Two Wrongs Make a Marriage

by Christine Merrill

  Henry de Warde had her sequestered in a corner, and even from where Jack stood he could see it was not going well. Thea fairly twitched with discomfort as she told the man her tale of fertility. Jack had thought her claims of being a poor player were nothing more than false modesty. Hadn’t she reeled him in with little effort and outlandish behaviour? This should be no different. Easier, perhaps, for she only needed to say a few words and let him handle the rest.

  But watching her now, he suspected her physical charms in the moonlight were the only things that had led him to believe a word from her. That and the gun, of course. Tonight, unarmed and candle lit, it was clear that she could not talk de Warde into giving her the time of day, much less into believing the unlikely story he’d given her to deliver. Dear Uncle Henry had a grip on her arm, pushing her to reveal more and wearing the smile of a sceptic suspecting a trick.

  Yet the man continued to listen to her, probably for the same reason that Jack had. He wanted her. Even with his own wife scant feet from them, he was undressing Thea with his eyes, trying to force her to reveal something that he might use against her later.

  Jack suspected that this had been the man’s plan from the first. Taking money from her father had been incidental. Surely de Warde did not need it. He got all he could possibly want from Spayne. Instead, he had wanted this girl, rendered vulnerable and unable to refuse his advances. Even now, he was watching Cyn intently, fairly licking his lips at the flush on her cheeks and the rise and fall of her bosom as she tried to escape him. The fact that she was now married, and to a member of his family, did not bother him any more than his own pale wife, waiting in the corner for his attention. His weakness for her was a cause for celebration, for it marked something that could be used against him.

  Instead, Jack felt a seeping, creeping guilt at the knowledge that he’d sent Thea out, unprepared, against such a rogue. She had told him that she was not up to this task and he had ignored her, allowing her to struggle alone against the man who tormented her. Added to the remorse was his sympathy for a fellow player at a loss for words and alone on the stage.

  Even worse, there was the distasteful prospect that de Warde might take the coronet by playing the long game, trying to seduce Lady Kenton and putting his own bastard third in line for an earldom. That was simply not to be borne.

  But stronger than all was the idea that his wife...Kenton’s wife...was being ogled by that roué. It was utterly abhorrent. De Warde was touching her, gripping her by the wrist as she tried to withdraw gracefully without calling attention to the problem, but she could not seem to get away from him and was forced to endure it.

  The jealousy it raised in the man he was pretending to be was an utterly primal thing, as his distaste in the receiving line had been. Jack could feel his fists balling, the desire to strike warring with the knowledge that a gentleman would not take such brutal vengeance. A duel, perhaps? Or merely a snub. Family or no, he outranked the man. His uncle could not be permitted to harass Cynthia, especially since the man’s attentions clearly bothered her.

  Jack wiped a hand across his face, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. It was all well and good to play a character, but one must remember not to become the character. Cyn was not his wife. Even if she was, he doubted he had a right to be jealous of her. He’d always suspected, should he find a woman wily enough to tie him down, the relationship would not be exclusive on either side. And here he was, after less than three weeks, thinking he cared about whose bed this one slept in.

  Or desiring to spare her the minor discomfort of talking to a man she did not like. She knew as well as he did what was at stake with this one. She’d best make an effort to play the part correctly.

  But without thinking, he was moving towards them. And when he arrived at the side of the pair, it was Kenton who was in charge. Jack could manage little more than a clipped, ‘Uncle de Warde?’ They stared at each other in silence for a moment and Jack could feel the struggle going on between them. De Warde demanded respect, did he? Well, he would get none, since none was given. Even if the part required it, which he suspected it might, he could not manage to like the man, not even in pretence. Suddenly, his own acting skills were as bad as his novice wife’s. It was another disconcerting surprise and, even worse, it did not bother him nearly as much as it should. He reached out without a word and disentangled de Warde’s fingers from his wife’s gloved wrist, tucking her arm into the crook of his.

