“Might I have this dance, my lady?” The low sound of his voice skimmed along her senses as she struggled to reply in a quiet, reserved manner. Instead, she simply nodded, then placed her hand in his. A moment later he whirled her out onto the dance floor. The electricity pulsing its way through her was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.
Not even Westleah had affected her this way. Frustrated by her faltering composure, she straightened her spine. For more than twenty years she’d perfected the art of seduction, and she refused to let this man reduce her to a state of confusion, especially when he was younger than her.
“How is it we’ve never met until this evening, my lord?” She offered him a small well-practiced smile.
“When it comes to events such as this, I’ve seen far too many of my acquaintances ensnared in the spiderweb of some mother with a marriageable daughter. I prefer my freedom.” His straightforward response made her laugh. He smiled with a hint of satisfaction.
“Good, I’ve made you laugh. It suits you.”
As much as she wanted not to, it was impossible to keep the heat from flooding her cheeks. The man was far too charming, and it was irritating to know how susceptible she was to him. She breathed in his clean, woodsy scent, and her heart skipped a beat. Even at the most base levels her body responded to him. When she didn’t say anything, he studied her with an intense look that sent a shiver racing down her spine.
“The man’s a fool.”
There was a dark note of outrage in his voice, and she stumbled. He immediately pulled her closer as she collected her wits.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Marston. The man needs his head examined.”
“Oh.” Forcing a smile to her lips, she gave him a brief nod. “And I should have my head examined for ever having been seen with the man.”
He released a soft laugh that drifted across her skin like sinful velvet. His large hand in the middle of her back pressed her into him even tighter. As the heat and scent of him filled her senses, she found it difficult to breathe normally. A primitive rhythm hummed in her blood, and her mouth was so dry not even champagne could wet her tongue enough. She tried desperately to regain control of her senses.
“And I’m certain there are many here tonight who are delighted to know that your heart is no longer occupied,” he murmured as the music came to a halt.
Slowly letting her go, he stepped back from her as she sank into a low curtsy. His words eased her bruised feelings for only a split second before she realized he hadn’t included himself in the compliment. Why would he ask her to dance if he had no interest in pursuing her acquaintance?
Confused, she frowned. What was it Westleah had said? The man rarely took offense except at the mistreatment of others. Anger slashed through her. Damn him. The bastard had asked her to dance out of pity. She came upright and snapped her fan open to flutter it quickly in front of her then collapsed it again in a sharp movement.
“Thank you for your second rescue attempt this evening, my lord. But in the future, please note that I neither want nor appreciate your interference in my affairs.”
Without giving him the opportunity to respond, she swept away from him with her back ramrod straight. The insolence of the man. She was more than capable of looking after her own interests. And she certainly didn’t need any man treating her like a lost cause.
2
The fist connecting with the Right Honorable Lord Stratfield’s jaw sent his head flying backward. Garrick could taste the blood in his mouth, and he quickly stepped to one side to avoid another blow from his opponent. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Worthington’s fist heading toward him and quickly ducked before sending his own fist upward into the man’s lower jaw. Somewhere in the back of his head, Garrick heard the sound of cheers and jeers from the men forming the circle around him and Worthington.
He blocked the sounds out of his head and landed another hit to the man’s jaw with his other fist. The minute he hit the man, he knew Worthington would fall. Garrick danced back a couple of steps and watched the younger man collapse on the grass fresh with early morning dew.
With dueling outlawed, a boxing match was the next best thing for avenging his sister’s honor. Grace was more than worthy of marrying the Earl of Bainbridge, even if their mother had abandoned them and their father had committed suicide. Defeating Worthington would also ensure his reputation as a man of principle when it came to protecting his family’s honor. A hand slapped him on the back as his friend Charles, the Viscount Shaftsbury, congratulated him.
“Brilliantly done.”
Garrick accepted the cloth Charles handed him and wiped the blood from his cut lip. He wouldn’t go so far as to say his performance had been brilliant, but he was satisfied with the result. Grace’s honor had been redeemed, and he knew Worthington wouldn’t have the audacity to make any other comments. He looked at his unconscious opponent, and met the gaze of one of the man’s friends. He tossed his head toward Worthington.
“I suggest you ice his jaw or he’ll not be able to eat for a week,” he said. Lord Millbourne nodded his head with a chuckle.
“I’ll see to it. Although if it keeps the boy’s mouth closed for a while, it will do him no harm. I feel certain he’ll be calling on you to humbly beg your forgiveness in a few days.”
“Then I shall make the apology as painless as possible for him.”
With a cool nod, he turned away from Worthington’s friend and accepted his coat from Charles. Damn, but he was tired. He needed sleep. After being up for almost twenty-four hours, he was dogtired. And the boxing match had done little to ease his exhaustion or his restlessness. He raked his black hair back off his face and met Charles’s amused gaze.
“What?” he asked as he shrugged into his coat with a wince. His young opponent had managed to land a couple of well-placed blows, and he was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.
“You let the boy hit you.” At the observation, Garrick arched his eyebrows at his friend.
“He got lucky. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“That I find difficult to believe, but I’ll indulge your delusions and not argue with you.”
