by Ava Stone
His eyes hurt, his legs were beginning to ache, and his ardor was long past gone. Where the devil was Caroline’s unruly daughter? What if she hadn’t come to Covent Garden? What if she was speeding towards Gretna Green with some idiot? That was more likely, honestly. Some ne’er-do-well Caroline didn’t know anything about and who had warned Rachel to never speak his name to her mother.
Marc had just about convinced himself to start for Scotland and hope to find Rachel and her lover along the way as they scrambled for the border when he spotted a girl in a dark cloak poke her head out from the mews, looking down Drury Lane. A girl that looked very much like Caroline. Rachel Benton. The damned little fool.
Silently, Marc stalked in her direction, a combination of annoyance and relief both coursing through his veins. Damn it all. What kind of imbecile ran off in the dead of night to Covent Garden? When he got his hands on her…
Rachel noticed him a second later, and her eyes widened in surprise. She picked up the edge of her skirts as though she meant to bolt, though where she planned on running to Marc had no goddamned idea. It didn’t matter, however, as she wasn’t nearly as fast as he was.
Marc snatched her arm in his hand and yanked her to his side. “Just what the devil do you think you’re doing, little girl?” he growled.
She gasped and tried to yank her arm free and in the process knocked them both to the ground. And a moment later, a dagger whizzed through the air, imbedding itself into the façade of the building where Marc had just been standing.
For the love of God!
His gaze flashed up to find a fellow all dressed in black with a domino shielding his identity.
“Let her go,” the Covent Guard said, for that was who he had to be. All of London was talking about the fellow these days. And there he was. In the flesh. And he was a goddamned nuisance.
But dagger or no dagger, Marc was not about to unhand Rachel Benton for anything in the world. The guard, whoever the devil he was, had no idea who he was dealing with. On a good night, he wouldn’t want to encounter Marc, and this was far from a good night. The bloody evening had started out as perhaps the most promising of Marc’s life, but it had somehow turned into…this.
“You throw one more dagger in my direction, and you won’t live to see daybreak.”
Rachel had stopped struggling in Marc’s grasp and gazed up at the masked man as though he was her own personal savior. She was a bigger idiot than he’d first thought.
“Let the girl go,” the Covent Guard repeated.
Oh, Marc’s night only wanted for this nonsense. He was fairly certain Rachel wasn’t going to flee, not with the expression on her face as she stared in awe at the dagger-thrower. So Marc pushed back to his feet and dusted his now dirty hands on his trousers. “I am taking the girl back to her mother and if you,” he continued, glancing at the ground in an attempt to lull the masked man into a false sense of security, “think you’re going to—”
Marc turned quickly and lunged for the man, tackling him to the ground before he could let loose one more dagger. Rachel let out a scream into the night.
The air whooshed from the fellow, but Marc didn’t have an ounce of pity for him. He crashed his fist into the man’s jaw and once more into his eye, paying no heed to Rachel’s pleas for him to stop. He landed quite a few more punches and the domino fell limply from the guard’s face and…
Mother of God. Marc knew him. Not well. But he’d seen the fellow at Gentleman Jackson’s enough times, and he’d known his late-father well enough. Honestly, he wasn’t at all the sort of fellow one would think to assume the role of guardian of Covent Guard. He was heir to a plump dukedom for God’s sake. “Hawke?” he breathed out in surprise.
Christian Hawke, Lord Kelling scrambled for his fallen domino and held it up to his face. “Leave the girl alone,” he heaved, trying to catch his breath.
Oh, for the love of God. Marc heaved an irritated sigh. If he hadn’t known the whelp’s father, if he hadn’t owed the man a favor, he’d have been very happy to send Christian Hawke to meet his maker. The jackass had thrown a blasted dagger at him, after all. “I am returning her to her home, and you are staying out of my way.” He rose back to his feet and sent a swift kick into the fellow’s ribs.
Hawke let out a cry of pain.