  Then all his attention fell to his wife as he assured himself that she was no worse for the contact. She was looking exceptionally fine this evening. And she was his. ‘I think you have talked quite long enough with him, Thea. Dance with me.’ He placed his other hand over hers and stroked it.

  ‘But...’ Her eyes widened as if to say, I do not understand. Is this part of the plan? ‘The music has already begun.’

  ‘It does not matter. Come.’ It was not a waltz, which was a shame. He wanted to hold her in public, where de Warde could see and know that he would never have her. ‘We will join at the bottom of the set. There is room for one more couple, I am sure.’ He pulled her arm and she came with him after a weak smile and confused shrug in the direction of de Warde.

  She took her place in the row opposite Jack, smiling in relief. She curtsied to his bow, met each advance and turned gracefully under the hand he offered to her. He’d always prided himself on being an excellent dancer, but it was all the better to have a good partner. Even before their marriage, he’d learned that Thea was as skilled and graceful as any girl in London.

  He could feel his own breast swell with pride, as though each time he touched her hand it was a sort of claiming, an announcement to all, and especially to Henry de Warde, that she was safe from his advances for ever.

  Or until it was time for Jack to leave. The rational mind reminded him that it was not wise to become too attached to things as they stood. They could not last. If the girl would not let him bed her, what good was she? All the same, he wanted to stuff her in his pocket, steal her away and feast upon her in private.

  He sighed. It was ridiculous. It did not further his plans to behave like a starving man at a banquet, gorging himself. Even if it did, she would not allow it. She was a woman, not a sweet shop.

  Although he could see the similarities. The few kisses he had got from her had been sweet enough. He could not help a smile when he thought of them.

  All the same, he was likely to get more satisfaction a bite at a time than to gobble her down in one sitting. Kenton, had he existed, would have had the sense to charm her into bed rather than forcing her, as de Warde was attempting. Come to think of it, Kenton had done a damn fine job just now. Her demeanour was changed, relaxed and as happy as she should be on her first triumphant appearance as the Viscountess of Kenton.

  Even if Jack could not have her, he liked looking at her, just as he did the ballroom. As long as he was Kenton, she was his, just as the house was. He could see, in his imagination, their long and happy life together, the passionate evenings and the languid mornings. He could create that reality in his mind and carry it with him to revisit on lonely nights in the future.

  But for now? He could not like the idea of de Warde being anywhere near her. So he danced with her again—and tried to stand up a third time until she laughed and reminded him that they had other guests to partner.

  Then a shadow flickered in her eyes that made him wonder if it was the whole truth at all. Perhaps she had liked him even less than she claimed and did not want to prolong contact. If that was true, then he had no idea how to read truth from fiction in her character. She made as if to walk away from him, but as she passed he caught her hand again, pulling her away, backing towards the door to the hall. ‘Come with me.’

  She looked back toward the dance floor. ‘You said you wished to dance.’

  ‘And now I wish to be alone with you.’

  ‘But our guests...’

  ‘Can spare you a moment.’ He pulled her out into t
he hall, around a corner and behind a potted palm.

  ‘Jack,’ she said in warning, but her voice was not so stern as it usually was and she gave a playful push against his chest.

  ‘Remember,’ he whispered. ‘we are married and newly wed. An occasional show of affection is quite appropriate, I’m sure.’

  ‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘A marriage licence is not an invitation to behave without decorum in public places.’

  ‘Clearly a rule written by someone who was not married to you,’ Jack responded, pulling her even closer.

  ‘Neither are you.’ She tried to push him away again, but her hand lingered, toying with his lapel. Then she whispered, ‘Married, that is. To me.’

  He touched a finger to her lips. ‘Do not talk nonsense, Lady Kenton,’ he said. ‘Of course you are mine. And I want de Warde to realise the fact so that he ceases drooling on you.’

  ‘Is he...?’ She leaned to look around him, worried that they were observed.

