by Anne Stuart
“I spend the night here on occasion,” he explained, and Gillian blushed more deeply, then stared up at him defiantly.
“A gentleman would not have mentioned such a thing,” she said repressively.
“But I am no gentleman, Gillian. I am a hardened rake, or had you forgotten? And why shouldn’t I mention it, when you are so obviously fascinated by its presence? If I hadn’t been directly behind you, I don’t doubt you would have fled the room the moment you saw it. And then what would my curious guests have said? I shudder to think on it.” He took a chair not too distant from her sofa, and stretched his long, elegant legs out in front of him. “In point of fact I stay here all night long on a great many occasions, and it is far too tedious to have to struggle across town to Blakely House when I am in need of a few hours’ rest. The bed is there for that purpose, and not to seduce nervous little virgins.”
The word shocked her even more than the bed had, but the shock had a salubrious effect that Marlowe had no doubt anticipated. She sat bolt upright, her eyes shining, shoulders back, tremulous mouth set in a brave smile. “I should think not,” she agreed. “You could certainly do a great deal better than me if you set your mind to it.”
“Now you are fishing for compliments, Gillian,” he reproved gently. “And I make it a habit never to compliment a lady who stands so little in need of it. What do you fancy for supper? My chef has an especially delightful way with lobster that is much admired. Or if you prefer sweets, I brought my pastry chef from Vienna when I was called home to my coronet and duty.”
“I . . . I’m not really hungry.”
“With the amount of champagne you have already drunk it would behoove you to try to sop it up with a bit of food,” he observed. “I have no desire to have you pass out on me in the midst of a hand of piquet.” He rose with his lazy grace and pulled the bell cord. “I am persuaded once a meal is set before you you’ll discover an appetite. Young Talmadge is doubtless deep in play by now, and he is unlikely to remember your existence for hours. We might as well beguile the time as best we can on your birthday. Which reminds me, I believe I said I had something for you.” He rose and moved to the far end of the room, leaving Gillian to sit there, doubts creeping back, wondering whether she dared try to find Bertie amongst those so-curious guests of Marlowe’s, or whether she should simply try to discover for herself a back stairway. A carriage shouldn’t be too difficult to find, she imagined. In any case, Berkeley Square was not too terribly distant. She had walked farther many times in the country. Although there might be a slight difference between strolling accompanied in broad daylight through rolling green fields and sneaking along the deserted London streets at an hour much advanced. She was still pondering her best course when Marlowe turned back, and his tall, saturnine figure effectively banished all such thoughts. As long as she was in his presence and still lamentably in alt, she would go nowhere.
He placed a small velvet box in her hand, then took the seat opposite her, still declining the capacious sofa. “Go ahead, Gillian. I have held it for weeks, waiting for the proper moment to present it to you. I would think your thirtieth birthday would be eminently suitable.”
With fumbling fingers she opened the box. The diamond earbobs she had so admired lay nestled on a bed of green velvet. Gillian closed the box and her eyes in dismay. “I cannot accept these,” she murmured helplessly.
“My dear Gilly,” Marlowe said in that caressing voice as he took the box out of her nerveless fingers, “you have no choice in the matter. Haven’t you discovered by now that I do not take no for an answer?” When she opened her eyes she found he was deftly removing the earbobs from the box. Before she could guess his intent, he had caught her chin in one strong hand and was proceeding to put the earrings on for her. “Don’t jerk about,” he ordered briskly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt your ear. But I will have my way.”
There was nothing Gillian could do but sit there and allow him to place the earrings in her ears. The intimacy of the gesture had her beyond blushing, and only the knowledge that a great deal of experience with other women’s bodies enabled him to carry out the mission with such deft dispatch kept her from refining too much upon it.
“I suppose I have no choice but to thank you, sir,” she said in a muffled tone as he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“No choice at all,” he agreed, smiling down at her with that reckless, endearing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and forced an answering smile from her wary mouth.
“And now, before supper arrives, we must toast your birthday,” he continued, handing her another glass of the seemingly endless supply of champagne that had flowed that night. “It is not every day that a young lady attains her majority. I am certain the diamond earbobs are paltry compared to your other gifts, but I find them particularly suited to you.”
She took another sip from her champagne, another step down the road to perdition. “Hardly paltry, sir. Not only are they the only unsuitable gift I have ever accepted from a gentleman not a member of my own family, they are, in truth, the only gift I have received at all today.”
A quick frown knit his brow. “Do you mean to tell me that no one remembered your birthday?”
“I can scarcely blame them,” she replied with a rueful smile. “After all, I have had so very many.”
“Gilly . . .” he began suddenly, when a loud knocking interrupted them. “Go away,” he ordered crossly, but the heavy door opened anyway, filling Gillian with a relief that it hadn’t been locked. A relief that quickly vanished as she recognized Bertie’s panicked face.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled, embarrassment and terror overwhelming him. “But Uncle Derwent’s here! Felicity must have let something slip. He demands to know where you are. I’ve denied everything, but he intends to make a thorough search!”
“Not of my house, he doesn’t,” Marlowe stated in a cold, implacable voice.
