Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  She looked up at him in confusion. Had no one ever before told her these things, ever complimented her? The words he had spoken were not false flattery, but were absolutely true. Had no one ever told her she was attractive? Ah, Mary. He pulled her close and held her against him, gently running his hands along her back. Had this sweet, talented woman been overlooked for so long that she could not recognize her own worth? How he wanted to smooth that furrowed brow.

  "And I absolutely adore your crooked nose," he said, planting a quick kiss upon it.

  "Really, Jack!"

  "But I do," he said, kissing it again. "It gives you character."

  "Character!"

  "Yes," he said, pulling her closer, "a far more valuable commodity than surface beauty, my dear. It will serve you well in later years. When Miss Langley-Howe has faded to a bland middle age, you will still be a handsome woman with a face of great character."

  He bent down to nuzzle her neck and felt her suck in her breath. She might not trust him yet, but at least she was not indifferent to him physically.

  "You are sweet to say such things to me," she said at last in a raspy voice. "In fact, you cannot imagine how much it means to me. But, Jack, this is madness. We both know I am not the sort of woman you desire."

  "Mary," Jack said roughly, his lips hovering just above hers, "if you do not believe I find you desirable, then you have not been paying attention."

  He kissed her, pulling her body close against his. She responded by curling her arms tightly around his waist and returning his kiss. And then almost immediately he felt her pull back. He continued kissing her nonetheless, until her hands moved to his chest and pushed. He let go, and she moved away at once. Her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes were wide and unnaturally bright. She turned her back to him.

  "Mary?" He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off, taking a step farther away from him. "What is it, my dear? Are you upset that I kissed you? Well, I will not apologize. I have told you that I find you desirable. I am afraid I also find you quite irresistible." He took a step closer, but did not touch her. "Come, Mary. Admit that you enjoyed it as much as I did. You see how compatible we are? That is important in a marriage."

  Although she was still turned away from him, he could see her swallow almost convulsively and thought she might be crying. Oh, Lord. This was turning out to be more difficult than he could ever have imagined.

  "Marriage is out of the question," she said at last in a trembly voice. "I have told you that I am not the right woman for you Jack. I have told you that you need someone young and beautiful and innocent."

  "And I have told you, Mary," he said as he stepped closer and placed both hands lightly on her upper arms, "that I find you both young and beautiful. I thought we had effectively eliminated all your misconceptions of unsuitability."

  "Except one," she said in a husky whisper.

  He felt her stiffen beneath his hands, though she did not shrug him off. She stood very still and said nothing.

  "Mary?"

  After what seemed an interminable silence, she turned around once again to face him. Her stricken look was almost enough to break Jack's heart. He moved his fingers slowly down her bare arms and took her hands. She clasped them tightly in return, digging a fingernail painfully into his palm. He ignored the discomfort as he studied the anguish in her face. What could possibly be causing her such distress? He was fairly certain it had nothing to do with him.

  Suddenly, he experienced another moment of fear that this scheme of his wasn't going to work after all. She was going to tell him something—something that would make it impossible for him to marry her. He held his breath as he waited for Mary to continue, for all his plans to crumble into so much dust.

  "Young and beautiful and innocent," she repeated. He watched her swallow with difficulty and take a deep breath. "I cannot marry you, Jack. Nor anyone else. I am not... innocent."

  Chapter 9

  "Mary? I do not understand.

  He looked thunderstruck. Mary was mortified. How she wished Jack had never kissed her, and never filled her head with all those sweet lies, had never forced her to tell him what she knew she had to tell him. She pulled her hands from his, stepped back slightly, and dropped her gaze to the floor. She could not look at him. She could not bear to see the scorn, the disappointment, the disgust she knew would be in his eyes when she told him.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. It was as though her throat had swollen shut, allowing no sound to pass. She swallowed with difficulty and tried again. But once more, no words came. She could not seem to catch her breath. Her mouth was open, but she could not seem to breathe. She began to feel disoriented and dizzy.