Garrick snatched his top hat from Charles’s hand. His friend’s amusement irritated him. It was the second time in less than a day that he’d been caught acting magnanimous to his fellow beings. He preferred to keep his benevolent tendencies hidden from the Marlborough Set. To do otherwise could easily make him appear weak and impotent. He tightened his mouth at the thought.
Last night the Lady Ruth. Now Worthington. Charles was too damned observant. The truth was Worthington’s youth and penchant for one too many brandies had gotten in the way of his tongue when he’d insulted Grace. And what was his own excuse for rushing to the Lady Ruth’s rescue? He pushed the question aside.
While he couldn’t let Worthington’s insult go unanswered, he’d had no desire to humiliate the boy. He’d been young once and understood how shame could leave brutal scars. He grimaced. Worthington was only six years younger than his own twenty-nine years. He felt fifty at the moment.
“You should have let Bainbridge handle the matter. She’s his fiancée.”
“My future brother-in-law would have pulverized the boy.”
It was an honest statement. If the Earl of Bainbridge had heard the insult, Worthington would be in the care of several physicians at the moment instead of just his friends. The earl was as good a pugilist as he was, perhaps better. But Grace’s betrothed would have made Worthington pay in a far more savage contest.
“True. Bainbridge would be furious no matter how trivial the insult where your sister is concerned. Short of my cousin Robert, I’ve never seen a man so devoted to a woman.”
“It’s the only reason I accepted his offer for Grace’s hand,” he said coolly.
He’d had Bainbridge investigated thoroughly before he’d agreed to let the man marry his sister. No one was going to marry into his family without his believing they wer
e devoted to his siblings. The fact he’d failed Lily in that regard had made him even more vigilant in determining Bainbridge’s suitability for Grace. He could only hope Lily and her husband worked out their differences. He wanted his sisters and brother to have the one thing their parents had never had—a happy marriage. As for him—his fate was already sealed.
“With Lily married and Grace soon to be wed to Bainbridge, that leaves you free to find a wife.”
Charles’s cheerful tone made Garrick clench his teeth until his jaw ached. Taking a wife was something he’d never do. Nor did he bother to explain the less than happy state of Lily’s marriage. He had no desire to let his sister’s marriage become fodder for the gossip mill.
“You’re forgetting Vincent,” he said in a tight voice.
“Surely the boy is capable of finding a wife.” Charles narrowed his eyes at him. “I thought he was courting the Clayton girl.”
“He is, but I’ve some concerns about her suitability.” He looked away from his friend’s surprised expression and headed toward his carriage.
“Care to join me for lunch later?” Charles asked as he fell into step beside him. Garrick shook his head in an apologetic fashion.
“I’ve plans to visit a piece of property I’m thinking of purchasing.”
“Another estate. What the devil are you planning to do with another piece of property?”
“It’s an investment.”
“Yes, but must you buy up the whole of England? Pretty soon, we’ll be calling the country Stratfield. And I can just imagine how Her Majesty would react to that.”
His friend’s comment tugged a small smile to Garrick’s mouth. He could see where others might view his numerous holdings as extreme, but they were more than simple investments. They were necessary. As he opened the door of his carriage, he arched his eyebrow at Charles.
“Property that pays for itself is always a good investment.”
“And a sound means of providing for your children when you get around to marrying.”
His fingers gripped the edge of the carriage door until they ached from the pressure. The only heir he would ever have would be Vincent. When he didn’t answer his friend, Charles quirked an eyebrow at him.
“For a man who’s just avenged his sister’s honor, you’re looking rather dismal.”
“I’m tired and my jaw aches.”
“Perhaps your mysterious mistress, Mary, could minister to your . . . aches.”
The words made him grimace. The none too subtle implication was meant to amuse him, but did just the opposite. It was depressing to acknowledge that the only thing he did when he visited his mistress was sleep. Alone. But for Charles to call her mysterious . . . he frowned.
“Exactly what do you mean by mysterious?”
“Nothing, except that after more than what, two years without ever having seen the woman, people are beginning to do more than speculate—”
“Speculate?” His terse response made Charles suddenly look uncomfortable.
“Well there’s always been talk . . . people have always wondered if the woman even exists . . . or if she’s actually a . . .”
Garrick’s body went rigid at the unspoken implication. He quickly forced himself to make his expression unreadable to cover up the sense of stunned dismay he was feeling. Christ Jesus, he’d been a fool to think he could convince the Set he adored his mistress too much to take her out in public. There had always been gossip about why he never showed Mary off.
Some rumors he’d overheard, while at other times, friends and family had delicately shared the fact that he was the topic of curiosity. But this was the first time it had been suggested the Set was viewing him in less than a manly light. His stomach lurched at the sound of his uncle’s mocking laugh echoing in the back of his head. He could have at the very least taken Mary to one of the finer establishments catering to men and their mistresses. No. He could never have subjected her to that. Not after what Tremaine had done to her, but he could have done something different. Furious with himself for his lack of foresight, he sent his friend an icy look.
