London's Most Wanted Rake

by Bronwyn Scott

  Alina took the news calmly with a nod of her head. Such an outcome was not unlikely. Originally, she’d hoped Seymour would have put those pieces together later in the game after he’d tried to draw against the property. But that was no longer the issue. ‘Why do you feel that conclusion is valid?’

  Channing sat down in the chair and met her gaze with a seriousness she’d seen that afternoon behind the tree. ‘The rumours are despicable, Alina. I won’t lie to you. They cast you in the worst possible light.’

  Alina played with her pearls. ‘What are they saying tonight? That my husband’s death is questionable? That he was poisoned? People said those things eighteen months ago. These are not new.’

  Channing’s tone was sharp. ‘They are saying that and more. Seymour has put it about that you murdered your husband.’ Accusation flashed in his eyes, not over any belief he had that she’d actually done such a thing, but accusation over her omission. Of course. He felt betrayed she hadn’t told him when she’d first returned and hired him to ease her way. She’d been a bit vague about it back then. She wouldn’t have chosen for him to find out this way. In fact, she wouldn’t have chosen for him to find out at all.

  ‘Seymour can’t possibly have any proof of that,’ Alina scoffed as if she found the premise ridiculous. But it did worry her that he’d unearthed so much so quickly. Her husband’s death had occurred in another country and nearly three years ago. Even at the time of his death, the investigation had been done with a lukewarm intensity. Too many people had been too interested in protecting themselves. Her husband had not been well liked and the cousin who had unexpectedly inherited was all too keen to wrap any questions up in a neat package and move on with his new life as the Comte de Charentes to let any probing drag on.

  Channing stretched and crossed his legs at the ankles. ‘He doesn’t have to. You know how rumours work. All it takes is repeating them enough and the damage is done. This could ruin you socially, Alina.’

  She swallowed. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about. I’ll live. I’ll go to the country and re-invent myself.’ She’d done it before. She’d re-invented herself inside her marriage as a femme fatale and after her marriage, even now, she had re-invented herself as an Englishwoman of independent means. One more incarnation would hardly matter. ‘It’s my family I’m concerned about.’

  Seymour could hardly say or do anything to her that would be worse than what the comte had heaped on her. Her skin was thick. But her family was vulnerable. ‘I am thinking of what a scandal would do to Annarose. She’s to come out next year. I had hoped to have her come to London and make her début here where she could meet more eligible men.’ Her sister wouldn’t meet anyone if these rumours caught fire.

  Channing nodded, his blue eyes thoughtful. He had sisters; he was close to his family. He would understand how important it was to her to be able to provide this opportunity for Annarose. ‘We can attempt to scotch the rumours. I can put out counterclaims at the clubs. We can tell society what a horrible marriage it was.’

  She shook her head. ‘No details, I couldn’t bear it.’ It was bad enough to be privately humiliated. To have others know would be devastating.

  ‘Of course, no details.’

  But Alina heard something more in his tone. ‘You don’t think such a strategy will work this time.’

  ‘No, I don’t. There’s more.’

  ‘More than being accused of murdering one’s own husband? I can’t imagine what “more” there could be,’ Alina said with a lightness she didn’t feel.

  ‘There are other rumours that suggest you had motive for doing so, that you asked your husband for a divorce not long before his death.’ Channing paused, his handsome face a study in consternation and anger. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me any of it?’ By ‘any of it’, he meant what she’d revealed tonight, this last part of being a suspect, albeit one of many of a very long list, and the request for a divorce.

  ‘At the time, I didn’t think it mattered.’ Her eyes flashed with indignation. ‘I don’t care to have my decisions questioned. The fewer people who knew, the better. I wanted to leave my past in Paris and start a new life here. I hired the League to help me do that. I told you what you needed to know. I did not mislead you, I did not misrepresent myself.’

  Channing shook his head, a shadow of sadness crossing his eyes. ‘I don’t mean then, I mean now, tonight, when there was no business between us.’

