by Candice Hern
She had told him he was impertinent, turned on her heel, and walked away. But she still remembered every word of that strange conversation. It was the most unusual declaration of love she'd ever heard, and she'd heard scores of them.
And he'd been dead wrong about the importance of beauty. Of course it was important. It was everything. It was her path to fame and fortune, and her escape from being under Mama's wing.
"Emily?"
She was jerked back to the present by her mother's loud voice.
"I am talking to you, my girl. Get your head out of the clouds."
"Sorry, Mama. I was woolgathering. What were you saying?"
"I was asking about Mr. Burnett."
"Oh."
"He is a perfectly charming young man," Aunt Beatrice said, "with the most engaging smile you will ever see. My Charlotte is very fond of him and he is indulgent of her when he calls. He was in India with Lord Thayne, you know. Such things fascinate that girl and she is apt to plague him to death with her endless questions."
"You are foolish to allow your girls to mingle with your guests on your afternoons at home. They are too young."
"It is good practice for them," Aunt Beatrice said, "and they are perfectly well behaved. Charlotte does tend to get excited about tales of elephants and such. Mr. Burnett is kind to her, and much infatuated with our Emily. His father is the Earl of Mottisfont, by the way."
"Mottisfont?" A sudden spark of interest lit Emily’s mother's eye.
He is a younger son, Mama, so do not get your hopes up. There are two brothers ahead of him in the succession."
Her mother heaved a sigh. "How provoking. Well, never mind then. You must not waste your time with him."
I am not wasting time with him. He is the one wasting time, hanging about like an idiot, thinking I’ll toss my cap at him one day. Ha!"
"Good girl. Well, as long as your Mr. Burnett seems always to be in the company of Lord Thayne, there is still hope in that quarter."
"No, Ophelia, there is not. Allow that bee to fly out of your bonnet, if you please. Otherwise you will have your daughter seen as a flirt, if she pushes herself at Lord Thayne, and that will not do."
Once again, Emily had to wonder why her aunt was so dead set against the marquess. Was there some sordid tale she did not want Emily to know? And Mr. Burnett was forever warning her off, as weil. More subtly than Aunt Beatrice, to be sure, but he always seemed to imply that Lord Thayne had interests elsewhere. Emily could not imagine who the object of his interest might be, since he never singled out any girl in particular.
"Confound it, Beatrice, you are being positively pigheaded about this." Emily's mother pounded at the pillows again, stirring up a flurry of dust motes. Do not stand in the way of a brilliant match or I swear I will leave this couch, hobbling or not, and take care of it myself. Let the girl encourage the marquess, for God's sake."
"I have no intention of encouraging him, Mama."
"Do as you are told, my girl. You will thank me one day, when you are a duchess."
There was no arguing with Mama when she got a notion stuck in her head. Thank goodness she was not acting as Emily's chaperone. She would be one of those embarrassing mothers who forced their daughters upon unsuspecting gentlemen. Emily did not need that kind of assistance, thank you very much. She would do very nicely on her own. There were plenty of perfectly eligible gentlemen who made calf's eyes at her every day, including the impertinent Mr. Burnett. She did not need to force herself upon Lord Thayne. True, he was a marquess, and marquesses were not exactly springing up like weeds all over London. Striking him from her list represented a significant compromise in her objective, but there was no way in blazes she would allow herself to be thought to chase after a man who ignored her.
Perhaps she could wheedle out of Mr. Burnett the identity of the woman who apparently had captured Lord Thayne's interest. Emily suspected he knew that secret, and she was dying to know who it was. Just as a matter of curiosity, of course.
"And what's this I hear," her mother said, "about that dreadful Lord Rochdale hanging about? You must definitely not encourage that one, my girl."
"I keep an eye on him," Aunt Beatrice said. "More than once I have sent him off with a stern look. I cannot imagine why he continues to come around."
"Even a scoundrel has an eye for beauty," Mama said. "Our Emily is bound to attract all types, some of them less respectable than others. But I trust you to keep any objectionable men away from her, Beatrice. Or will you fail me in that regard, as well?"
"I do my best, Ophelia." Her voice had grown angry, and Emily could hardly blame her. Aunt Beatrice was a thousand times more cautious a chaperone than Mama would ever have been. "Rochdale has so far done no more than loiter about the edges of Emily's court of admirers," Aunt Beatrice continued. "He hasn't even got close enough to speak with her."
"I danced with him once," Emily said.
Aunt Beatrice stared at her openmouthed, then said, "When? I have taken note of every partner who ever led you onto a dance floor, and I never saw you dance with Rochdale. I would not have allowed it."
"I should hope not!" Her mother looked thoroughly aghast at such a notion. "Good God, Sister, I cannot trust you to do anything right. Dancing with Rochdale, indeed!"
"It was at Aunt Wallingford's masquerade ball."