“Don’t be absurd,” Gillian said, rising slowly, her heart pounding in a fear she told herself was absurd and unnatural. “Tell Derwent to wait for me below. I will join him in a moment.”
“Good gracious, Gilly, you don’t mean to admit that you’re here!” Bertie gasped.
“I can’t see what else I can do. Any number of people saw me come in here tonight and will doubtless be happy to tell him so. I don’t wish to have Derwent make a cake of himself more than he already has, and I certainly don’t wish him to insult Lord Marlowe further.”
“But he’ll be furious, Gilly.”
Gillian took a deep breath. “Derwent is only human, Bertie. You have to know how to manage him. Go and tell him I’ll be along immediately.”
Bertie withdrew, shaking his head ominously. Putting her empty glass down on the table, she smiled very prettily up at Marlowe, hoping the trepidation wouldn’t show in her fine blue eyes. It was a vain hope.
“Should I go with you?” he questioned abruptly. “Or would I only make things worse?”
“Definitely the latter. As soon as I get him home I’ll be able to explain, but I dislike above all things the thought of a public brangle. Derwent is odiously difficult on occasion.”
“Stiff-rumped I believe was the term,” Marlowe said nonchalantly, reaching out a strong hand and placing it on her arm. “This is hardly a proper way to celebrate your majority. We shall have to plan it better next time.”
“Next time?”
“You promised to have dinner and cards with me.” His hand tightened slowly on her arm.
“Well, perhaps . . .”
“Unless you are frightened of your brother’s disapproval?” he taunted.
“Don’t be absurd. Derwent doesn’t run my life.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Besides not accepting unsuitable gifts from gentlemen who are not members of your family, what else have you failed to do in your thirty long
years?” he inquired. “Have you ever been kissed? That is, by a gentleman who is not a member of your family?”
“I’ll have you know I once fancied myself very much in love. Back when I was a green girl. And he loved me!” she said defiantly.
A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “But did he ever kiss you?”
She looked up, startled to find herself suddenly so close to him. “Of course not! He had too much respect for me.”
“What a slow-top. It is fortunate I am so lacking in respect,” he said, drawing her unresisting body into his arms, “because it is clearly past time.” His mouth descended on hers with a thoroughness that left in no doubt that he considered she had indeed reached her majority. She could hear his heart beating through the clothing that separated them, feel his arms about her in a way that was positively possessive, as his hot mouth came down on hers. It seemed to brand and search her, and she knew she should fight, scream, or faint, that some resistance was definitely called for. She decided she could always blame the champagne, and entwined her arms about his neck, answering his mouth to the best of her limited experience.
That devastating kiss seemed to go on forever, and yet was far too short. He pulled back, looking down at her with a tender, mocking smile. “Not bad for a first attempt,” he said huskily, and bent his head again.
Finally sense took hold of Gillian’s addled brain. Wrenching herself from the warm comfort of his arms, she ran from the room as if the very devil were after her. Marlowe watched her graceful figure vanish with a troubled expression in his dark green eyes. Leaning down, he picked up her discarded champagne glass, held it aloft in a silent toast, and drained it.
Chapter Nine
IT WAS SCARCELY the most pleasant ride home that evening. Not a word issued forth from Derwent Redfern’s glowering face, though the heavy jowls were set in deep disapproval, the flinty eyes promising a ghastly retribution once they had attained the fastness of Redfern House. Bertie trailed along, head down, suitably abashed. Gillian had little doubt he had already sustained a severe tongue lashing, and she wondered how long Derwent could restrain himself. As they jolted along the rutted London streets in the darkness, Gillian allowed herself a small smile. Her lips were still burning from Marlowe’s kiss, and she decided quite frankly that the embrace had been an even more delightful present than the earbobs swinging from her delicate ears. So that was what real kissing was like. How deliciously wonderful! Never again, of course, but at least now she understood what all the fuss was about, why girls longed to get married. Yet somehow she couldn’t imagine any man but Marlowe could kiss with such devastating effect.
She stared across the darkened interior of the carriage at her brother’s set face, and wondered idly why she wasn’t in more of a panic. It usually required only a mild frown from Derwent’s heavy face to set her in a taking. But not tonight. She had reached her majority, been kissed by one of the most attractive men she had ever met, and she wasn’t about to let her overbearing brother’s megrims spoil it for her. And she would tell him so, once he broached the subject. As a matter of fact, she was, for the first time in her life, quite looking forward to a good dust-up. Stripping off the thin kid gloves, she surreptitiously brushed her fingers along her tremulous lips. Lips that Marlowe had found worthy of kissing, she reminded herself, and her eyes were shining.
She realized with a start of surprise that the carriage had come to a halt outside Redfern House. “You will have no trouble seeing yourself off to bed, Bertram,” Derwent was saying in his lugubrious voice. “My sister and I wish to be private.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Bertie said cravenly as he jumped down from the carriage. Derwent made no move to follow him. “Aren’t you coming in?” he stammered nervously.
“In my own good time,” his uncle replied. “What I have to say to your aunt doesn’t want overhearing by a bunch of servants with nothing more constructive to fill their time than listening to their betters.”
