The Dangerous Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  The man didn’t miss a single opportunity to disturb her equilibrium. Thankfully, she had good reason to rebuff him this evening if he should try, for surely he would not wish to bed her during this time of the month.

  Besides, tonight he didn’t look like a man bent on seduction. He had a newspaper tucked under one arm, and although she was scantily clad, his eyes flicked only briefly over her attire. “I missed you at dinner. Your maid informed me you were unwell.”

  She blushed. “Yes.” She said nothing else. He might be her husband, but discussing her monthly courses with him seemed too intimate.

  “I brought you the latest edition of The Evening Gazette. I thought it might cheer you.” His expression was unreadable. “I see Lord X announced our marriage.”

  “It would’ve seemed odd if Lord X had ignored such a topic.” She swallowed. Had he read the entire article? And what did he think? Two days ago, she’d thought that a little prodding in her usual manner might have some impact on him. Now she wasn’t at all sure that had been wise. “You don’t mind, do you?” she ventured.

  “That everyone knows I married you? Why should I?” He ambled toward her. “But as you know, that wasn’t all you discussed.” He lifted the newspaper and read:

  Some may question how a marriage between Lord St. Clair and any respectable woman can succeed when the man’s past is so mysterious, but despite what your faithful correspondent has previously written concerning the viscount, I wager that the man’s honor will compel him to be forthcoming with his wife, if not with anyone else.

  “Yes,” she responded nervously, “I inserted my usual commentary.”

  “You mean, your usual reprimand.” He folded the paper with a smile. “Tell me, querida, do you intend to lecture me in every edition of your column?”

  Drat it, he wasn’t even angry. “It’s a thought,” she said peevishly. “It got your attention in the past, didn’t it?”

  With a roguish smile, he dropped the newspaper in her lap. “Yes, but if you mention our marriage in every column, even the most dim-witted reader will eventually guess your identity.”

  His continued good humor made her feel defeated. She returned to writing. “Rest assured, I’ve no intention of doing such a ninny thing.” Especially when her one mention had nettled him so little.

  “That’s a relief.” Leaning over her, he snatched up the article she was working on. Quickly he scanned the lines, and his smile abruptly vanished. “How very interesting, my dear. Apparently you don’t need to mention our marriage to make your point. You simply choose those pieces of gossip that are material to our situation.”

  His amused tone had hardened to sarcasm. “Merrington’s mysterious quarrel with his uncle? Pelham’s latest mistress and his pathetic wife’s ignorance of his unsavory character? How clever of you to lecture me in a manner no one would understand but you and me.” He tossed the foolscap on her writing table with a look of disgust.

  She’d certainly gotten a reaction now, only this wasn’t one she’d sought. “I didn’t lecture you in this column. I simply wrote gossip as I always do. You’re reading more into it than I wrote.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s mere coincidence that you mention Merrington and his uncle.”

  “That tale has been all the talk of London, and you know it!’

  A wealth of contempt laced his tone. “And what about Pelham? You can’t tell me that the ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his silly wife by taking mistresses before her very eyes’ isn’t meant to be me. I know you too well.”

  The unfair accusation stung. She would never liken Ian to Pelham, of all people! “Apparently not as well as you think. It isn’t about you, Ian.”

  “But you do enjoy taunting me in your column. And an ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his wife’—”

  “Everything is not always about you.” She rose from the chair, emotions roiling as she crossed the room to put herself as far away from his nasty temper as possible. “How clearly must I say it? I didn’t even consider our situation when I wrote it!”

  Bracing his hip on the writing table, he glared at her. “You forget that I’m an expert on your column. You never poke fun at the helpless or the weak as you do here with Pelham’s pathetic wife.”

  “Perhaps that’s because she isn’t pathetic, nor do I refer to her as such.”