  Oh, my God.

  "Mary!" Suddenly Jack swept her into his arms and carried her to the sofa where Olivia and Mr. Maitland had sat earlier. He roughly knocked aside Olivia's workbag, sending an embroidery hoop clattering across the floor, and gently laid Mary onto the sofa. All at once his hands were roughly moving over her thighs, and Mary felt as if she ought to panic, but did not seem to be able to focus her thoughts enough to do so. She felt him rummaging through her skirts and finally locating a hidden pocket. He reached inside and pulled out a tiny silver vinaigrette that Mary always kept with her, though she had seldom needed it. He flipped open the lid and thrust it under her nose. Though she kept the tiny sponge soaked in lavender water rather than vinegar, the fragrance was nevertheless soothing.

  "Take slow, deep breaths," Jack said. "That's it. Breathe deeply. You will be all right in a moment."

  She listened to his words and obeyed. And he was right. In a few moments she was breathing easily and very conscious of Jack leaning over her in a disturbingly intimate manner. Good heavens, had she almost fainted? How mortifying! This was indeed turning into the second most humiliating experience of her life.

  Embarrassed for Jack to see her in such a state, she attempted to sit upright, but a firm hand on her shoulder kept her down.

  "A few more minutes, Mary," he said. "You will only make yourself dizzy if you sit up too soon." He gently massaged her hand, which Mary suddenly realized he had been holding the whole time. "Are you feeling better?" he asked after a few moments.

  "Yes," she muttered.

  "Good girl. Now, let's very slowly raise you up." He took both her shoulders and gently brought her upright. She swung her feet to the ground. "All right?" he asked.

  "Yes. Jack, I'm so sorry—"

  "Is there a sherry decanter nearby, or shall I ring for one?"

  "No, please, don't ring. There is a decanter on the table over there, just on the other side of the pianoforte."

  Jack rose and walked across the room. Mary watched, still embarrassed, as he poured her a glass of pale sherry. She grabbed the vinaigrette, which Jack had placed on a nearby side table, and stuffed it back into her pocket, not wishing to be reminded by the sight of it of her missish behavior. He returned to the sofa, sat down next to her, and placed the glass at her lips.

  "Drink this," he ordered.

  She took the glass from his hand and sipped the sherry. When Jack gave her a stem look, she took a long swallow. The smooth, nutty-flavored liquid traced a warm path down her throat. She felt its calming effects almost immediately. Jack took the glass from her and placed it on the side table. He then reached for one of her hands and held it between both of his own.

  "Mary? Are you—"

  "I am fine now, Jack," she said quickly, interrupting him. "Thank you. I... I am so sorry. I do not usually ... it is just that I... Oh, God. I am so embarrassed." She turned her face away from him.

  "Don't be." He placed a hand softly on her cheek and gently turned her face toward his. "You were upset, distraught." He stroked her cheek and jaw briefly before dropping his hand. Her face felt warm where he had touched her. "If you are feeling better now, I would like to try to continue our conversation. It is very important to me. Do you think you can, Mary?"

&
nbsp; "Oh, Jack. This is so hard for me."

  "I know, my dear."

  "No," she said forcefully, "you do not know. No one knows. Well, except for Olivia. But I have never spoken of this to anyone else. I wish ... I wish I did not have to speak of it to you. But your marriage proposal gives me no choice."

  She looked up into his eyes and saw nothing but concern. He did not speak. She closed her eyes and forged ahead before she could lose what little nerve she had left.

  "When I was seventeen," she began, "something happened to me. Something that makes it impossible for me to consider marriage to you or anyone else. There was this young man, you see—"

  "Mary!" he interrupted. She opened her eyes and found Jack looking down at her with something like relief. "My dear, is all this about some youthful indiscretion? Is that all it is?" He was smiling broadly, practically laughing. "Oh, Mary!" All at once he took her in his arms and held her close, whispering in her ear. "Do you think it matters to me? Do you think it makes any difference to me?"