Always agile, Gillian scrambled from the carriage just ahead of Derwent’s admonishing grip. “Well, I don’t care to be cloistered in a carriage with you, Derwent,” she said boldly, and Derwent’s heavy eyebrows went up. “It’s cold and I’m tired. If you have anything to say to me you may come into the drawing room and do so. Otherwise you may sit in this carriage till judgment day. Bertie, your arm.” She swept up the front steps, her hand firmly on Bertie’s weak and trembling arm.
“Gilly, how could you dare?” he breathed, tripping over the top step. “Uncle Derwent was already in a rare taking. He’ll be livid after this.”
“I doubt he could be any angrier,” she replied as she stepped into the warm front hall and handed her pelisse to the impassive butler. “Derwent always was a bully, even as a child. It amazes me that I had forgotten,” she mused. “He’s bound to give me a dressing down and sulk for a few days. Or even threaten to pack me off to your parents or Pamela. But in the end Letty’s comfort will come first, and you know she cannot manage her children without me around.”
Bertie looked astounded at his aunt’s plain speaking. “I never knew you to be so cynical, Gilly.”
“I’m not cynical. Merely realistic. At the advanced age of thirty I am surely past romantic idealism.”
“I don’t know that Lord Marlowe would agree with that,” Bertie offered, and then clammed up as Derwent stomped into the hallway, his face thunderous.
“Go to bed, Bertram,” he snapped. “Unless you prefer to return to your parents tomorrow morning.”
Bertie, bless his heart, looked torn, Gillian observed with amusement—torn between abject terror of her bullying brother and a desire to defend his hapless aunt. Terror won, and with mumbled apologies he disappeared up the stairs, leaving her to face the bearlike presence in front of her.
“Would you deign to attend me in my study?” he inquired with awful sarcasm, “or would that be too much to request?”
A shiver of nervousness washed over her, and she set her mind firmly on a certain rakish gentleman, squaring her shoulders and meeting her brother’s glare with an amiable smile. “Certainly, brother,” she replied calmly. “Though I don’t see why you can’t say what you want to me now and have done with it. The servants are just as likely to overhear us there as right here in the hallway.”
Derwent hesitated, frustration turning his heavy features a mottled red. But still Gillian made no move toward the study, and drawing a deep, disapproving breath, he plunged into his diatribe. “Gillian, I am most disturbed! How could you have gone to such a place, with that young idiot as your only attendant? Don’t you realize what sort of reputation Lord Marlowe enjoys? And how very singular you must appear to have gone to his gaming hell? I don’t know what Sir Eustace Pogrebin will have to say to all this when he hears of it.”
“What has Sir Eustace Pogrebin to say to anything?” Gillian demanded, mystified.
“He has admitted a certain interest in your direction,” Derwent announced heavily. “I had not given up hope of having you turned off creditably, even at this late date, but after tonight’s outrageous behavior I have grave doubts.”
“Turning me off creditably?” Gillian echoed in a shriek. “Sir Eustace Pogrebin is a fat, pale slug who smells of wet dog and has damp, encroaching hands and the most pushing manner! Besides, he is ancient, and I am not having any part of him.”
“Sir Eustace Pogrebin is the same age as Ronan Marlowe, and a great deal more eligible,” Derwent said sharply.
“Not as far as I’m concerned.”
“Do you mean to tell me you cherish hopes of Marlowe? Let me tell you, my girl, that you wouldn’t be the first one to have her hopes dashed by such an unconscionable rake. He’s been holding out lures to susceptible young ladies ever since he reached the age of eighteen, and I would hope he hasn’t added you to his lists of conquests.”
There was stil
l a trace of champagne in Gillian’s blood. “How do you know I haven’t added him to my list of conquests?”
Derwent’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Do you mean to suggest he has had the temerity to make you an offer? I find that extremely difficult to believe.”
“I am not considered an antidote quite yet, Derwent!”
“No, of course not,” he agreed in a surprisingly soothing tone. “But you aren’t in Marlowe’s line at all. However, if he has made you an offer, it behooves me to meet with him and—”
“You know perfectly well he has not,” she said abruptly, disliking the smug gleam in his small dark eyes.
“And I know perfectly well that you have too good an idea of what is due your name and your family even to countenance such impertinence,” he said. “And I trust you won’t forget again.”
“Hmmph,” replied Gillian in an unencouraging manner.
“My dear.” He tried a more placating tone in the face of her response. “What in the world made you do anything so foolish? When you know how much we would dislike the connection?”
“I do not dislike the connection,” she said flatly. “And I was celebrating my thirtieth birthday, something my family quite forgot to do.”
Derwent had the grace to look abashed. “You should have told me,” he accused.
“I did. Several times. But believe me, brother dear, I enjoyed myself far more this evening than I would have closeted with you and Letty!” With that bit of pleasurable impertinence she turned her back on him and sailed up the stairs.
“Did he ring a rare peal over you?” Felicity was awaiting her in the small, comfortable bedroom that had been allotted the maiden aunt, an anxious expression on her pretty face as she sat cross-legged on Gilly’s bed, a shawl around her thin night rail.