  He ignored the remark. “Besides, there’s too much passion in your words for them not to have some personal meaning. ‘Unfeeling brute’? ‘Mocking his wife’? As a spy, I excelled at interpreting coded messages. But then you know that, don’t you? That’s why you write such things—so that I’ll understand your meaning even when no one else will.”

  “Sometimes you can be such an arrogant ass!” The foolish man refused to listen to her, and she was in no mood for this. Resolutely, she headed for the door. “Think whatever you like. Clearly I’m not the only person in this marriage who jumps to conclusions.”

  In a few strides, he was beside her, catching her arm to halt her. “You can’t mean you pilloried Pelham and his wife for their own sakes? He’s a vain idiot, to be sure, and has an eye for young women, but…” His words trailed off, and she felt his hard stare on her. “Wait a minute. Your father designed one of Pelham’s houses, didn’t he? I heard the duke mention it once.”

  Old memories rose to choke her, and she nodded, unable to speak.

  Ian’s fingers tightened on her arm. “At Lady Brumley’s ball, Pelham made remarks about your person that I shrugged off because he speaks of all young women that way, but—” He turned her to face him, his expression stark in its remorse. “My God, he did something to you, didn’t he? That’s why you wrote about him! He hurt you!”

  “It was nothing…a silly nothing.”

  She bent her head to hide her tears, but he wouldn’t let her, tipping up her chin so he could look at her. When he saw the tears in her eyes, he swore under his breath. “Obviously not a silly nothing.”

  That was all it took for the tears to escape and flow freely down her cheeks.

  Looking stricken, he gathered her up in his arms and moved to sit on the bed where he could cradle her on his lap. “There, there, querida.” He stroked her back, her hair, her arms. “You mustn’t cry. He can’t hurt you again.”

  “I know.” She rubbed away the tears and cursed the melancholy that made her so weepy at this time of the month. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  Ian pressed soft, penitent kisses into her hair. “What did he do? And where was your father? Why wasn’t he protecting you?”

  “You mustn’t think it was Papa’s fault. He was always so engrossed in his work that he never noticed the men’s advances.”

  Ian stared at her, a mixture of horror and disbelief on his face. “Men’s? Pelham wasn’t the only one? What did they do? How did it happen—”

  “Truly, it’s not as bad as it sounds.” She lifted her face to his. “Papa took me along when he visited his employers, and occasionally…one of them or their sons were a bit forward, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” His jaw tautened and his eyes sparked fire. “Tell me who hurt you, and I swear I’ll—”

  “No one did anything more than steal a kiss or two,” she lied, alarmed by his sudden fury. “You know yourself I was a virgin when we made love.”

  “Yes, but there are more ways to hurt a woman than to take her virginity. Pelham must have been cruel indeed if you feel compelled to write like this about him. You don’t show your claws heedlessly.”

  She shrugged and bent her head, but he grasped her by the shoulders. “Tell me, Felicity. What did Pelham do to you?”

  She’d wanted for so long to tell someone everything, and Ian had caught her in a weak moment. The words poured out of her. “He cornered me in the library at his estate. Papa didn’t need me at the moment, so I’d gone there to read.”

  The image shot instantly into her mind…Pelham entering the room, the nasty smile that had spread over his face, the way he’d trapped
her in the armchair with his thick body. She went on, almost in a trance, “His kiss so took me by surprise that I didn’t at first react, but when he…he put his hands inside my bodice, I slapped him.” Which had done nothing, of course, except make him laugh and squeeze her breasts cruelly. But she couldn’t tell Ian that. “That was the end of it.”

  “Put his hands—Damn him, I’ll put my hands inside his breeches and tear off his balls! Better yet, I’ll put my hands around his throat!”

  “No! It was long ago, Ian. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Clearly, it does.” He gazed into her face. “And I know Pelham. A slap wouldn’t deter him.”

  She glanced away, unable to lie again.

  “Tell me the rest, querida,” he coaxed.

