Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  Jack bent slightly over her. "Beautiful," he whispered.

  She suddenly came alert, looking up at Jack and smiling. The sound of gentle applause came from the other side of the room.

  "Wonderful!" Uncle Edward said with enthusiasm. "Wonderful." He turned to look at Mary's companion, who was smiling fondly at her employer. "Do you not agree, Mrs. Bannister?"

  "I have lived with Lady Mary for three years," she said, "and have never ceased to be impressed by her talent. I am most fortunate to be so often an audience."

  While they spoke, Jack had seated himself at Mary's side on the bench. She had grinned and moved over to allow him room. When Uncle Edward turned to make some remark to Mrs. Bannister, Jack tilted his head down toward Mary's and placed his lips close to her ear.

  "I must speak with you in private," he said in a soft whisper. "It is very important."

  Her eyes widened, sparkling in expectation, and a huge smile split her face. "Is it—"

  He interrupted her with a finger to his lips. "In private." Her smile grew even broader, if that was possible. In a flash of insight he knew what she was thinking. She expected him to announce his formal intentions, or even a betrothal, to Miss Carstairs or one of the other candidates. He could almost feel her excitement, her giddiness, as she seemed almost to bounce right off the bench. He gave her a stern look. She nodded and turned, with the greatest equanimity, toward the sofa across the room.

  "Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Maitland," she said. "I am glad you enjoyed it. Music is my greatest passion, you know. But I have others as well. For example, I share an interest with Olivia in exotic plants. We have quite a collection, do we not, Olivia?"

  "Yes, we do," Mrs. Bannister said with a somewhat puzzled look.

  "Our small conservatory boasts several rare specimens," Mary said, favoring Uncle Edward with her most engaging smile. "Perhaps you would be interested in seeing them, sir?"

  Jack tossed his uncle a pleading look. He knew of Jack's plans and had in fact been invited along for the express purpose of somehow removing the ubiquitous companion from the scene. Uncle Edward had accepted his task with unexpected enthusiasm. Mary's suggestion simply made the job easier. Uncle Edward was quick to take advantage.

  "Indeed," he said rising, "I would be pleased to view your collection. Can you spare Mrs. Bannister for a few moments, if she will agree to accompany me?"

  "Of course," Mary said. "Jack and I will await you here. Perhaps I will play another piece for him." She smiled at Jack and he nodded.

  Uncle Edward offered his arm to Mrs. Bannister who looked as if she were being asked to dance naked down St. James's Street. A deep scarlet blush colored her entire face. Eyes cast down, fingers barely touching Uncle Edward's sleeve, she directed him, with obvious reluctance, out of the drawing room and toward the conservatory.

  Once alone, Mary was again bursting with excitement. "Tell me!" she demanded, grasping his arm.

  Jack studied the situation for a moment and decided he needed to recapture the languorous calm that had followed her playing.

  "In due time," he said. "First, I would like you to play for me once more."

  "Jack!" she shrieked with impatience.

  He definitely needed to soften the mood. "Mary, my sweet," he said in his most seductive tone, "indulge me. I do not often have the pleasure of hearing you play. You must know your talent is extraordinary. One more piece. Please, Mary."

  She furrowed her brow and wrinkled her nose in frustration, then heaved a profound sigh. "All right, if you insist. What shall it be, then?"

  "You choose, my dear."

  She sifted through the sheet music, discarding several before pulling one out and setting it on the music stand. "This is a new sonata by Herr Beethoven," she said. "I think it is quite lovely. Shall I play the adagio for you?"

  "Yes, my dear, if you please."

  As before, she was soon lost to the music. The slow, haunting melody seemed to engulf her with its passion. Her mobile face evoked all the sadness, the wretchedness, the longing, and finally the rapture of the music. Jack could not say for certain whether the emotional power of the piece came solely from the notes laid down by the composer, or from Mary's own intensity of expression. He was moved in a way he had not thought possible.