  ‘It didn’t seem like the right time. I didn’t want it to seem as if I were making unrealistic expectations of you. Everything between us was new and heady and passionate, not the best circumstances in which to make decisions. I thought it was best to keep it to myself.’ There was so much bad news when it came to her life, it was hard to know when to trot it out for consideration and up until today and the carriage, there’d been no reason to tell a man who would be moving on.

  To his credit, Channing did not give in to a rant. It would have been so easy to shout cruel things, to throw the folly of that decision back in her face. She knew plenty of men who would feel justified in doing so. But Channing was not of the usual. He was silent for a long while, perhaps weighing his choice of response.

  When he spoke, his voice was quiet. ‘What do you think of that decision now?’ His strategy was entirely disarming. She’d been prepared to fight, to defend her decision. But he would not be provoked. It was probably for the best—the tea set Amery had used was too pretty to throw.

  Alina sat back down in her chair, her own fight going out of her. It was hard to stay defensive when there was no enemy. ‘The divorce was my last stand, my last attempt to be free. The things I’ve already shared with you were not isolated incidents. I would remind myself of all that I had: the house in Fontainebleau, the luxurious home in Paris, the fine clothes, the freedom to do as I pleased when he wasn’t in town, which was often. I told myself I was lucky. I wasn’t a rich girl with a lot to bring to a marriage and yet I’d managed to get this one. As long as I was with the comte I would want for nothing. My family would want for nothing.

  ‘Was it too much to ask if he requested I sit at the table of his all-male dinners? Was it too much to ask if I wore the gowns he provided for those occasions, even if they were extremely provocative and not to my taste? Was it too much if he made certain demands in the bedroom? He was my husband after all. After a while, as you know, the demands became more prurient, more public. He had a particular fantasy in which I wore nothing but a diamond-studded dog collar and a matching leash. He would have me sit at his feet all evening and feed me from his hand. He was fond of reminding me that both the government and the church had given him dominion over me. I had no grounds upon which to refuse.

  ‘That doesn’t mean I didn’t try. But it had ill effects. He curtailed my social freedom. No longer could I hold my salons, or be seen in the company of other men. He spent more time in Paris. Our drawing rooms were full of his orgies, the household staff was full of his spies, I couldn’t go out without a full report being given to him of my activities. Anything would set him off and I’d be locked in my room for endless amounts of time, enduring a variety of deprivations.’

  A fleeting thought crossed his blue eyes. ‘You must have hated the prize at the egg hunt.’ He’d put the pieces of that puzzle together. She could see Channing’s fists clench, his jaw tighten.

  ‘I don’t tell you this to rouse your anger against a dead man. I tell you so you understand what I was up against, so you don’t think the other incidents were random acts of rage. When I asked him for the divorce, he laughed and said, “On what grounds? Do I beat you? No. Have I ever laid a violent hand on you? No. Even if divorce were legal in France, you’d have no grounds and an annulment after so many years is laughable. I’d never attest to it. Do you have beautiful clothes? Are you married to a wealthy comte? Do you have every luxury a woman could want? Do you have a
husband who is attentive? Yes to all of that. If you say I keep you a prisoner here, I will say I don’t let you go out for fear of your safety. Who is going to complain about that?”

  ‘But there were other incentives to stay quiet beyond the hopelessness of his reasoning. He threatened my family. The comte had English friends. He told me he’d tell them to spread rumours of my infidelity, my inability to give him a child, of my debaucheries so that my family would not be able to hold their heads up in public. That was how he first cut me off from them. I could not write to them in case I’d be compelled to plead my case. You know already he denied me permission to go to them.’