“Don’t hurt him!” Rachel cried, damned little fool that she was. The man had thrown a dagger at Marc. He could very well have killed him, and a kick to the ribs wasn’t nearly retribution enough. He supposed letting Hawke live was a repayment on that debt he owed his father. But they were even now.
Marc turned his attention to the girl who had ruined his night in more ways than one. “Let’s get you back. Your mother is worried sick.”
Her brow furrowed as she sucked in a breath. “Please, my lord, please don’t tell my mother. She’ll never let me leave the house for the rest of my life.”
Which Caroline would be well within her rights to do. Marc narrowed his eyes on the troublesome girl. “I will not lie to your mother.” Then he grabbed her elbow and tugged her in the direction of The Strand. “Now let’s go.”
She glanced back over her shoulder at her fallen hero and cried, “Thank you for trying to save me.”
“Do you have any sort of idea the pain you’ve caused your mother tonight?” Marc growled as he hailed a hack.
“The pain I caused?” she shot back. “You almost killed him.”
Marc snorted at the exaggeration. “Such is the risk when you go around in a mask, throwing daggers at people.” He pulled open the door to the hired coach. “Mayfair,” he told the man, and then gave him Caroline’s direction on Curzon Street.
Rachel climbed into the coach and Marc followed her lead. He settled on the bench opposite her and frowned at the girl.
“He was only trying to help me,” Rachel muttered under her breath. “You had no right to do that.”
Had he ever been that foolish? Would Callista ever be that foolish? God, he hoped not. “Let me explain something to you, little girl,” he said, sounding more menacing that he meant to. “I am a peer of the realm, I have the right to do anything I damn well want, whenever I want it. And you’re bloody fortunate I was there tonight.”
She scoffed.
Did the little fool really not realize how lucky she was to be alive, unharmed even. “You don’t think your mother has been through enough? You think she needs this from you?”
Rachel shook her head and gazed into the darkness out the window. “She’s not the only one who’s been through something. He was my father. I lost him too.” And then she turned her gaze to settle on Marc. “And he hated you.”
The feeling was mutual. But Marc kept from saying as much. The man was dead, after all. And his daughter was still grieving him. He heaved a sigh. “You won’t do this to your mother again. Do you understand me?”
She shook her head. “I just wanted…” And even in the darkness, her eyes lit up. “You know him. The Covent Guard. You said a name back there.”
What was her obsession with the man? “I don’t know him.”
“I thought you said you never lie.” She scowled.
He hadn’t said that and wouldn’t unless he wanted a bolt of lightening to strike the hack. “No. I said I wouldn’t lie to your mother.” Marc shook his head. “I have no qualms about not telling you the truth.”
“But I just want to know who he is.” She slid forward on her bench.
So did Bow Street, Marc was sure. But none of that was any of his concern.
“I’d never risk going out again, not if I just knew who he was.”
“Someone far too dangerous for you to concern yourself with.” After all, if Christian Hawke spent his nights in Covent Garden throwing daggers at people, he highly doubted Caroline would approve. Marc would never approve if the girl in question was Callista.
“Please, Lord Haversham!” she begged.
Marc shook his head. “I’m not certain where you got the idea this was so
me sort of negotiation, Miss Benton, but it’s not. You could have been killed tonight or worse and…”
“What’s worse than death?” she countered.
“A great many things.” Was she truly that naïve? “I don’t think you seem to understand the danger you put yourself in this evening.”
“I was very careful. No one even saw me until you.”
What a ridiculous thing to say. She didn’t seem to have a care for her own safety, but perhaps she’d care for Christian Hawke’s. “You’re not doing it again. Swear to me that you won’t, or I’ll whisper the man’s name to a Bow Street Runner I happen to know, and that will put a rather quick end to him and his activities.”
She sucked in a breath. Apparently, this was some sort of negotiation. Just not the one Rachel Benton had bargained for.