  But throughout, he never lost sight of his ultimate goal. The particular ardor of the piece—how fortunate that Mary had selected one by the passionate Herr Beethoven—set the mood perfectly for what he hoped would follow.

  When she played the final notes and slowly slid her hands from the keyboard, it was obvious she was still absorbed by the emotion of the music: head thrown back, eyes half closed, lips slightly parted. She was breathing heavily. Before she could overcome her rapt state, Jack made his move.

  He quickly pulled her onto his lap and clasped her tightly to his chest. "Mary, Mary," he said softly, gazing down into her eyes, suddenly wide with confusion, "you are so vibrant, so full of passion. Ever since we first met, I have tried to resist you, my dear. I can do so no longer."

  He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.

  Chapter 8

  Mary returned Jack's kiss almost without thinking. She molded her body to his and wrapped her arms tightly about his shoulders. It had been so long!

  She forced her thoughts into somewhat better focus when his lips left hers and began to trace a path down her throat and up her neck. What on earth was going on? One moment she was lost to Herr Beethoven, and the next she was lost to Jack.

  Jack!

  She couldn't believe this was happening, that she was actually being kissed by Jack. Oh, he had always flirted with her, to be sure, but it meant nothing. It had, though, become more and more difficult of late to steel herself against his often very physical flirtations. She had almost gone mad the other night at the opera when he had toyed with her hand throughout the last act, and had even brushed his lips against her neck at one point. She knew, though, that it was merely his way with women and signified nothing. She often had to remind herself that it was nothing more than meaningless flirtation, just a game he played.

  And yet this was no game, she thought, moaning slightly as his lips and tongue tantalized her neck, his silky black hair tickling her cheek. But perhaps this was just a game. He was a consummate rake, after all. Was it possible they had simply entered a different level of play—a level of which she had no experience and no understanding of the rules?

  "Mary, sweet Mary," he muttered as his lips found her jaw, her brow, her eyes. Finally, they returned to her lips, moving over them gently.

  She had wondered, after all, what it would be like to be kissed by Jack, a rake of the first order. Now she knew. It was quite wonderful. She had enjoyed his flirting. Now she would enjoy his kisses. Later, she would worry about what it all meant. When his tongue teased the seam of her lips and forced its way inside, she was lost once again to all rational thought and gave herself up to the wonder of pure sensation.

  After a few minutes Jack raised his head slightly. "Marry me," he whispered against her lips.

  What?

  Mary's feet came back to earth with a thud. What had he said? She could not have heard him properly. He had simply spoken her name. Her foolish mind was playing tricks. She had heard marry when he had simply said Mary. Idiot! She pulled away from Jack's embrace and looked up at him.

  "Marry me."

  There. He had said it again. There was no question about it this time.

  Oh, my God.

  She searched his face for some hint of the teasing amusement she had come to expect from Jack, but found nothing to indicate that he was joking. Could he possibly be serious? She sat in dumbfounded silence, her thoughts a blur, as she listened to him speak.

  "You can bring on an endless parade of candidates," he said, his deep blue eyes gazing longingly into hers, "but there is only one woman I want." He pulled her closer. "I want you, Mary. I want to marry you. Will you have me, my dear? Will you marry me?"

>   Her mind was reeling. She couldn't seem to grasp what was happening. "You want to marry me?" she asked, her voice rising in an unnatural squeak.

  "More than anything."

  "Truly?"

  "Truly."

  Something was very wrong here. This couldn't be happening. Not to her. She must be dreaming. That's it. She was dreaming. This was too close to what she had desired in the deepest, most private recesses of her heart to be real. She was dreaming. Foolish dreams.

  All at once the dream was invaded by an image of her father, eyes flashing, a malevolent grin on his face as he sat opposite her in the carriage on their return from her aborted elopement to Scotland.