  Her hands had become white in her lap where they gripped one another. ‘Channing—’ her voice was a quiet whisper ‘—I didn’t kill him, but it’s only because someone else did. When he refused the divorce, I was desperate enough to do it. I just needed an opportunity, but someone else had an opportunity first. These are horrible things and horrible thoughts. Do you see now why I didn’t tell you? A wife wanting to kill her husband? I didn’t want another soul to know. I just wanted it all to go away, all the horror to be buried with him so I could start again. I didn’t want the future tainted by him, it was the only thing I had that was truly mine.’

  ‘We’ll get Seymour and put a stop to this,’ Channing said fiercely.

  ‘This time, maybe. What happens next time? Channing, I’m ruined. I think the sooner you face that, the sooner we can be smart about the realities of a relationship. It just isn’t going to happen between us.’

  ‘I refuse to believe that,’ Channing answered. His eyes held hers for a long moment. He was thinking again. ‘I think it could happen if you would let it. Stop pushing me away. Stop using Seymour as an excuse, stop using the comte as an excuse, the quarrel at Christmas, all of it as reasons we can’t be together.’ He gave a warm laugh. ‘You see Seymour as a barrier to our being together but I see it as a reason to be together. I can protect you. If you need to use excuses, use that one. I want you and I’m not above begging, Alina.’

  She stood up wearily. She hadn’t anything left to fight him with. A truce would be victory at this point. If she let him keep arguing, he’d have them wed by morning and she’d be thinking it was a fine idea— another pretence that would fade in the dawn. ‘It’s been a long night, I’m going home to bed. Let’s see what the morning brings.’

  Channing rose and came around the desk, his hands settling at her shoulders, warm and firm. ‘It’s not a night for being alone.’ He kissed her then, behind her ear along the sensitive line that ran to her belly. He might be done persuading with words, but he was a warrior at heart and he would not stop until he’d won. ‘Stay and we’ll see what the morning brings together.’

  He led her through the dark halls to the room he kept for occasional stays at Argosy House, his hand warm over hers.

  ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ Alina murmured her protest between kisses. Her body was sure Channing’s hands were exactly the right remedy. Only her mind was uncertain—the one part of her that knew what sex really was and what it was best used for: power. It was a weapon she’d learned to wield over the years to her benefit. Sex was supposed to be a tool, a game. She understood that. By the very nature of his business, Channing knew that. It was the common ground they had between them, the one thing they understood about each other. He was probably using it right now to make her reconsider. But he only thought he wanted her.

  Channing laughed against her throat, his hands at her hips drawing her against the cradle of his thighs where his phallus strained against his trousers, hard and insistent. ‘I think it’s the best idea ever.’

  He turned her away from him, his hands working the fastenings of her gown, his mouth at her neck, at her ear. The gown loosened and he pushed it off her shoulders. His hands hooked beneath the straps of her chemise, working it over her head. He knelt at her feet to roll down her stockings. She’d spread her legs for him, thinking that he would take her with his mouth while he was down there, but Channing had confused her and gently closed her legs with a shake of his head. ‘Not tonight,’ he said softly.

  There was something tender about his ministrations tonight as he undressed her. Channing had always been a considerate lover, but tonight was different. Tonight was not on pace to be a seduction. There would be no drinking Moët naked in the firelight, no silken ropes, no teasing temptations because Channing did not intend for tonight to be a game. It scared her even while it made her tremble. This would be like the carriage, like the declarations he’d made in Evert’s library.

  Channing stepped away from her. She could hear the sound of his clothes as they came off. She understood now why he was reluctant to light a lamp. A lamp would mean seeing one another and their responses, a lamp would bring back the element of gamesmanship. In the dark they could only feel, could only touch. The darkness would keep them honest.

  Channing stepped towards her, naked and hot. She could feel the welcome heat of him as he danced her backwards to the bed. She went down on the mattress and he followed her, coming over her, covering her with his length, his heat, his body creating a sensual cocoon around her. There was a moment of rustling while Channing fitted a sheath over himself. Then she felt the slide of his skin on hers, felt the little adjustments of their bodies as they shifted to accommodate each other.

