by Liz Carlyle
From the shadows, the girl gasped. Valigny made a strange, choking sound in the back of his throat. His lucky card—the Queen of Spades—stared up at them, her black eyes glowering with disapproval. Beside her lay the Ace of Hearts, impassive, but glorious.
“Gentlemen,” said Rothewell quietly. “I think that’s vingt-et-un.”
Chapter Three
In which a Profitable Proposal is made
Enders began cursing as soon as the cards fell. Valigny stared at the black queen for a long moment, then burst into peals of laughter. The comte’s daughter closed her eyes, and set her empty glass down with an awkward chink as it struck the silver gallery tray. Her slender shoulders went limp, and her head fell forward as if in prayer.
She was relieved, Rothewell thought. She was relieved. At least he had accomplished something.
Or had he? The girl recovered herself quickly enough. When the comte finally stopped laughing, he rubbed his hands briskly. “Well done, my Lord Rothewell!” He turned to his daughter. “Félicitations, mon chou. May I be the first to wish you happy. Now take his lordship to your sitting room. A newly betrothed couple needs a moment alone, n’est-ce pas?”
She did not look at Rothewell but instead swept from the room as if she were the black queen come to life. His emotions still ragged, Rothewell followed her past the stairs and down a long passageway. What in God’s name had he just done?
Nothing, that was what. He owed Valigny twenty-five thousand pounds. He needed to keep that thought straight in his head.
Mademoiselle Marchand turned left. Her steps were certain and quick, as if she knew what lay ahead and meant to soldier through it. With her shoulders set stiffly back, she pushed through the sitting-room door with a quick, capable swish of her hips, turned up the lamp, and motioned Lord Rothewell toward a chair, all without pause.
He ignored the chair, since she did not deign to sit. Inside the small chamber, a low fire glowed in the hearth, and a second lamp burned by the worn but elegant chair which sat adjacent. Rothewell let his gaze sweep over the room, as if by taking it in, he might divine something of the woman’s character.
Unlike the gilt and gaudy splendor of Valigny’s parlor, this tidy sitting room was appointed with French furniture which looked tasteful but far from new. Leather-bound books lined the whole of one wall, and the air smelled vaguely of lilies instead of smoke, soured wine, and too much male perspiration. Clearly, this was not Valigny’s territory, but his daughter’s—and unless Rothewell missed his guess, the twain rarely met.
He turned to face her. “Have you a name, mademoiselle?” he enquired with a stiff bow. “I gather mon chou is not your preferred form of address?”
Her smile was bitter. “What’s in a name?” she quoted pithily. “You may call me Mademoiselle Marchand.”
“Your Christian name,” he pressed. “Under the circumstances, mademoiselle, I think it necessary.”
There was another flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Camille,” she finally answered in her low, simmering voice.
“And I am Kieran,” he said quietly.
His name seemed of no consequence to the woman. She paced to the window and stared out into the gaslit street beyond. He felt oddly wounded. A carriage went spinning past in the gloom, the driver’s shadowy form barely visible upon the box. Unasked, Rothewell started across the room to join her, but she cut an immediate and forbidding glance over her shoulder.
He hesitated. Why press forward with this travesty? Indeed, what had possessed him to pursue it at all? Pity? Lust? One last effort to redeem his hopelessly blackened soul? Or was it simply a gnawing hunger for something which he had not already tasted to wretched excess?
And what had brought such a beautiful creature to such a desperate point—and she must indeed be desperate though she hid it like a master.
Rothewell dropped his gaze. A glass of what looked like strong claret sat on a dainty piecrust table by her chair, and a book lay open beside it. He glanced at the spine. It was not a novel, as one might expect, but An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations by the Scot, Adam Smith.
Good God, was the woman a bluestocking? Rothewell glanced again at her face, now in profile as she stared into the night.
No. With lips as lush as those, it simply was not possible. Moreover, she was too cool. Too Continental and sophisticated.
“Mademoiselle Marchand,” he said quietly, “why are you cooperating with your father in this unholy scheme?”