  "Foolish girl," he had chided. "You must know that no man will every marry you. Did you seriously think you had actually attracted a man? A pitiful-looking, puny little creature like you? How could you have imagined any man would want you?" He had snorted with derisive laughter. "That Morrison chap was willing enough to disappear once I paid him off. He did not care this much for you," he said, snapping his fingers in front of her face. "And no other young men will come sniffing around now, you may be sure. You shall not even have my fortune to bribe them, for I will not give it to you. You shall have nothing from me, girl." He had thrown back his head and laughed and laughed.

  But he had not known—or had forgotten in his increasing madness—about the trust fund set up by her mother. He had not known, and neither had she at the time, that she indeed had a fortune to offer in compensation for her ugliness. Her father had not known.

  But then, neither did Jack. She pulled her attention back to the present and dismissed the unpleasant memory of her father. Jack could not possibly know about her fortune. And even if he did, what would it matter to him? He was a marquess, the head of an important family. He owned property all over England. He would have no need for her money. If this was not a dream and if he truly wanted to marry her, then it must be for herself. The thought was comforting, almost as much as his thumbs, gently stroking her jaw while he looked down at her in question, awaiting her response. He wants me for myself, she thought as a bubble of hope expanded in her heart.

  All these years she had accepted the truth of her father's words, accepted the fact of her unattractiveness, her ineligibility. Even when she had discovered that she had access to a fortune, she had resolved never to use it to buy her way into a marriage. She would rather be alone than face that ignominy. And so she was resigned to her single state. But here was Jack—handsome, witty, charming, worldly, wonderful Jack—apparently wanting to marry her.

  But of course, he did not really know her. He did not know the truth about her. And when he did, he would not want her.

  Thoroughly confused and befuddled by his closeness, she extricated herself from his embrace, stood, and walked across the room. She stood behind a small upholstered armchair, her hands gripping its back tightly in an attempt to stop their shaking. If Jack was not joking—and apparently he was not—then she was just about to toss away an opportunity she had never dreamed could be hers.

  It was the second worst moment of her life.

  * * *

  "Thank you," she said in a quiet, trembling voice. "I am sensible of the honor you have shown me by your offer. But I cannot marry you. Jack."

  He walked toward her. "Why not?" He halted before he was close enough to touch her, stopped by the pain and confusion in her eyes.

  He did not understand her rejection. There was no question that she had enjoyed their kiss. Indeed, he was certain she had. But then, he had never yet failed in a seduction. He knew exactly how to entice a woman, how to lead her without fail toward the ultimate surrender. Every sensual move was precisely choreographed. He had had no doubts about his ability to seduce Mary. Women like Mary were generally more difficult to entice initially, but were ultimately more susceptible to seduction. He had expected a spinster of her years to be stiff and unyielding at first, requiring special care and patience so as not to frighten her. In fact, her response—her lips matching the pressure and movements of his own, opening at last to allow his tongue entrance, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him into a more intimate embrace—had been so unexpected that he had almost lost control.

  Oh God, but she was a passionate little thing!

  And so now she was apparently going to play hard-to-get. He found himself feeling a twinge of disappointment that his Mary would stoop to such hackneyed tactics. He would not have expected it of her. But he must remember that after all, she was a woman, and when it came right down to it, they were all the same. She was no better than Suzanne, who had convinced him of her affection then jilted him for a grand title. His young and naïve heart had been further outraged when Suzanne had made it clear that, though married to another man, she was willing to bestow her favors upon Jack if he was interested. This, from the woman with whom he had shared what he thought to be the purest love. What a young fool he had been.

  He had vowed fifteen years ago that he would never again allow a woman to claim his heart. Suzanne had taught him a valuable lesson. All women were faithless, inconstant, scheming manipulators. Even Mary. All right, then, he would play along with her little game. He could be as manipulative as any woman.

  She was breathing heavily. Jack watched the rise and fall of her bosom with some admiration. If he could just get beyond this obligatory scene, he began to believe that marriage to Mary, with her sweetly rounded little body and her passionate nature, would not be so very unpleasant after all.