  ‘Just play your part and do not concern yourself.’ What harm would it do to let her think they were still acting, if it convinced her that this intimacy was necessary? He could not stand to wait longer to claim what he craved. He pulled her hip to hip and lip to lip, and took her mouth.

  Why had he not done this from the first? She was as sweet and good as anything he had imagined, like wine on his tongue, each breath perfumed with fruit and spice, and a body that a man could fall into like a soft bed. Even the moralistic Kenton whispered in his ear that he must rid themselves of these annoying guests post haste and spend the rest of the night, and possibly the rest of life, taking pleasure with this goddess.

  And she seemed to agree. She tangled her hand in his cravat, mussing his evening clothes so that she might kiss his throat, burying her face against the vee of skin that she had exposed so that she might lick him there, nestling close under his chin and making his pulse race. ‘Jack,’ she whispered.

  He twined his hand in her hair, knocking the tiara askew and feeling the curls wrap his fingers as though they could draw him closer and whispered back, ‘Oh, God, Thea. Oh, sweet Lord.’ Then he kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose and her lips again, and the hand that had been in her hair was clutching her breast. The fit was natural, as though his hands were made for nothing more than to caress her. His fingers slipped down the neckline of her gown and found a nipple and she moaned eagerly into his mouth, her body responding as instantly to his touch as his did to hers. The tip was trapped between two of his fingers and he squeezed, imagining his lips there. His body was hard where it pressed into her belly and close to exploding like some foolish schoolboy with his first woman.

  It was a maddening, dizzying feeling, wanting everything from her and knowing that this was neither the time nor the place for more. Tonight, when they were in bed...

  Suddenly, she pushed away from him, looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed their absence.

  ‘Cyn?’ The withdrawal caught him by surprise, making him wonder if she had read his mind, or simply been so in tune that she had reached the same conclusion and then rejected it.

  ‘Well, that was interesting,’ she said breathlessly. ‘But I think that was quite enough affection for now.’

  ‘Not nearly,’ he said, lunging for her again.

  She evaded his arms. ‘Too much. I am sure anyone who saw us was probably scandalised. And now, if you will excuse me, I feel a chill.’ She glanced down and gave her bodice a sharp tug upwards. ‘I must repair myself, then I will be returning to the ballroom.’ She did not wait for an answer, merely straightened her clothing, turned and ran.

  * * *

  When Thea could manage a thought, it was that she liked kissing Jack, probably because he was very good at it. The night they had become engaged, he had been fulsome in his praise and eager in his affection. When she’d realised that her plan was succeeding, she had been overcome by relief and allowed him to take liberties. Very quickly, she’d found herself overcome by another feeling entirely.

  This time, there were no flowery speeches as his lips met hers, only a sudden surge forwards and the feel of his arms around her and it was more than the sheltering caress she’d expected. He was holding her tightly, almost painfully so, and his lips pressed hard on hers. She opened her mouth to his tongue and thrust back at him as he clutched her to him. He needed a shave, for his whiskers scraped against her cheek. She had followed the rough skin down his throat, kissing at the saltiness of it, tearing at his neckcloth like a hungry animal so she might bury her face against him, smelling and tasting.

  When she had come to her senses and fought free of him, he had looked as dishevelled and confused as she felt.

  He was not following, but it took an effort to slow her steps. It felt rather like turning one’s back on a threatening animal, knowing that at any time it could take to its feet, pursue and catch her, knocking her to the ground.

  She would fall on her back with him on top of her. The thought sent a sudden rush of pleasure through her, telling her just how far gone she was. She wanted more. She wanted him. When he’d been the real Lord Kenton, there had been no harm in such thoughts. But she knew who he really was, and it was more than unwise to continue.

  What had come over her?

  She hurried past the ladies’ retiring room, down the hall to the library. There was a mirror there over the mantelpiece. She could fix her hair in privacy and call for the maid if necessary. A single murmur of the name ‘Kenton’ would bring a smile and a nod from Polly, who had hinted that, with such a handsome husband, she was both surprised and disappointed that Thea had not been rendered to this sorry state already.