Aunt Beatrice grew pale.
"Dear God," her mother said. "What on earth was Mary thinking, to invite such a person? May I assume that you did not know his identity when you agreed to dance with him?"
"I did not know who he was," Emily said. "He was dressed as a pirate and I did not recognize him. But he told me who he was when I asked. I didn't expect him to tell me—one isn't required to do so at a masquerade, you know. But he did. I meant to tell you afterward, Aunt Beatrice, but you had disappeared and then said you weren't feeling well and that we must leave. Poor Aunt Beatrice has been ill again several times since, Mama. I think I have been overtaxing her, with all my parties and such."
"Is that true?" her mother asked. "Have you been unwell, Beatrice? Why didn't you tell me? No wonder you are falling off the job."
Aunt Beatrice appeared oddly flustered. Perhaps Emily should not have mentioned anything about her being ill. But she really felt guilty about it, running th poor woman ragged, dashing from ball to ball, party to party. It must be hard on someone of her age.
"I have not been unwell," she said. "Only a headache now and then. Nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. I shall not shirk my duties, Ophelia."
"Good. Then you must be sure to keep Lord Thayne in our Emily's orbit. I am persuaded there is still hope in that direction."
And Emily was persuaded that her mother was doomed to disappointment.
Chapter 14
Two weeks! Thayne would go mad if he had to wait two weeks to be with Beatrice again. He craved the pure, white perfection of her skin, the smell of her hair, her incredible breasts, everything. Desire for her lived in him now like a constant ache. She had become necessary to him. Two weeks without her would surely kill him.
But she could not promise another afternoon anytime soon, claiming she had too many commitments with Emily or her own daughters. He could not bring her to Doncaster House. Burnett was of no use, as he kept bachelor rooms at Albany. And Loughton House, such as it was, did not offer much hope, either. His bed had been deemed too small by his father, who had taken it into his head to buy Thayne a new one. The old bed, the bed where he had last loved Beatrice, had been dismantled and the new bed, properly grand enough for a duke's heir, had not yet been delivered.
It seemed the Fates that had once been so kind had turned against him. He wanted, needed, to be with Beatrice again. He could not wait for the accommodating Wilhelmina Hertford to be free to lend them her house a fortnight later. Thayne wanted Beatrice tonight. But how to manage it?
He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he had to do something.
There was something else he was g
oing to do, as well. Thayne had given it a great deal of thought and had come to an inevitable conclusion. It was so obvious, and so perfect, he felt an idiot for not having thought of it before. It had taken that day at Loughton House—the entire afternoon, not only the time spent making love to her—for him to fully accept his feelings for Beatrice. He loved her. He wanted her in his life, not just temporarily but forever.
It was useless to continue halfheartedly pursuing all those pretty young girls of eighteen or twenty who had nothing to offer but their potential. And what if he chose wrong? What if the girl who appeared to have the most promise turned into a shrew or a dullard or a featherbrained ninny? He would be stuck with her for a lifetime.
No, it was much smarter to choose a woman whose character was already fully matured and thoroughly admirable, who would offer no terrifying surprises after the wedding, either in the bedroom or the drawing room.
Thayne had more than his share of self-confidence and self-worth. He knew he tended to loom large, to intimidate, to take charge. He did not always like those aspects of his character—which he realized many people interpreted as supreme arrogance—but he could not change who he was. And although he might enjoy a pretty, young, biddable wife for a while, he knew without question that he would soon grow tired of a woman who offered no challenge, who acquiesced to his every desire, who let him rule every aspect of her life. He preferred a woman who could meet him on more equal terms, who would not acquiesce but might battle instead. He would ultimately have the upper hand, of course, but he preferred a bit of a challenge to get there.
The funny thing was that he'd only just discovered this about himself. He'd always assumed a biddable young bride was what he wanted, an unformed who could be molded to suit his requirements a wife, as a marchioness. But Beatrice had changed all that. He'd come to realize that she was the sort of woman he really wanted. Needed. A woman like
Beatrice. No, not like her. Her. He wanted Beatrice.
He watched her across the room at another card table. Lord and Lady Marchdon had set up their large drawing room, and several other rooms, with tables for cards, and many members of the ton were attendance, including Beatrice and Emily. There was no serious gambling involved. It was all very proper with only pennies for stakes. Thayne had never much enjoyed playing whist, and he was having difficulty concentrating on the play. Lady Emmeline Standish was his partner, and though she must surely be aggravated at his mistakes, she was every inch the proper young lady and never complained. In the last hand, he'd led trumps when he had only one trump card, causing them to lose the hand. Thayne muttered a Persian oath, but his partner merely smiled and gave a resigned shrug.
Somehow he managed to finish the rubber and paid their losses to the other couple. He was too wound up to play any more, and so he excused himself from the next hand, and invited Lord Newcombe to take his place. Lady Emmeline's eyes brightened. Did she have a tendre for the fellow, or was she simply happy to have a partner who would be awake to every play?