  When his eyes strayed from her splendid little bosom, he saw she was gripping the back of a chair so tightly that her knuckles were white with the strain. There was nothing coy in her attitude. Her eyes were downcast. She had not spoken.

  "Mary?" he prompted in a soft, coaxing tone. "Tell me why you cannot marry me."

  She looked up at him finally, a haunted look in her eyes that stunned him with its intensity and pain. There was a crease of anxiety across her brow. Was there something after all, some insurmountable obstacle to a marriage between them? All at once his stomach knotted in fear that his plan might actually fail.

  She took a few more steadying breaths. "I know that you need to marry, Jack." Her voice was not the usual deep, husky purr he had grown so fond of, but instead was a fraction higher in pitch, as if her throat were tight. "And I know you have said you do not much care who you marry. But you must not allow that indifference to extend to me, Jack." Her voice had become higher and more plaintive. "I am not the right woman for you. You know I am not. You would be better suited to Miss Carstairs ... or Lady Camilla Redbourne."

  She let go of the chair back and began to pace the short distance in front of the fireplace, the skirts of her striped sarcenet dress swirling about her as she walked. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. Finally, she looked up at him, her brow still creased.

  "Jack, you are handsome and titled and important. Surely you owe it to your family—your mother, at least—to choose someone more appropriate. Someone," her voice cracked after a brief pause, "someone young and beautiful and innocent."

  This may not after all be the typical cat and mouse game he had expected. Her distress seemed genuine. He did not believe the anguish in her eyes could have been feigned. Poor Mary. Was she really so convinced of her own worthlessness? Jack suddenly realized that his concern for her feelings was very real. He wanted more than anything to persuade her that he wanted her, if only for her own self-esteem. He hated to see her so downcast and vulnerable. He wanted his sunny, cheerful Mary back.

  He reached out and gently unclasped her hands—dear God, they were trembling!—and took one in his own. "Mary, my dear," he said softly, looking down into those huge hazel eyes, "youth and beauty are extremely tenuous ideals, open to a vast array of individual interpretations. Let me make my own judgments. How old are you, Mary?"

  She looked at him for a long time before answering. "Twenty- nine," she said at last, her eyes dropping to watch their ent
wined fingers.

  "A full eight years my junior," he said, gently squeezing her hand. "Compared to an old ruin like me, my dear, you must certainly be considered youthful." He flashed her a grin, hoping to tease her into a smile. But when she raised her eyes to his, her brow was still furrowed—whether in confusion, disapproval, or disbelief, he could not be certain. He smiled and brought her hand briefly to his lips. "And so we can eliminate age as an obstacle. And now," he said taking her chin in his other hand, "let us address the issue of beauty."

  Her head snapped downward, but he gently forced her chin back up so that she had to look at him. He must tackle this subject with some caution.

  "It is true, my dear, that neither of us can claim the sort of classical beauty that Society and Art have idolized as the latest fashion. But just because we are not perfect does not mean we are unattractive."

  "Of course not!" Mary said with some vehemence. "You are very attractive, Jack, very handsome."

  "As are you, Mary."

  "No!" She tried to twist her face away from his, but he kept her chin firmly tilted up to look at him.

  "Yes, you are handsome, Mary."

  Her eyes darkened momentarily in what seemed like anger, but she blinked and it was gone, replaced by a look of weary resignation. "You don't have to lie to me, Jack," she said in a whisper so soft he was barely able to hear.

  "Mary, Mary," he said, stroking her jaw. "I am not lying. It is true that you don't have the beauty of, for example, Lady Bradleigh. Or Miss Langley-Howe. Not many are so fortunate. But there is so much more to you, Mary. Don't you realize that a man could drown in your eyes, my dear? They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. And your skin," he said, running the back of his fingers along her jaw and down her throat, "is positively translucent, like the purest alabaster. And your smile"—he ran his thumb along her lower lip—"can light up an entire room."