“I can assure you that Mary is quite real. The two of us simply prefer not to socialize in public. It would be extremely uncomfortable for her. She wasn’t brought up to handle the savagery that is the Marlborough Set.”
That was entirely true. Mary’s parents had owned a farm on one of his properties. He’d seen that her education would allow her to mingle with those in the upper classes, but she’d openly expressed her objection to the idea.
In fact, she seemed far more content with her book learning than she did anything else. Not even clothes seemed to interest her all that much, although lately she’d taken a heightened interest in them. He’d taken her to Paris for new clothes twice in the last eight months alone.
“I believe you, but perhaps showing her off from a distance might not be a bad thing either. I know how you loathe gossip. Perhaps a carriage ride in the park?”
“I have no intention of appeasing the Set’s curiosity.”
“Fine. But be prepared for some people to do more than speculate. I understand Wycombe made a bet with Marston the other day at the Club that he would prove this Mary of yours didn’t exist.”
“Bloody hell.” This time he couldn’t hide his shock.
“You’ve a great many friends who will stand by you, Garrick, but we both know Wycombe will do whatever he can to discredit you.”
His head jerked in a sharp nod. Older by several years, the Earl of Wycombe had been one of his tormentors at first Eton and then Cambridge. The man had made him the brunt of malicious pranks for more than three years until Garrick had learned how to box. He’d beaten the man in a match that was now legendary in the halls of Cambridge.
Wycombe had arrived unconscious in the university’s infirmary, while Garrick had walked away without even a scratch. The man had even missed his graduation ceremony as a result. While Wycombe had never crossed him since, the earl hated him beyond measure for that humiliating defeat. If Wycombe thought he could bring humiliation upon his head, the man wouldn’t hesitate. Even if it meant lying.
He climbed into the carriage, his body aching more from the battering his friend’s news had given him than his match with young Worthington. As Garrick closed the door behind him, Charles looked at him through the window with a sympathetic expression on his face.
“I understand your desire for privacy, Garrick, but you cannot ignore this. I think a weekly carriage ride might go a long way toward satisfying the avid interest the subject has raised. Perhaps even an introduction to the Prince himself will prevent Wycombe from making any mischief.”
“The last thing I intend to do is present Mary to His Royal Highness. The man would terrify her simply by virtue of his position. I won’t subject her to that.”
“At least introduce her to several of your friends—”
“No. I’ll not sacrifice her simply to protect my own skin. I appreciate your warning, Charles, but I have no intention of putting Mary on display.”
“Devil take it, Garrick. Wycombe will be merciless where you or your Mary is concerned.”
“The Earl of Wycombe be damned,” he snapped. “I took care of him once, I’ll do it again.” With the silver head of his cane, he tapped the carriage ceiling to instruct the driver to leave. Charles eyed him with worry and grimaced, but didn’t argue with him. He gave his friend a sharp nod good-bye as the carriage pulled away.
It was a bumpy ride across the grassy expanse at the farthest edge of Hyde Park. But then he’d chosen the isolated spot not for its access, but its seclusion. The quiet grove, in the early morning hours, had seemed the most logical place for his match with Worthington, but the rough ride was doing little for the headache he’d suddenly developed.
Damn it to hell. He should have anticipated his refusal to bring Mary out into the limelight would pique people’s curiosity. He’d kept her hidden away to protect her, while insulating himself from anyone learnin
g the real reason he kept a mistress that no one ever saw. He groaned and rested his head on the leather squabs behind him.
Now what was he supposed to do? Perhaps Charles was right. Maybe a weekly ride through Hyde Park would lay to rest some of the speculation. He knew it wouldn’t allay all the gossip, but Charles was correct. He couldn’t abide rumors or innuendo. Nor could he allow Wycombe to poke around in his personal affairs.
The thought brought the Lady Ruth to mind. Last night he’d meddled in her affairs and had earned her wrath. He rubbed his sore jaw in contemplation and immediately grimaced with pain. No doubt, she would enjoy knowing he was feeling suitably chastened where she was concerned. It hadn’t been his intent to interfere, but he’d not been able to help himself.
In the Somerset foyer, he’d watched the way she’d gathered herself as if preparing to face a horde of barbarians. She’d been a beautiful warrior princess ready to do battle with an enemy whose weapons were words. Word of Marston’s break with her had reached the Marlborough Club long before evening. It had taken great courage to enter that ballroom alone. And the moment he’d heard that insult flung at her, he’d been unable to do anything but charge to her rescue.
He hadn’t helped matters any when he’d asked her to dance. His motives had been not quite as suspect as she’d believed. While his first rescue had been rooted in sympathy, dancing with her had been a spontaneous action. It had also been a mistake. Not because he’d angered her, but because holding her in his arms had been far too pleasurable.
The carriage rocked to a halt, and he grunted with annoyance. What else could go wrong with his life at the moment? He got out of the vehicle and wearily climbed the steps of the small house he’d provided Mary with. He’d been so busy thinking about the Lady Ruth, he still had no solution as to how to handle Wycombe’s intent to malign him. He sighed. Sleep would help clear his head, and he’d be able to come up with a plan of action later today.
Pleasure Me Page 3