“I want you,” he muttered against her mouth. “God help me, I want you.”
That voice. It was the cultured voice of a gentleman, the dark voice of a demon. His voice.
God help me … don’t fight …
She felt herself hurtling backward in time, into the spinning blackness of a nightmare.
… he pinned her to the ground . . his guttural breaths raked her face … bile seared her throat and gagged her screams … he pushed up her skirt … pain lanced into her like a sword thrust …
“No,” she cried. “No!”
Lucas froze. Her frantic voice penetrated the hot beating of his blood. Her hands shoved at him. He found himself holding a madwoman.
A moment ago, Emma had lain quietly beneath him. She had made no protest when he kissed her, had even enjoyed it. But now, she thrashed beneath him, wildly hitting him with her fists.
Her eyes were glassy, her face as pale as parchment. Wave upon wave of tremors shook her small frame. In India, he had seen fakirs in a trance who were not half so convincing.
Her frenzy astounded him, and he reacted without thinking. He caught her flailing arms and pinned them to the mattress. His thumbs moved assessingly over the rigid tendons of her wrists. “Shh. Lie still.”
“Get off me. Get off.”
At her keening note of hysteria, he released her. Emma curled herself into a ball, drawing her knees up to her chain. He wondered what the devil had come over her. She reminded him of a hedgehog protecting its vulnerable belly, displaying its sharp quills to the world.
Except Emma had no bristles. Not now. She looked petrified. Cringing, as if she expected him to abuse her.
Baffled and angry, Lucas frowned. It was the second time this evening she had fallen to pieces. Her fearful reaction made no sense.
Or perhaps it did. Perhaps this was her way of gulling him again. The thought enraged him.
Regarding her closely, he sat up on the bed. “My, you’d make an excellent actress. Have you ever considered auditioning for the stage?”
For a moment he thought she hadn’t heard. Then she shook her head, only a portion of her stricken profile visible to him. “I just don’t want you to hurt me.”
He took hold of her chin and made her look at him. “So help me God, don’t play me for a fool, Emma. This fear of yours—it’s all pretense. You’d do anything to escape our bargain.”
She jerked out of his grasp and scooted herself backward, sitting up against the headboard. Wisps of fair hair framed the haunted desperation on her face. “You don’t understand!”
“Yes I do. You think I’m a convenient dupe. Like all your other men.”
Emma shook her head, more violently this time. “It isn’t true. A man forced me to … he forced me … .” She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away.
Lucas felt as if someone had driven an iron fist into his stomach. Forced? Emma had been raped?
He remembered the way she froze whenever he touched her. The alarm in her eyes whenever he came near. Her violent reaction to his kiss.
No. This was another ploy for sympathy. Women like her had a thousand tricks to get what they wanted. She wanted him to let her alone, to leave their marriage unconsummated. To free her to go on her thieving, merry way.
“When?” he taunted. “When did this terrible attack happen?”
“Why should you care? You abandoned me.”
“Like hell. You drove me away with your deceit.”
Her distraught gaze lifted to his. “I know,” she said in a small voice. “And I’m sorry.”
He brought his fist down hard on the mattress. “To hell with sorry.” Seeing her flinch, he threw himself from the bed and began to pace, breathing deeply to dam a rush of rage. She was a flirt. A tease. A liar. He spun toward her. “You robbed me of a happy marriage. A family. The least you can do now is to be honest with me.”
“I am being honest,” she flared. “But go ahead. Believe what you will. I can’t force you to listen to me.”
“All right, then I’ll play along. A man used his superior strength on you. He compelled you to engage in sexual relations against your will.”
“Yes. That’s why I had to marry you.”
He froze. “You’re saying this scoundrel … fathered Jenny?”
Those impossibly blue eyes focused on him. “Yes.”
Resistance crowded his mind. This was all part of her game. It had to be. “How certain you sound,” he mocked. “You yourself said she could have been sired by any one of a dozen men.”
“I spoke in anger. To see if you would believe something so utterly ridiculous.” Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “And you did.”
