could learn to look the other way from time to time and make do with less.”
“No.”
“Oh, Troy, please.”
“I don’t love you.”
She was stilled by his declaration and seemed to wilt slightly to a smaller, slumping creature on the floor. She drew in her breath, rose some small bit, and looked despairingly insulted. “Crimini, sir, I’d not have gathered that. Your words were not so cold the last time we were together.”
“You can’t hold a man to what he says when he’s involved in passion’s play. I’m sorry.”
“I would have had the truth at least,” she said, feeling quite dejected now, but dry-eyed. It was as if for the first time in her life she had no game to play and no scheme for which to speak or act out some manipulative emotion. She knew it would do nothing for her cause to weep, or to rage. She felt empty and cold inside.
“You didn’t want the truth, you little fool. You were thinking only of what you could gain. Since you had to get married one way or the other, you turned your back on those suitors your uncle suggested and put about to better yourself. You wouldn’t have looked at me twice if you didn’t force yourself to believe I was a good property.”
“That’s not completely true,” she said very quietly. “In the beginning perhaps, but not after—”
“But you’ll have to see, my dear, that had you not set about in the beginning with a selfish whim and foolish plan to get what you wanted, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. It is your greed, Adrienne, that drives you to be so careless. And that, ma petite, is not my problem.”
He sat back in his chair easily, musing on the rather pitiful look on her face. She had been fire and ice, soft and then sharp as the blade of his sword. Sometimes she would put on a dramatic performance worthy of a skilled actress, and other times she would be meek and pliable. But never outside of bed had he seen her display feelings that he could name true—until now.
Troy had heard the rantings of a defiled maiden, watched the dismal weeping of a woman greatly wronged, and fled from a crazed farmer’s pitchfork for his roguish misdeeds. He had never been bothered. He rather enjoyed the game and the danger. This once, however, he was rather sorry he had hurt her.
“I will be going back to the country soon,” she said softly. “Uncle Julian wants to leave as soon as the weather is warm enough, and I trust that will be in less than a month. If you change your mind about any of this, you may send word to me.”
“I won’t change my mind, Adrienne. I wish you well.”
She rose very slowly and went to a chair near the sitting room door to collect her cloak. She pulled it around her shoulders without help and looked behind her once to meet his eyes. He was cool and unmoved, calmly considering her. Then she turned and slowly left the room.
Julian Kerr struggled with his bookkeeping, throwing down his quill several times in frustration. He juggled sums so precariously that he could make little sense of them on paper. And each time he thought of his pilfering, his heartbeat quickened. He was much afraid that Stephen would learn of it and be angry.
For as long as four months, Julian had traded country property for merchant enterprises in the city. He was depleting the Dearborn estate to the point that in another few months there would be nothing left of it but the house and land on w
hich it sat. He had come to his decision abruptly, much in the way a dying man tries to right his misdeeds to gain entrance to heaven.
Julian had been fairly certain as long as twenty years ago that Stephen would not be an heir to be proud of. But he was an only son and the title was hard-earned, the land tenaciously held. There was no civilized way to bypass Stephen with his title and property, but he could no longer bear the methods by which his son worked.
The boy was not yet twelve years old when the indulgence of his parents began to wreak havoc on his behavior. He answered their devotion by stealing from them. He was not grateful for his father’s hard work at covering up his many misdeeds. Julian bought off several spoiled maidens, paid for the care of those injured by either cruel pranks or openly hostile abuse, and suffered damage to his own reputation so that his son might be spared for a future time when he learned to display some moral conviction.
The situation worsened rather than eased with Stephen’s maturity. Now, at almost thirty years, Stephen was fashioning an army at Dearborn. Whereas there had been twenty good men to ride the perimeter of the estate and keep a certain peace within the hamlets, Stephen had increased the number to more than forty men who traveled the roads at night and by day brutalized villages with high fines and harsh punishments. When Julian protested this deplorable situation, Stephen hotly replied, “If you don’t do anything about the Wescott swine, I will. This property is to belong to me, after all.”
Julian had been suffering from small robberies from his London house, the country manor, and some small businesses. It appeared to be a single, quiet thief who knew where to find hidden money, family jewels, and prized possessions that could be easily carried. He had not discussed these losses with Stephen because he believed Stephen was responsible. The pension he was allowed to run the household on was never enough for the boy—he had been lifting things from his own house to sell them since he was small. He seemed not to realize he stole from himself.