  The darkness was not without its own eroticism, the tender slowness of Channing’s efforts not without their own intense pleasures. He touched her with his hands, with his mouth, with his tongue, until the very languor of the foreplay was enough to drive her mad. When he finally moved to enter her, she was more than ready, her body clamouring for him, for the straightforwardness of this new lovemaking.

  She moved beneath him, raising her hips in encouragement as he thrust deep. Her legs were about his hips, drawing him in tight as if she could hold him there for ever. She rocked with him, her muscles clenching about him, meeting each slick slide and return. This was an exciting, unexplored level of intimacy. ‘Channing, take off your sheath. I want to feel you, every last part of you, naked against me.’ She arched against him, her voice a mere rasp at his ear. She felt him comply, then felt him slide home, again and again until she could do no more but hold on.

  She could feel the climax approaching, his body full of clues. It was there in the corded tension of his muscles where his arms braced over her, in the pulsing strength of his entry, the quickness of his breath, the pounding of his heart. She cried out his name, swept away at last while he spilled deep inside her.

  The enormity of what they’d done came to her slowly in the post-climactic haze which followed. The ‘best idea ever’ was to make love in the dark, not sex. It was perhaps the most intimate, most true act she’d ever done with another person. This had not been a game, had not been abetted with external stimuli and that made it the most dangerous thing she had yet to do in bed. This could change everything if she wasn’t careful, if everything hadn’t already changed. What would happen if she dared to believe such a change was possible? If she dared one more time to believe in Channing Deveril?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Channing shifted in bed, careful not to wake Alina. If he had his way, he’d lie here all morning, basking in the sun that came through the window, wallowing in the contentment of lying abed with Alina. Channing couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the image it created. Too bad not all problems could be solved as easily. There were plenty of them waiting outside of bed, one more reason he didn’t regret getting into bed in the first place. There was a soft moan beside him.

  ‘Ugh, you’re awake already and thinking.’

  ‘I always wake up thinking.’ Channing drew her closer, liking how she fit perfectly in the notch of his shoulder, her body warm and lush against him. He sighed. This was all he really needed, Alina in his arms and a room to live in. The thought should have sent him bolt
ing out of bed, but it didn’t. It was merely a logical extension of thoughts he’d had last night. Last night hadn’t been about sex. It hadn’t been about two people competing for power and pleasure. It had been what he imagined a wedding night would be, something honest and strong and without artifice.

  He moved over her, wanting that magic to happen again, for her. He wanted her to see, to know, sex could be more. He wanted it for himself, too, if he was truthful. Sex and pleasure, physical pleasure was his business. But with Alina, he’d discovered a pleasure that went beyond that, something which he couldn’t package and sell. If he lost her, he would lose it as well.

  Channing slid into her, revelling in her slickness. She gasped at the contact, her hands reaching over her head to grip the iron spindles of the bed frame. ‘All right?’ he asked, withdrawing slightly.

  ‘Don’t go!’ she cried. ‘It just felt so delicious, it’s the only way to describe it. There’s one little spot...’ Channing smiled down at her. It had felt delicious, there’d been a delightful sensation as he’d entered her and slid towards her core. He did it again, relishing her cries of delight. His desire to bring her this new pleasure heightened his own. This morning interlude wouldn’t last long, but it would prove to them both that they were just as good at this new, ‘ordinary’ sex together as they were at the other. This was physical genius indeed.

  * * *

  But the world was patiently waiting for them when it was over. Newspapers and scandal sheets were laid out with the food because they had to know. How badly had the rumours of last night hit? Clothes had materialised for them, thanks to Amery’s forethought the night before. They dressed and faced the day.

  It was early by Argosy House standards when they came down for breakfast. With a mutual look of consent, they filled their plates and each took a paper and turned to the society column. For a moment Channing was hopeful. The first two rumours weren’t about her. But the third one was and his heart sank. ‘You’d better read it out loud,’ Alina said staunchly, catching his eye.