Thayne had once considered Lady Emmeline as the one he might choose as his bride. He liked her. She was very pretty and would have made a fine marchioness, he had no doubt. But he had other plans and was anxious to put them into motion.
If only this damned party would end.
Some time later, it did begin to break up and guests began departing. He watched Beatrice and Emily make their farewells, and Thayne did the same. He took a moment to apologize to Lady Emmeline for being such a disappointing partner, claiming his mind had been elsewhere.
"No need to apologize, my lord," she said. "I quite understand." Her eyes had darted toward the doors, where Beatrice and Emily had just passed.
Good God. Did she know? Was he so transparent in his desire for Beatrice?
No, it was more likely she thought his mind was on Miss Emily Thirkill. Thayne stifled a groan. Was there still gossip about them? Expectations he thought had long been squashed?
Damnation. He had to make matters right, and quickly. Tonight.
When he found his carriage among the throng of vehicles, Thayne impulsively gave the driver Beatrice's Brook Street direction. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he had to speak privately with her.
When the carriage turned into Brook Street Thayne experienced a twinge of panic. What if she hadn't gone home? What if they had gone to another party instead?
He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw her carriage pull away. She was home.
Now what?
He alighted from his carriage and sent the driver back to Doncaster House. Thayne could walk the short distance later.
After he'd done what? Come to her door at one o'clock in the morning and announced himself? No, that would not do. He was being foolish. He ought to begin that walk to Park Lane now, and be done with it.
But as he stood across the street, watching the house like a moonstruck idiot, he saw her. Only for an instant, but candlelight most definitely glinted off red hair in one of the third-floor windows.
Her bedroom.
His groin tightened. She would be in there undressing, letting her hair down, getting into bed. How he wished he could be there with her.
And then he noticed it. The large tree right outside her window. The tree with thick, sturdy-looking branches within easy reach.
Thayne smiled. Serendipity again.
He waited for what seemed like hours, but was probably only twenty minutes, until all candlelight had been extinguished. Then he made his move.
Tap tap tap.
Beatrice sat bolt upright in bed. "Who's there?" She had not been quite asleep when she heard a sharp tapping. She tossed back the cover and slid out of bed.
She opened the door, but found no one there. She stepped into the corridor but saw nothing. All the other bedroom doors were closed, and no telltale light shone beneath any of them. How odd. Perhaps she really had been asleep and only dreamed she'd heard something.
She was about to crawl back into bed when she heard it again.
Tap tap tap.
It wasn't the door at all. Someone was tapping on the window. Good heavens. Had Charlotte been up in the tree again? At this hour? She would have that child's guts for garters, by God. What was she thinking?
She went to the window and flung back the curtains, ready to do murder. She unlatched the casement, pushed it open, and said, "Charlotte, is that you? I swear I will—"
"No, Beatrice, it is me."
Gabriel! Here?
Sure enough, there was his dignified lordship perched on a branch just outside the window. His teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he grinned like a fool.
"Gabriel, what the devil are you doing here? Get down from that tree at once."
"I could not wait two weeks," he said. "Or even another day. Step aside, my love. I'm coming inside."
And before she could stop him, he'd swung himself with athletic grace from the limb to the window ledge, and climbed through the window. He pulled the heavy curtains closed behind him, brushed off his waistcoat and breeches, then stood smiling and pristine as though he'd just entered a ballroom.
He reached for her, but she brushed him away. "Are you mad?" Anger spread like a fever along her shoulders and down her back. "How dare you, Gabriel? How dare you come to my house, to my bedchamber, when my daughters are asleep just across the corridor? My daughters, Gabriel! What if one of them hears you or sees you? For God's sake, what were you thinking?"
He reached for her again and captured her this time. He imprisoned her against him, her hands flat against his broad chest. "I was thinking I could not wait another moment to be with you again. I was thinking that if we were very careful and very quiet, no one would know I had been here. I have been thinking of nothing else for days but how to contrive to be with you. But most of all, I have been thinking I could not live another day without holding you in my arms. Without kissing you."
He bent his head and did just that. Despite all her misgivings—and they were legion—she
found herself melting into his kiss, everything within her dissolving into liquid. Traitorous body! She could not resist him, even in her anger. His tongue found hers, tangling wet and urgent in a kiss so potent her knees almost buckled.
He broke the kiss at last and nibbled his way along her jaw and throat and neck. "Gabriel," she said, drawing out the first syllable in a kind of moan. "We should not be doing this. Not here. It's not right." She was angry with him for being so reckless, so rash, so arrogantly heedless of her perfectly reasonable objections. And yet she arched her neck to give him better access and snaked her hands into his thick, dark hair as his teeth nipped and scraped along her throat.
"It is always right between us," he said between nibbles, "and always will be."