  "But—"

  "Mary!" He bent and kissed the top of her head. "I thought you were going to admit to secretly being among the fashionably impure, that you had had a string of protectors. But my dear, a moment of passion some dozen years ago? How can you think—"

  "It was not precisely a moment of passion," she muttered against his shoulder.

  He pulled away slightly and gazed down at her with a stricken look. "Oh, God, Mary. Was it... did someone ... force you?"

  "I was not ravished, if that is what you are thinking." Mary pushed herself away from Jack, feeling unexpectedly angry. She had never fully understood—though she had accepted it— how the loss of a young woman's virtue was such a heinous offense. But it angered her even more to think that if she had been forced, if she had been raped, then the loss of an insignificant little membrane would have been more easily overlooked.

  "I was a very willing participant," she announced boldly. She immediately wanted to take back her words. She felt the heat of a blush creep up her neck and face.

  Jack smiled. "I am glad to hear it. Tell me about it." He had taken her hand once again.

  She dropped her eyes to watch the movement of his fingers over her own. "I was seventeen," she said. "I was ... unhappy at home. I wanted to get away. So I eloped with a young man who was visiting the neighborhood. Peter Morrison was his name. We were headed for Scotland, but my father caught up with us at Cheltenham." Mary smiled ruefully as she recalled how she had always secretly referred to those events as her own private Cheltenham tragedy. "But it was too late," she continued, her smile fading. "We had spent one night together. I was already .. . ruined."

  Jack squeezed her hand when she did not immediately go on. "What happened next?" he prompted.

  "My father took me back home."

  It seemed a ridiculously inadequate description of what had really happened. She recalled, once again, that carriage ride from Cheltenham with her father. Mary had sat silently, staring out the carriage window, her nose bandaged, one eye swollen shut. It had been the worst day of her life. And Peter's behavior had only forced her to face the truth of her father's cruel taunts. She had thought Peter loved her, but he hadn't even said good-bye. It was true, then, what her father had said, that he had only been interested in her fortune, that without it she was worthless as a human being, as a woman.

  Somehow during that horrible trip home she had developed a kind of desperate resolve, a fierce determination to survive. She would no longer allow herself to be hurt by her father's gibes about her ugliness and worthlessness.

  It had been difficult. Once home again at Castle Assheton, her father had not ceased chiding her. Indeed, she knew that he derived perverse pleasure from it. She had been finally convinced, then, that he was in fact mad, somehow mentally deranged; but that knowledge had not made her life any easier. She accepted the truth of his words with resigned indifference; but she had never accepted or forgiven their deliberate cruelty, despite his madness. She had never forgiven him. She had hated him as much as he hated her.

  My father took me back home.

  It was all she could say, though it had been so much more than that.

  "What became of the young man?" Jack asked. "Peter Morrison?"

  "My father paid him off. I never saw him again. I heard later that he had joined the army and was killed at Talavera."

  "Ah, Mary," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "I am truly sorry you had to suffer such an ordeal. Were you very much in love with him?"

  "Not really," she said after some thought. "In retrospect I can see that I did not really love him."

  "And what makes you think, my dear, that this unfortunate episode of a dozen years ago makes you unsuitable to be my wife?"

  "Because I am not..." She paused and looked up at him in confusion. What was he saying? Of course she was unsuitable. "A ... a gentleman, especially one as important as a marquess, cannot possibly marry a woman who ... who is not..."

  "Yes, he can," Jack said. "Mary, no one can tell me whom I can or cannot marry. No one. Besides, I can't imagine anyone objecting to my marrying you—except perhaps to say that I am not good enough for you." He took her other hand and then brought both hands to his lips, kissing each one in turn.

  Oh, but he is a devil, thought Mary, seducing me with words and kisses. How she wanted to believe him!