At last she turned from the window, her hands held serenely at her waist, one laid neatly over the other. “I do it, monsieur, for the same reason as you,” she replied, her French accent less pronounced now. “Because there is something in it for me.”
“What, a title?” Rothewell sneered. “I assure you, my dear, mine is scarcely known. It will do you little good.”
“I don’t give a damn for your title, sir,” she calmly returned, her chin up. “I need an English husband—one who can do his duty.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A husband who can get me with child—and quickly.” She let her gaze run down him as if he were now the horseflesh on the block. “Surely you can accomplish that much, monsieur, despite your haggard appearance?”
Strangely, it was not the insult but her apathy which stirred his ire. “What the devil are you talking about?” he said darkly. “If you wish for a child, mademoiselle, there are many eligible bachelors in London who would doubtless oblige you.”
“Alas, I am told they have all gone to the country for shooting season.” She laughed with mocking lightness. “Oh, come, monsieur! With Valigny’s reputation? And my mother’s? I am thought scandalous, my lord. But you—ah, you do not look as if scandal much disturbs you.”
“You have a tart tongue, madam,” he returned. “Perhaps that is your problem?”
“Oui, but you’ll not be long burdened with it,” she answered evenly. “Just wed me, Rothewell, and do your duty. It will prove a lucrative wager indeed—less Valigny’s cut of the settlement, naturellement. I will pay you a generous sum of money as soon as my child is born healthy. Then you may go on your merry, dissolute way.”
“Good God,” he said, his temper ratcheting up. “Just what is a man’s seed selling for nowadays, Miss Marchand? Can you tell me? Have you put a price on it?”
She faltered but a moment. “It is worth a good deal to me,” she returned. “A hundred thousand pounds, monsieur. How does that sound?”
“Good God,” he said again. “I begin to believe you as coldhearted as Valigny.”
A bitter smile curved her full, sensuous lips. “And I begin to believe it is your precious title which concerns you after all,” she answered. “English arrogance is—”
“Titles and arrogance be damned!” he snapped, stalking toward her. “In any case, there will be no child. My God, there isn’t even going to be a marriage. And what is this nonsense about a hundred thousand pounds? Valigny spoke only of a marriage portion.”
“Vraiment?” Her brown eyes widened disingenuously. “A pity I did not have my ear to the door, my lord. Valigny has told you but half the tale—the half he knows.”
He moved closer—so close he could see the fringe of thick black lashes which rimmed her chocolate-colored eyes—and set one heavy hand on her shoulder. “Then suppose, Mademoiselle Marchand, that you tell me the other half?—and pray do so now.”
Her chocolate eyes seemed suddenly to shoot sparks. “Oh, you are just another spoilt, drunken rakehell, Rothewell, like all Valigny’s friends.” Her seductive voice was low and tremulous. “What would a fifty-thousand-pound marriage portion do for me? Why would I marry you? Out of the goodness of my heart? There is none! If ever there was, Valigny has trampled it out of me.”
Rothewell was struck suddenly by three things. Her English was a good deal better than she’d been letting on. His cock was on the verge of stiffening, a strange circumstance indeed. And she was bloody well right about
the money. Why would she marry him? What had she to gain? Her father would take half the marriage portion, and he, himself, would ostensibly take the other half.
“I’ll have the truth out of you, madam,” he gritted. “All of it. Now.”
Something like hatred glinted in her eyes. “And so I shall tell you,” she said. “Three months past, Valigny found out that I was left a marriage portion in the will of my grandfather, and it is eating him alive. Oui, he is addicted, monsieur. Addicted to the game, and always desperate. For the money to play his game, he will do anything.”
Rothewell glowered down at her, strangely aware of her sharp, spicy scent, and of the tiny pulse point just below her ear. “Aye, go on.”
For an instant, her dainty pink tongue toyed with one corner of her mouth, but Rothewell was almost too enraged to appreciate it. Almost. “There is more.” She dropped her voice, her words swift and quiet. “Things Valigny does not know. But I wonder…I wonder if you can be trusted.”
“No,” he said flatly.