She sat with her shoulders hunched and her knees pulled up beneath her pink gown. Surely no woman could fake that pale complexion. Or the melancholy that radiated from her in waves.
God. God! He couldn’t believe she’d been raped. It was impossible.
Lucas braced his hand on the bedpost. The beliefs that had hardened him for seven years threatened to shift, and with iron effort, he resisted the earthquake. He didn’t want to imagine Emma as a desperate girl, driven to marry lest her baby be born a bastard. He didn’t want to think of her raising a child alone, enduring the snubs of society. He didn’t want to feel this treacherous softening. Or the attendant guilt.
He searched for another way to prove her wrong. “Yet you’ve had other lovers.”
“There’s been no one.”
He gave a snort of disbelief. “Not even Woodrow Hickey?”
“No! I told you that already.”
“Then answer me this,” he ground out. “Who did this to you? Who forced you?”
She lowered her gaze. “His name isn’t important.”
“The hell it isn’t.” He strode forward, jerking her chin up. “Tell me his name so I can verify your story.”
“No.”
Her eyes were big with fright, yet she stared obstinately. Seething with fury at his inability to trust her, he began to pace again. “Then that settles it. You must be lying.”
She let out an exclamation of disgust. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the night was dark. You’d have to go to the window to check.”
“With you, yes.” He paused. “And if a man truly dishonored you, then you should want him to pay for his crime.”
“Stop badgering me.” Her fingers dug into the counterpane. “You wouldn’t find him, anyway. He’s left London forever.”
Why would she hide the identity of her attacker? Lucas stepped closer to the bed. “Then you should have no qualms about revealing his identity.”
Her gaze wavered, then clung to his. “I do, indeed. It’s over with and done. I won’t stir up the past and risk Jenny hearing hurtful gossip.”
Emma’s voice was sharp, indomitable. The protective mother tigress. By the stubborn set of her jaw, Lucas knew he would not wrest the name from her.
The thought infuriated him. Fool that he was, he found himself half believing her. And it was easier to vent his rage on her assailant than to face his own guilt for leaving her.
But he hadn’t abandoned her, not really. She had driven him away. And even if what she claimed were true, it didn’t change their present situation. Emma had tricked him in the worst possible way. And now she wanted to deprive him of an heir.
She sat hunched on the bed, her knees hugged to her chin. Tendrils of blond hair drifted around her shoulders. The violet-gray shadows beneath her eyes enhanced her fragile appearance. Against his will, he felt a damnable rush of desire, the undeniable ache to hold her in his arms and hear her whisper words of wanting. For him alone.
“You claim to detest a man’s touch,” he said coldly. “Yet you asked me for a divorce so you could marry Woodrow Hickey.”
“He promised … we would have a chaste marriage.”
Lucas loosed an incredulous laugh. “I wonder how long that promise would have lasted.”
“For as long as I wish
ed it! Woodrow is the perfect gentleman.” She looked Lucas up and down, and her lips compressed briefly as if she found him lacking. “He loves Jenny and me. We plan to be a family.”
A hot, visceral reaction struck Lucas’s gut. It was only natural to feel resentment, he told himself. Any man would want to kill the interloper who claimed the affections of his wife. “Hickey must be clay in your pretty hands. I’ve no doubt he would make the ideal husband for you.”
Her eyes widened to a deep, drowning blue. “You’ll let me go, then? You’ll grant me a divorce?”
The hope brightening her face galled Lucas. Why couldn’t she gaze at him with such yearning? He knew the answer. Emma looked deceptively dainty, but when she wanted her own way, she had a backbone of steel. He would do well to remember that.
He strolled to her side and slid his fingertips down the silk of her cheek. “In due time, dear wife,” he murmured. “For now, I’m afraid our bargain still holds.”
Chapter 9
“Ah, Regent Street at last,” Olivia said, peering out the window of the carriage. “I thought we would never arrive.”
“Now, Livvie,” Phoebe said with a nervous fluttering of her fan. “It’s only been fifteen minutes since we left Wortham House.”