  "My sweet Mary," he said, between kissing her fingers one by one, "you believe that a single youthful indiscretion—one that apparently only you and Mrs. Bannister even know about— makes you unsuitable. And yet my own wicked, miserable past is an open book that all of Society has read. If anyone is unsuitable, it must surely be me. Ah, Mary, it is I who should be begging you to forgive my disreputable past, not the other way around. Will you forgive me, Mary? Will you have me, despite my wretched, soiled life?"

  Mary was unable to answer because Jack had once again claimed her lips. Her mind was reeling again, unable to believe he was serious. Did he really want her, knowing that she could not come to him untouched? Did it really not matter to him? Oh, how she wanted to believe him—this fascinating man who set her senses on fire. Should she say yes? Should she agree to marry him? Should she grab at this unexpected opportunity for happiness?

  Happiness. Would she truly find happiness with Jack? A foolish question, she thought as his lips tantalized her ear and throat. If she was honest with herself, then she must admit she was already halfway in love with him. And that, of course, was the real problem. It would be so easy to fall in love with him. And it would be so easy for him to break her heart. She must not forget that he was a rake, a libertine, a habitual womanizer who would no doubt be unfaithful to her from the start. How could she bear it?

  And what exactly did he expect from her? She understood it was important that he marry, now that he was head of his family. He was obviously not seeking a love match, just a wife. Was he proposing a marriage of convenience between two friends? And would that be such a bad thing, after all? She pulled away from his lips and looked him in the eye. He smiled at her seductively.

  "I need to understand something. Jack."

  "Yes, my dear?"

  "What exactly do you expect from me if we marry? What sort of marriage are you proposing?"

  He gave her a huge smile, his eyes bright as if he knew she was going to accept him, as if that would make him happy. "Mary, Mary," he said, running a knuckle along her cheek, "you are the most delightful woman I know. You are in fact the only woman I have ever called a friend. You know, better than anyone, that I must marry. I am simply proposing that we take our already close friendship one step further. We enjoy each other's company. We laugh together. Good lord, Mary, we have more in our favor already than most married couples. We like each other. And"—he brushed his lips lightly against hers—"we are certainly compatible physically."

  "But do you think," Mary said in a soft whisper, "that you could ever love me?"

  * * *

  Oh, Lord.
He was unprepared for such a question, though he should have expected it. He had hoped to avoid any mention of love. Love! Why did women always need declarations of love! Fifteen years ago, he had been coerced by the beautiful Suzanne into such a declaration. But the truth was he had meant it—young, naive fool that he had been. He had loved her totally and he had believed her own words of love to him. He had discovered too late that she had only wanted his connections and money. It was believed that even the younger son of a marquess was sure to have a comfortable fortune. When a wealthy earl some twenty years her senior had made her an offer, she had jilted Jack without a thought. Two years later, bored and restless, she had offered herself to Jack. He had been disgusted and turned her down.

  Words of love, indeed. Women were incapable of such feelings.

  And so was he.

  But now Mary wanted a declaration of love, did she? Well, he was prepared to give her anything she wanted at the moment. He desperately needed her to accept his proposal. He had thought this would be so easy, that she would fall into his arms in gratitude. He had been totally unprepared for the torrent of emotions he had unleashed.

  Poor Mary. She was so thoroughly convinced she was unworthy. Mary, unworthy! She was probably the most worthy person he had ever known. It had torn at Jack's heart to listen to her admission of having been "ruined" so many years ago. Her apparent shame had touched him deeply and caused him to suddenly consider in a new light the inequities in the ways Society, himself included, had always treated women in this regard. How unjust that a sweet woman like Mary should be made to feel disgraced for all her life by a single moment of physical surrender, whereas a man such as himself could, and did, publicly flaunt dozens of indiscretions without the least fear of censure.

  Jack felt sure that he had successfully eliminated Mary's past as an obstacle to marriage. He could feel her capitulation when he kissed her. And yet there was apparently one more complication to face: a declaration of love. Should he give her what she wanted? Is that what was required? Could he carry his deceit that far?