She let that thought sink in for a moment. “Zut!” she said beneath her breath. “You have me at sword point, monsieur. May I not rely on your honor as a gentleman?”
“That’s a slender reed to grasp, my dear,” he said. “But you may cling to it if you wish.”
Her eyes shot daggers at him then. “Mon Dieu, you are a devil!” she said. “A devil with the eyes of a wolf. But perhaps I must risk it.”
“Why not?” he answered. “Could I possibly be more of a devil than your father?”
“Oui, that is most true.” But her temper, he could see, was still hot and she was still hesitant. “There is more than a marriage portion for me,” she finally said. “The solicitor of my grandfather advises me that his English—what do you say? His propriété?”
“His country estate, you mean?”
She nodded. “Yes, the land, the house, the title—all these have gone to a cousin. But all else—much else—is to be mine. There is money, oui, but also mills and mines for coal. Things which I do not understand—not yet. But it is worth many, many thousands of pounds.”
Rothewell felt his eyes widen. It was true, then, what Valigny had said. But the man apparently did not comprehend the magnitude of what he’d just gambled away. “And Valigny knows nothing of this?”
“Non.” She lifted one elegant shoulder beneath the silk of her gown. “I was not fool enough to tell him everything.”
Rothewell felt his suspicion growing. “If you are so wealthy,” he said, “what need have you to marry at all?”
Here, Mademoiselle Marchand’s lips thinned. “Alas, there is the—the what do you call it?—the fly in the honey?” she answered. “My grandfather was a vengeful man. I inherit nothing until I come here—to England—and marry a suitable man. A man of the English aristocracy.”
“Ah, yes! There’s that English gentleman again,” said Rothewell.
She flashed a bitter smile, but to his frustration, it did nothing to lessen her allure. “Mais oui,” she agreed. “Then, however, to receive anything beyond my marriage portion, I must produce a child. My grandfather wished to ensure that the dreaded scourge—that frightful French blood of my father—was soon diluted out of existence in his descendants.”
Rothewell took a step back. “I’m afraid you have netted the wrong sort of fish, my dear,” he returned. “I have no interest in this misbegotten scheme.”
She tossed him another disparaging glance, then edged away. “Of course you do,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “You are a hardened gamester, are you not? Take a risk! You have a fifty-fifty chance the child will be female, and your precious title will be unsullied.”
“Oh?” he growled. “Assuming I give a damn for my title, what then?”
She gave a Gallic shrug. “Then, monsieur, you can divorce me,” she replied. “I gladly will give you cause, if need be. I have had no offers of marriage, c’est vrai, but many offers of another kind. Offers made only with the eyes—so far. But it will be no problem for me simply to accept one.”
Like the lash of a whip, his hand seized her arm, turning her to face him. “You would not dare, mademoiselle,” he gritted. “For if you tried that trick with me, it wouldn’t be a divorce you’d get.”
The woman had the audacity to laugh in his face. “Ah, suddenly principled, are you?”
He released her arm, but she did not back away. The hot, spicy scent of her filled his nostrils now. “I may not give a damn for my title, Mademoiselle Marchand,” he snapped. “But I care a great deal about being made a cuckold.”
“Oh, everyone has a price, Rothewell.” Was there an unexpected note of melancholy in her voice? “You. Lord Enders. Valigny. Oui, monsieur, even I. Have I not just proven it?”
“A price?” he returned. “There may be little about me that is honorable, mademoiselle, but I have no need to marry a woman for her money. Indeed, I have no need—or desire—to marry at all.”
“What nonsense!” She cut another of her cool glances at him. “That is precisely why you remained at the card table, n’est-ce pas?”
“No, damn you, it is not,” he snarled.
Mademoiselle Marchand blinked her eyes, as if attempting to clear her vision. “Non?” she murmured, drifting back to the window. “Then why did you play Valigny’s little game, Rothewell? What other reason could you possibly have?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her it was because he could not bear the thought of Lord Enders’s heaving himself atop so lovely and so innocent a young woman—but no. That would not do. It probably wasn’t even true. Why should he give a damn what happened to Valigny’s insolent by-blow? Oh, she was beautiful, yes. And infinitely beddable. But she had a tongue like a serpent, and eyes which seemed determined to pierce his darkest recesses.
