The Spinster and the Rake

by Anne Stuart

  With something between a groan and a laugh he put his forehead against hers, and then he kissed her, so sweetly that she wanted to cry. “Then hold on to me,” he said, and began to move.

  At first she told herself she could survive this, easily, and she tried to will herself to relax. The discomfort began to recede and she felt her body begin to move, instinctively, to arch up against his, and when she did the pleasure began again, those powerful, frightening sensations that had overwhelmed her earlier. What had seemed impossible before was becoming glorious, filling her, taking her, claiming her, and when he reached down and pulled her legs up around his lean hips a sizzle of heat shot through her, and she cried out.

  He somehow knew he no longer hurt her. He kissed her as he thrust inside her, his face almost brutal in the firelight, and she put her arms around his neck, holding him against her, the crisp hair on his chest rubbing against her breasts, the feel of him so powerful she wanted to cry out in pleasure. She could hear the slap of their sweat-damp bodies coming together, could feel the slide of his skin against hers. He was moving faster now, hammering into her, and she took him greedily, wanting more, the word coming from her mouth. “More,” she whispered brokenly, and he gave it to her, and she knew she was going to do that mysterious thing again, that she was going to come, and this time she wasn’t sure she would survive.

  He reared up and slid his hands between their bodies, to the place where they were joined, and he touched her, hard, and this time there was no muffling her cry. She felt him pull free from her, and she reached out with desperate hands to pull him back, but he collapsed on top of her as warm, wet liquid jetted across her stomach. A moment later he pulled his heavy weight off her, collapsing beside her, and he lay on his back, his breath fast, one arm over his eyes.

  Gillian’s own response had slowed, and she watched him in the darkness as he struggled to regain control. She felt strangely mournful, bereft, and she didn’t know why. Perhaps she was supposed to get up now, go home, but she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her quite yet. Her mother said the holding was the best part, which she took leave to doubt, but that was between husband and wife, not between illicit lovers, which is what they were. Or perhaps they weren’t, if this was the only time they’d be together, if he’d taken what he wanted and had lost interest in her. She could hardly compete with the experienced women he usually bedded, and her mother had assured her that men were only interested in conquest, and perhaps she should . . .

  “Come here, widgeon.” His soft voice came out of the darkness, and he hauled her up against his slick body, wrapping her in his arms. She felt all her dark thoughts leave her as she sighed and curled up against him, oddly, mournfully happy.

  “You think too much,” he said in her ear, pushing back her tousled hair.

  “I know,” she confessed meekly.

  “Was that better than a broken leg?”

  Her own laugh sounded rusty to her ears. “Much, much better.” He was stroking her, calming her, and she wanted to arch like a cat beneath his hard, caressing hands.

  “Was your mother right?” he asked her sleepily.

  “Well, it was messy,” she said. “And undignified.”

  “And wet,” he prompted.

  She could feel the wetness between her legs, on her stomach, the sweat, the tears. “Very wet,” she agreed. “I like wet.” And then she asked the question that had been plaguing her. “But why did you pull away from me, at the end?”

  She could feel a momentary tension in his body. “To keep you from getting pregnant.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure what she thought about that. She hadn’t even considered what could come from this night, and suddenly she wanted his baby inside her, something she could claim forever when he dismissed her, which might be in a few hours.

  She burrowed her face against his chest. She wouldn’t think about that. She would be happy for now, at least. She would face the eventual desolation when it came. She wanted to stay awake while he slept, to lie in his arms and drink in the sensations, hold them to her, but she was drained, limp, exhausted.

  “So are we going to do this again?” His voice was so soft she almost didn’t hear it. “Or was tonight enough for you?”

  A warm joy blossomed in her heart. “One night isn’t nearly enough,” she whispered, pushing herself up to place a soft kiss on his mouth. A lifetime wasn’t nearly enough, but she’d take what she could get.

  “Then go to sleep, Gilly-flower,” he said, brushing her hair away from her face and tucking her against him. “We’ll deal with things in the morning.”

  What things? she thought sleepily. What was there to deal with? But she wasn’t going to worry about that now, with his heat all around her. For now she was just going to let go and love him.

  GILLIAN DREAMED as she slept in his arms. She dreamed of a happy life in the country, of chasing around her own children and not someone else’s, children who looked like Marlowe. She dreamed of lying in bed with him, night after night, of exploring all the astonishing things they could do with their bodies. She dreamed they had spaniels running at their heels as they walked on the grounds. She dreamed the door opened, and someone was coming toward them in the dark. Someone was looming over them, and Marlowe’s body stiffened, instantly awake, and she knew it wasn’t a dream, it was disaster.