“I suppose I’m anxious to reach our destination.” Lips pursed, Olivia stared across the dim interior at Emma. “To help our dear sister select the new wardrobe our dear brother has been generous enough to provide.”
“He wants only the best for you,” Phoebe told Emma. “Madame Lascaux is the premier dressmaker in London.” Eyes widening, she touched the fan to her plump cheek. “Forgive us. We don’t mean to criticize how you’re dressed now.”
“Of course not,” Olivia added politely. “You look quite fetching in gray.”
Smoothing the drab gown beneath her ancient pelisse, Emma forced an ironic smile. “Thank you. Though I fear you’re being too kind. As always.”
The carriage rolled to a stop, and a white-wigged footman swung open the door. As Olivia stepped out, Emma breathed a sigh of relief. Her sisters-in-law had been ill at ease during the short ride, and Emma was more than happy to let them think she might swoon at the least provocation. At least it kept them from going too far with their insults.
She’d been pleased when Phoebe had invited her to go on a shopping expedition, even though Olivia had said with a sniff that Emma must spare Lucas the embarrassment of an ill-clad wife. She’d been tempted to thumb her nose at the lot of them. But the prospect of new clothes proved the greater temptation.
Vanity. She’d thought she’d matured beyond that. Yet a part of her yearned to look pretty again, to sweep back into society and outshine the gossips who’d shunned her. Beauty could be a formidable weapon, and she’d be a fool not to use it.
There was another reason, too, she forced herself to admit. She wanted Lucas to admire her again, instead of viewing her as stained by the past. Sickness churned in her stomach. Why, oh why, had she blurted out the truth to him? He hadn’t believed her, anyway.
Accepting the footman’s gloved hand, Emma stepped down to the pavement and lifted her face to the afternoon sunshine. She craved its warmth as if the healing rays could burn away the darkness in her soul. For a moment she felt bright and clean again, worthy of a man’s love. Then she remembered.
Our bargain still holds.
She mustn’t think of that now. She mustn’t wonder if Lucas would come to her bed tonight. If he meant to force himself on her, surely he would have done so last night. Instead, he’d uttered his ominous statement, then had turned around and strode out of her bedroom.
As she trailed Olivia and Phoebe toward the dressmaker’s shop, Emma happened to glance down the street. A man was hopping down from a public cab. He flipped a coin to the driver and then peered directly at her.
She came to an abrupt halt. Even from a distance, she recognized his drooping eyelid and the sallow cast of his face beneath the battered top hat.
“Come along,” called Olivia from the doorway of the modiste’s shop. “We’ve no time for dawdling. I promised my children I would take tea with them.”
Emma longed to spend time with Jenny, too. Yet her blood ran cold with urgency. She had to get rid of Clive Youngblood. Before he said something damning in front of her sisters-in-law.
Her palms damp beneath her kid gloves, she lingered by the bowfront window. “You two go on. I—I need to stop at the stationer’s next door. I won’t be but a moment.”
Phoebe ambled inside. Frowning, Olivia primly folded her hands on the gentle mound of her belly. Did she think Emma so brazen as to steal away on a secret liaison? Drat her for being right.
At last, Olivia nodded and disappeared into the shop.
Moistening her dry lips, Emma strolled to the adjacent building and pretended an interest in the stationery supplies displayed in the front window. During the spring Season, throngs of pedestrians crowded Regent Street, carriages were parked two deep along the curbstone, and footmen loitered outside the fashionable shops awaiting their master or mistress. On this late September day, though, few people browsed the elegant storefronts.
Gossip would spread like wildfire if the notorious Lady Wortham were spied conversing with a man of low character. She had to take the risk, but at least she could do so in an inconspicuous place. Casting a quick glance around, Emma slipped down the side alley and girded herself for the inevitable confrontation.
“Ah, m‘Lady Wortham. Out spendin’ yer ’usband’s blunt, I see.”
The Bow Street Runner strutted toward her. His chest was puffed out beneath his shabby brown suit as if he fancied himself a gentleman on a stroll.