How the devil had he got himself into this mess? There was nothing of the gentleman in him, and there never had been. He was no better than that scoundrel Valigny, or the sick, twisted Lord Enders.
Her piercing eyes were on him now, watchful. Insistent. “Why, Rothewell?” she said. “Now it is my turn to demand the truth.”
“The truth!” he said bitterly. “Would either of us recognize it, I wonder?”
She stepped toward him, her eyes glinting. “Why did you gamble with Valigny?” she demanded. “Tell me. If not the money, why?”
His frustration finally exploded. He caught her by the elbow, and dragged her against him. “Because I want you, damn it,” he snarled down at her. “Why else? I’m no better than Enders. I think I should like you under my thumb, mademoiselle. In my bed. Beneath me. I should dearly love to make you eat a few of your prideful words, and do my every bidding. Perhaps that is why.”
Satisfaction glinted in her eyes. “Très bien,” she murmured, stepping back as he released her. “At least I know what I am dealing with.”
Rothewell forced down his anger. He was a liar—and he felt suddenly weary and ashamed. “Oh, you have no idea, Mademoiselle Marchand,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “For all your avant-garde upbringing, you cannot possibly know what you are dealing with. You have no business with a man like me. I release you, my dear, from this foolish, Faustian bargain of your father’s. You are not his to barter—no matter what he might imagine when he is in his cups and desperate.”
Mademoiselle Marchand had resumed her solitary vigil by the window and no longer faced him. Her delicate, thin shoulders had rolled inward with fatigue now, and much of the hauteur had left her frame. He had never seen another human being look so desperately alone.
Slowly, she turned and let her gaze take him in again, but this time it was his face which she studied. “No,” she said quietly. “No, Lord Rothewell, I think shall stand by my father’s bargain.”
Rothewell gave a sharp laugh. “I don’t think you understand, mademoiselle,” he answered. “I have no need of a wife.”
For a long, expectant moment, she hesitated, her mind toying with the knife
’s edge of something he could not fathom. She was weighing him. Judging him again with her all-seeing eyes. And it made him acutely uncomfortable.
She crossed the room to face him again and dropped her voice to a throaty whisper. “If you want me, Lord Rothewell,” she said, “then have me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mademoiselle Marchand leaned into him, set her hands on his lapels, and dropped her sweeping black lashes. “Have me.” He watched her lush lips form each word, mesmerized. “Give me your oath—your pledge as a gentleman that we shall marry and share equally in my inheritance—then have me. Tonight. Now.”
“You must be mad,” he managed. But he was drawing in the scent of her—that warm, spicy mélange that smelled of orchids and seductive feminine heat—and his traitorous body was eager.
Her breasts were pressed against him now. Her mouth—and that dark-as-midnight voice—were hot against his ear. “Beneath you,” she whispered. “Under your thumb. Doing your every bidding. That is your fantasy, n’est-ce pas?”
Rothewell dredged up what little restraint he possessed and set his hand to the back of her head. “Were I to have you, mademoiselle,” he whispered against her ear, “and act out even the most fainthearted of my fantasies, everyone from here to High Holborn Street would have to listen to the racket, because I’d have my hand laid to your bare backside.”
She drew back, her eyes wide.
“No,” he said, sneering. “I did not think that was what you had in mind. But if you insist on acting like a foolish child, then that is how I’ll treat you, Mademoiselle Marchand. Do not toy with me. You will rue the day.”
She dropped her gaze, and to his undying agony, backed away. “Très bien, my lord,” she murmured, her voice amazingly cool. “You make your point. Is Lord Enders still in my father’s parlor?”
Rothewell shrugged. “I daresay. What of it?”
She set off briskly toward the door. “Then I shall marry him after all,” she replied over her shoulder. “It will be worth a vast deal of money to him—and to my father.”
Rothewell beat her to the door, slamming his open palm against it. “Good God, woman, don’t be a damned fool!” His voice was a low growl. “Enders is a lecher—and that term is a generous one.”