“Perhaps your mother would let you visit him in Newgate,” Marc continued evenly. “Though I doubt she’d agree to that. What do you think?”
“Please don’t turn him in,” she breathed out.
“Do I have your word?” Marc pressed.
After a moment, Rachel nodded. It was begrudgingly, but it was still a nod.
“If you break your word, I’ll have no choice but to inform authorities,” Marc continued. “So his future rests in your hands. Remember that.”
“If you would just tell me his name…”
“Not a chance.”
She sagged a bit, which Marc took as her acquiescence, and for the first time in hours, he breathed a sigh of relief.
When the hack finally stopped in front of Staveley House, Rachel turned back to look at Marc once again. “I won’t go out again, but do you really have to tell her where I went?”
He scoffed. “What lie do you think she would believe, Miss Benton?”
“I’m sure you could come up with something.”
Even Marc wasn’t that expert a liar. “I will make you a deal. If she doesn’t ask where I found you, I won’t tell her. How’s that?” Which would never in a million years happen. They’d be the first words out of Caroline’s mouth. “But if she asks me, I’ll not lie to her. I’ve never done that, and I’m not about to start now.”
Then he opened the door to the hack and gestured to the girl’s home.
“After you.”
Chapter 14
Curled up on her settee, despair had long since swamped Caroline. Her heaving sobs had ended some time ago, but a trail of tears still ran down her cheeks. She would give anything in the world for her daughter to walk through the door, safe and sound. But the longer she lay there by herself, the worse the fears and images in her mind became.
Simmons had covered her with a quilt and brought her chamomile tea to soothe her nerves, but her nerves couldn’t be soothed. How could they be?
It seemed like such a bad dream that she could not wake from. Never in a million years would she have imagined that her daughter would run off in the dead of night. Had Felicity been right? Should Caroline have given her more freedom? Would that have prevented Rachel from doing something outrageously dangerous? Or had she not been strict enough? Perhaps they shouldn’t have come back to Town. Perhaps they should have stayed in Westmorland at the Park. Or perhaps they should have gone to Dorset to stay with Robert and Lydia for a few months. That would have been a change of scenery from Benton Park, and there wasn’t any sort of danger to be found at Gosling Park.
“Milady,” her butler said from the threshold. “A carriage just stopped out front.”
Caroline bolted from the settee and brushed past the servant, racing to the front foyer. She pulled open the door and a sob of relief escaped her as she spotted Rachel starting up the stoop. Oh, thank God.
She pulled her daughter into her arms and squeezed her tight, so relieved that she looked whole and hale. Marc was paying the driver of a hack, but his gaze landed squarely on Caroline, where she and Rachel stood just inside the threshold. Thank God and thank Marc. She could never repay him for this, not if she tried every day for the rest of her days.
“Mama,” Rachel complained. “You are hurting me.”
Reluctantly, Caroline released her hold on her daughter and took a slight step back. “I should send you to spend the rest of the season with your Uncle Robert.”
“I know a nice convent in France,” Marc suggested, as he started up the stoop toward them. He looked exhausted, more so than she’d ever seen him. And he’d never been more devastatingly handsome in his life. Her hero. Her knight in tarnished armor.
Caroline tugged Rachel into the foyer and held the door open for Marc who followed them inside.
“Where did you go?” she demanded of her daughter as soon as the door shut behind them.
“I was careful, Mama. I just had to see if—”
“You had to run off in the dead of night?” Caroline sounded shrill to her own ears. “Have you lost your mind? You could have been hurt. You could have been killed.”
Rachel heaved a sigh and stepped away from Caroline. “You’ll never understand. And I was careful.”
Caroline turned her attention to Marc. “Where was she?”
“Spotted her in the mews behind Drury Lane. She’s unharmed.”
But she could have been harmed. She could have been taken and abused and never found. She could have been killed, for God’s sake. Caroline shook her head and refocused on her oldest child. “Go to your chambers. And don’t you dare leave there until I say differently.”