  “There’s not much else to tell. He grabbed my hand and forced it against his breeches. So I…I squeezed him as hard as I could and he yelped. Thankfully, that brought his wife. She burst in just as he drew back his hand to hit me.”

  “My God,” he said hoarsely. “You made a narrow escape.”

  She hadn’t thought of that before, but it was true. Everything could have been worse. Pelham hadn’t taken her virtue; he hadn’t even gotten the chance to really hurt her. Yet she’d nursed her grievance against him and his wife for years, letting it—and other incidents—color her perception to the point that she’d regarded every man of rank with suspicion. How foolish.

  “I wish I’d been there to see his wife reprimand him,” Ian added.

  “The only person she reprimanded was me.” Strangely enough, however, she spoke the words with no rancor. It was as if telling Ian about it vanquished its power to hurt her. “Lady Pelham marched me right off to Papa, announcing that I was a wanton and a flirt and that he ought to cane me soundly.”

  “That bitch!”

  She laughed. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

  “I don’t have to.” He clutched her to him. “I don’t write for the public. If I’d written your column, I’d have been far more ungenerous to the woman than you were.”

  Her column. She’d forgotten all about it. “I shouldn’t have put that in tonight, not when I’m feeling…unwell. You’re right about its being personal. I’m usually less overtly antagonistic, even when I write about Papa’s old patrons, but tonight I was testy.”

  “And I’m sure I didn’t help by being an ‘arrogant ass.’”

  She groaned. “I shouldn’t have called you that.”

  “It was true. I’ve been as bad as Pelham.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. I kissed you against your will, and I attacked you at the Worthings—”

  “You did not attack me!” She gazed into his remorseful eyes. “It was entirely different with you. I liked what you did. Pelham made me feel dirty and cheap. You made me feel desirable. And when you withdrew, as an honorable man should, you convinced me that not all men of rank are like Pelham.”

  His eyes glittered. “But I seduced you a week later. I—”

  She placed her finger against his lips to silence him. “I won’t let you speak of yourself in the same breath with him. You’re nothing like Pelham—nothing, I tell you! You never forced me to give my body to you. I chose that myself. And I don’t regret it.”

  Her fervent tone must have convinced him. But it did something more, something she hadn’t counted on. She felt the change in him even before he lowered his head.

  And to her shame, she welcomed his kiss, welcomed his easy intimacy. He was her husband. She was his wife. There was nothing wrong in it. His kiss was full of delights, tender and thorough at the same time. It blotted out everything but thoughts of their last joining.

  He shoved her wrapper off her shoulders, and she shifted to twine her arms about his neck. She was heedless of how that crushed one of her breasts against him until he slipped his hand inside her chemise to cup the soft weight.

  “My sweet querida,” he muttered against her lips, teasing her nipple into a hard button with little tweaks of his thumb and forefinger that made her blood race hot and silky through her veins.

  My love, she thought in answer. My sweet love.

  Dragging her chemise down to bare one breast, he covered it with his mouth and drew hard, the rasps of his tongue sending exotic pleasures shooting through her. She clutched his head to her and rained tender kisses in his hair, which seemed to make him only more ravenous.

  Then everything moved too quickly. He was laying her back on the bed, half-covering her body, his hands stroking up her inner thighs beneath her chemise. A sudden panic hit her. She was on her courses…he could not…he mustn’t…

  She caught his wrist frantically. “No, Ian, you mustn’t…”

  “Don’t do this to me again, querida,” he growled as he lifted his head to stare at her with bleak, haunted eyes. “You can’t mean to stop me this time!”

  “I don’t want to, truly I don’t! Not anymore. But…” Here a violent blush stained her cheeks. “But I…my…oh, dear heavens, this is so embarrassing.” She swallowed. “My courses came today. That’s why I didn’t feel well enough to come down for dinner.”

  Ian hovered over her, looking blank. Then as what she’d said sank in, he groaned and dropped his head onto her shoulder. “Damn it, was ever a man so cursed?”