  She arrived at her refuge and closed the door behind her, slowly and politely, working hard to maintain her composure even though there was no one there to admire her.

  ‘My dear?’ Lord Spayne looked up from the book he had been reading. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Jack was forcing her to lie, even when he was not at her side.

  ‘So far from the ballroom, on this of all nights?’ he said with a sceptical smile.

  ‘As are you,’ she reminded him.

  ‘But I have done my part, been properly seen and admired,’ he reminded her. ‘And I do not much care for cards or dancing. The quiet here suits me well.’

  But when she glanced to the table at his side, she saw two brandy glasses. Had there been a discreet tête-à-tête, or merely a conversation between similarly antisocial friends? After a moment’s thinking, she decided that she did not really care to know.

  Clearly, he was not so easily put off. ‘I might retreat, my dear. But you are the hostess and most certainly cannot. What brings you so far from the party, I wonder?’

  ‘I was...looking for a book.’ Because why else would she have come here?

  ‘It must be a very exciting one to make you flush so.’ Spayne gestured to the couch at his side. ‘Perhaps you would like to sit for a while and talk with me. You need not be worried that I will tell anyone. I am generally very good at keeping secrets.’

  If that had been true, he never would have needed Jack’s help. But it did no good to argue with the man. She collapsed into the place he had offered and struggled to compose herself.

  ‘It is Jack, isn’t it?’ he said without warning, then reached up to straighten the tiara and reset an emerald pin that was near to falling from her coiffure.

  ‘He is very...personable,’ she admitted cautiously. Although it made no sense, the earl seemed quite fond of the actor and it would be a shame to disillusion him by complaining that the man was a rogue.

  ‘Indeed, he is.’ Lord Spayne smiled. ‘That is a good part of why I chose him. He reminds me of myself at a younger age. Back then, I was quite the rake-hell.’

  ‘Have you changed so very much?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘I am satisfied with house and home, and a few select friends,’ he admitted. ‘I only go to London when forced by duty, for t
here are many here who would prefer that I kept to myself. It is easier on all concerned that I not raise any more scandal than necessary.’ Spayne frowned. ‘That is the difficulty with Henry. He is really the only one not satisfied with the way things have gone. But enough of me.’ He paused and tipped her chin up, dabbing with a handkerchief at the smudged powder on her cheek. ‘Tell me what you think of Kenton. When he sets his mind to something, he is rather hard to resist.’

  ‘What he wishes does not concern me,’ Thea said firmly. ‘It is nothing less than what any man wishes, when he is thinking of his own satisfaction. It is foolish of me to be influenced by his desires.’

  ‘Why ever so?’ Spayne seemed surprised by what, to her, was obvious.

  ‘Because there is nothing permanent about them. He will tell me any lie he can think of, if it furthers his ends. He is an actor. And they do not change. They are always looking for a better, more exciting version of the truth.’

  ‘You really believe he cannot be sincere?’

  ‘He has not been truthful to me since the moment we met.’

  ‘But he cares for you.’

  ‘He cares only for himself and the money. He has told me so.’ But perhaps he cared for Spayne. He did seem to think highly of the man and recognised the debt he owed. And that had nothing to do with her.

  ‘If that is what he claims, then you are right,’ Spayne nodded. ‘He is even lying to himself. If he cared only for his own skin, he would have run by now. And if he wishes money, he needn’t wait for the conclusion of this game to receive it. He could steal whatever he wished from me and I would not even notice.’

  Thea thought of the ring on her finger, a priceless heirloom released casually into the hands of a thief. ‘You allow him to settle your business for you?’

  Spayne smiled, unflappable, then eased back into the chair and took another sip of his brandy. ‘When I can convince him to do so. He is dashedly good with it, you see. It is a shame that he does not mean to stay, for I would happily turn the estate over to his care, should he wish to remain.’