Rachel huffed indignantly, but she did start for the staircase.
Caroline closed her eyes as a fresh round of tears began to stream down her cheeks. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Marc.”
He slid his arms around her waist and urged her against his chest. “She’s here. She’s safe.”
“Because of you.” She opened her eyes then and tipped her head back to see him. And his tiredness radiated from him. “I can never thank you enough. I can—”
“Shh,” he whispered and pressed his lips to her brow. “It’s been a long night, Caroline. Climb into bed, get some rest, and I’ll be by sometime in the afternoon.”
He didn’t mean to leave? “Marc.” She grasped his lapels in her hands. “Please don’t go.”
A weary smile settled on his lips. “You’re exhausted, love, and I could hardly perform at my best at the moment anyway. We’ll wait for the stars to realign.”
She certainly was in no mental state for love making, not after the panic and stress of the evening. She was exhausted, and her muscles ached, and she wanted to fall into bed and never leave it. But she didn’t want to relinquish him either. She didn’t want to climb the stairs to her empty bedchambers and stare into the darkness while awful thoughts about what could have been plagued her. She just wanted him beside her, his arms around her, and to revel in the strength of him. “I would sleep much easier if you were with me.”
His weary smile turned a bit wolfish. “You could tempt a saint.”
“You’re not a saint.”
“Not even on my best day,” he agreed with the shake of his head. “Are you sure about this? You’re not worried someone will see something, say something?”
Who would say anything? Rachel was already in her chambers. Only Simmons knew Marc was still there. And Simmons might be the one servant in all the world who could truly be trusted, at least where Marc was concerned. “I want you to stay.”
He kissed her brow once more. “Then lead on, my lady.”
Without a doubt, it had been the most surreal night of Marc’s life. And that was saying something. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it on the back of a chintz chair in the corner of Caroline’s bedchamber. His waistcoat soon followed suit. And then his shirt.
He was tugging one Hessian off when Caroline breezed inside the room, already in a nightrail and wrapper, her dark blonde locks already down about her shoulders. Marc dropped the boot to the rug and started on the next one as he lamented aloud, “I had such plans for that red dress.”
&nb
sp; And even though he knew she was emotionally drained, she smiled at him. The most sweetly seductive smile he’d ever seen. “Next time?”
“I’m counting on it.” And the time after that and the time after that. Marc dropped his second boot to the floor and pushed out of her chintz chair.
She pulled back the counterpane and his gaze dropped to her nicely rounded bottom. It wasn’t the red dress, but there was something to be said for her nightrail. He’d never seen her curves on display in such a way before. He could get used to that. And he had a feeling he could get even more accustomed to her in absolutely nothing at all. But not tonight.
“Do you think you need another pillow?” she asked, looking back at him over her shoulder.
Pillows, no pillows. He couldn’t care one way or the other. He was in Caroline Staveley’s bedchamber. And she wanted him to stay the night. How could he possibly care about pillows? “I’ll be fine,” he said, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice.
Her brow furrowed slightly as she stepped away from the bed. “Do you want the right side or the left?”
Marc reached out and captured her waist with his hand and pulled her to him. “I only want you. Just tell me where you want me.”
“Here.” She slid her arms around his back and sighed against his chest as her lithe form pressed against his. “I want you right here.” The silk of her nightrail was so thin, it was almost as though she had nothing on at all. The curve of her breasts, the gentle slope of her belly, the softness of her skin.
And even though he was well past exhaustion, his cock hardened. How could it not? Marc blew out a breath, not that he could do a damned thing about any of his urges tonight. But tomorrow was another matter entirely. “Here? Standing in the middle of your rug all night? You’re hardly the most accommodating hostess, Caroline.”
“Right beside me.” A soft laugh escaped her as she stepped away from him. “You know what I meant.” Then she slid her hand into his and towed him to the side of her four-poster.