“Mr. Youngblood,” she said with a chilly nod. “Have you lost your way? I’m sure one of the shopkeepers can direct you to your part of town.”
He clicked his tongue. “H‘ain’t you ashamed, insultin’ an emissary of the law? You bein’ a lady and all.”
“State your business and be gone.”
“Be pleased to oblige.” Regarding her slyly, he rocked on his heels. “Rumor ‘as it, the Bond Street Burglar struck Wortham ’Ouse night before last. Tried to steal a fancy tiger mask, ’e did. But the robber got caught by yer long-lost ’usband.”
Emma fixed Clive Youngblood with a frigid stare. “And—?”
“And alas, even though ‘e was trussed up like a Christmas goose, our Burglar got clean away. Now ’ow do you s‘pose ’e made ’is escape?”
“It is your job to find out, Mr. Youngblood.”
He hung his head in phony abashment. “Beg pardon. I was only bein’—what do you top-drawers say?—rhetorical.”
“Then kindly voice your rambling speculations to someone else.”
She started past him, but he stepped out to block her path. The stink of rubbish in the alley was a fitting perfume for him. “I h‘ain’t done yet,” he chided. “Your ’usband gave me only a vague description of the man. I wonder why.”
“I suggest you take that up with him.”
“Another peculiarity’s got me stumped. The robbery ’appened only a day after yer grandsire lost a monkey at that gaming hell in the Strand. Five ‘undred pounds, you toffs say. A chap like me could live fer years on such riches.” Youngblood snapped his fingers. “And ’twas gone in one night on a roll of the dice.”
“If you are quite done—”
“Ah, but I h’ain’t come to me point yet. I ‘ear tell Lord Briggs don’t ’ave the blunt to pay back the gennleman.”
This was her chance to find out. “And just who might he be?”
The Runner preened with self-importance. “’E might be Lord Gerald Mannering.”
In the sunless alley, the air took on an arctic chill. Lord Gerald Mannering, Emma thought with a mixture of hot anger and cold elation. So he was the young buck who had cleaned out Grandpapa.
She forced herself to gaze straight into the Runner’s heavy-lidded eyes. “Step aside, sir. Else you shall answer to the Marquess o
f Wortham.”
Grinning, Youngblood held his ground. “Speakin’ of such, will Wortham pay off yer grandpa’s bad debt, eh? Wouldn’t fancy seein’ the old bloke climbin’ over rooftops again. Or you, m’fine lady.” He doffed his dented top hat, then sauntered away, whistling.
Emma stood in the alley and rubbed her shoulder, where the old wound ached. Dear God. At least Clive Youngblood wasn’t certain which of them was the Burglar. Yet she couldn’t have him harassing her grandfather.
She shook off a sense of impending doom. She had the upper hand now. Because now she knew the name of the rogue who held Grandpapa’s markers.
For the second time in as many days, Lucas walked into the library and surprised an intruder.
He almost didn’t notice her at first. With her back turned to the door, she stood on a crate and poked her small hand inside the opened safe. In her plain brown dress, she blended with the rows of leather-bound books. The afternoon sunlight glistened on the reddish strands in her chestnut braids.
For a moment, Lucas was caught in a maelstrom of fury and denial. To his chagrin, he felt the craven urge to tiptoe from the room before she spied him. Devil take his hesitance. The pint-sized trespasser was rifling through his treasures with the blithe disregard of a six-year-old.
He stepped briskly forward. “Lady Jenny.”
She spun around and gasped, her blue-green eyes as round as saucers. Her rosebud mouth formed an O of guilt. Clasping a jade artifact to her flat chest, she hopped off the crate and bobbed a curtsy.
“Well,” he said, gesturing at the opened safe. “What is the meaning of this?”
Jenny’s gaze shifted downward as if she could find the answer written upon his waistcoat. Very carefully, she placed the statue on the desk. “I’m sorry for touching your things, m’lord. Please don’t tell Mama.”
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