  She lay still beneath him, stricken by remorse. “I-I’m sorry. I should have said something sooner…I truly did want to…you know…”

  “There will be other nights.” He pressed a perfunctory kiss to her cheek as if anything more might test his endurance. Then he drew back and raised an eyebrow. “There will be other nights, won’t there?”

  She knew what he was asking, and now she knew her answer. It was time to make their marriage what it should be. Her attempts to force his hand weren’t working, because deep down he distrusted her motives. She’d realized that when he’d grown so angry over her column.

  So she must show him that her motives were pure, that she loved him so much it didn’t matter what he told her. That was the way to make their marriage a true one.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “And my courses are generally of short duration. In a few days we can—”

  “Enough, querida.” He smiled wryly. “Unless you want to torment me further, do not tell me what we can do in a few days, I beg you. A few days seems like an eternity.”

  “For me, too,” she said shyly.

  He sighed and sank back on the bed beside her, staring up at the canopy. He was quiet a long time, so long she wondered what else she could say to reassure him. Then he spoke in clipped tones. “I suppose this means you aren’t with child.”

  “No. For that, too, I’m sorry.”

  Rolling to his side, he propped his head up on his elbow. “It’s nothing to be sorry about. That’s one of those matters only nature can control. But we have plenty of time.”

  So why did he look so disappointed? Why did he seem compelled to sire an heir with all due haste?

  He shoved himself up to sit beside her on the bed. “I’d best leave you now. You need your rest.”

  Not ready to lose his company yet, she sat up and took his hand. “You could sleep here tonight.” She traced the long lean fingers, the broad palm with the tiny scars probably gained when he was a soldier.

  “Sleep and not touch you?” he said softly. “Impossible. Forgive me, querida, but the last time we shared a bed without making love, I got drunk to endure it. And I fear I’d have to do the same tonight. So I’d best return to my room.”

  He rose to leave, and she said, “Ian?”

  “Yes?”

  “I meant what I told you. I’m done fighting you. I’m your wife, and I mean to be your wife in every way from now on.”

  He cupped her cheek. “Sleep well.” He paused, then added, “If you feel up to it in the morning, we’ll visit my tenants so I can introduce you to them.”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “It’s all I can think of to take our minds off other t
hings,” he admitted ruefully.

  Then he was gone. Feeling bereft, she rose and went to the desk. Her article still lay where Ian had tossed it. She sat down at the desk and read it over again. The lines now seemed silly, like a child sticking its tongue out at her tormentors.

  For the first time in years, Felicity’s bitterness toward Pelham was gone. In its place was the most profound pity. For Pelham, because he could never have a woman care for him without browbeating her into it. And for his wife, because she must live with the wretch. Nothing Lord X could say would alter that situation one whit.

  She deliberated a moment longer. Then she took up her pen and crossed through the lines about Pelham and his wife.

  Chapter 22

  When words will not suffice, deeds alone will.

  LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,

  DECEMBER 30, 1820

  As Ian left Felicity’s bedchamber, her parting words echoed sweetly in his mind. I’m done fighting you…I mean to be your wife in every way from now on. At last he’d won her, and without relinquishing his secrets.

  But later, as he lay in his cold bed alone, he examined her words more closely, and they struck him with foreboding. She hadn’t said, I’m done fighting you because I want you, though he knew she desired him. She hadn’t spoken of wanting to be his wife in every way. She’d spoken of her will—I mean to be…As if acknowledging her duty. Or her weariness of fighting him.

  That wasn’t what he wanted—a wife by default. He wanted her to care for him freely, to be his wife because she desired it, not because she felt trapped into it. He’d gained her acquiescence at a great price to his own conscience.

  The following morning, he sent a servant with his excuses for canceling their visit with his tenants. He could no longer bear to face her. She’d said too much last night, revealed just enough of her past to make him see his behavior in a new light.