  “Well, well, how extremely edifying.” A voice broke in, and Gilly jerked up, the covers pulled up high to cover her breasts, only to face Vivian Peacock. He was standing beside the bed, a key in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Marlowe demanded furiously, moving to shield her from Vivian’s gaze, but it was already too late.

  “Why, you know perfectly well what I’m doing here, old man,” Vivian said in a voice that was silken with menace despite the drunken slur, his pale little eyes bright with malice. “My spies tell me that you’ve finally managed to compromise Miss Redfern. I felt it behooved me to check on the proof. I don’t want to lose a thousand pounds without being absolutely certain.”

  “A thousand pounds?” Gilly echoed, suddenly very cold despite the blankets she’d pulled around her.

  Vivian granted her a swift leer as he swaggered around the bed toward her, the scrap of paper outstretched. “You might be interested to know, Miss Redfern, that all this comes out of a wager between Ronan and me. I bet him he couldn’t compromise you before the end of the season. Bet him a thousand pounds, too. I never thought Derwent Redfern’s sister would sink so low. But he was right, damn him. Always are, aren’t you, Ronan, old boy? You could seduce a nun without even trying. Perhaps that should be our next wager.”

  Gillian ignored the paper, turning her pleading eyes to the silent Marlowe. “He’s lying, isn’t he?” she begged. “You wouldn’t have done anything so cruel?”

  “Yes, Ronan. Tell her I’m lying,” Vivian said affably, a vicious smile wreathing his cherub’s face. “If you can make her believe that you can make her believe anything. But I wouldn’t count on getting too much from her. I have another little present for you, due to arrive tonight.”

  “You really do hate me, don’t you, Viv?” Marlowe observed with an air of wonder, beginning to climb out of the bed.

  “I always have,” he spat out the words. “Whenever you were around no one would look twice at me. Even when they sent you away they said at least you had some spirit. Not like poor, foolish Vivian. You’ve even thrown a rub in my attempts to wring a little bit of money from the green young gentlemen who frequent this place, a place I designed, a place that should in all rights be mine! But I think I can feel suitably revenged for all those years of living in your shadow. The young lady is waiting for your answer.”

  Marlowe turned to Gillian’s accusing gaze, his face impassive. “It’s true,” he said briefly.

  Gilly
stared at him for one long, heartbroken moment. The first time she’d seen him fully nude, and a numb part of her still responded to his fallen angel beauty. She turned away, scrambling out of bed, dragging the blanket with her. Her shift was in ruins, her clothes were on the floor beneath Marlowe’s, but she had no choice. She came around the bed, pushing past Vivian, and caught hold of her dress and discarded slippers, determined not to look up at Marlowe standing just above her.

  In one direction lay the gaming rooms, and she could hear the noise and chatter. She had to move past him to leave the way she’d come. She could dress in the hallway, escape down the stairs, and flag a hackney. Or she could walk, and inebriated gentlemen would think she was a street whore. They wouldn’t be far from wrong.

  “That explains a great deal,” she said in a deceptively even voice. “I’ll leave you then, Lord Marlowe. I believe we’ve concluded our business.”

  She started for the door, and he put out a hand to stop her, but she jerked away. “Don’t,” she said in a very dangerous voice.

  In the next moment she was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “EXCUSE ME, MY dear. I wonder if you could help me?” A heavily accented voice, accompanied by a strong waft of perfume, made itself known at her elbow, and she whirled around in surprise.

  She had been surveying the dark, early-morning streets of London outside the back of Marlowe’s gaming salon, desperate to find a hired carriage to take her back to Berkeley Square. Her emotions were held in check, on a very tight rein, but more than anything she wanted to be alone in her room where she could scream and weep and throw things and curse herself for a perfect fool.

  In the lamplight the lady next to her at first appeared to be strikingly beautiful. Her large brown eyes dominated a heart-shaped face, her midnight hair was an artful crown of ringlets, and the full-blown figure would have appealed to more than one man’s appetite. The clothes were elegant, if a bit overly so, red satin being a bit bright for formal wear. As Gillian peered closer she noticed the tiny lines radiating from those pretty eyes, and the neck added another decade to her years. A mature beauty, not even in her second youth. She put her mittened hand beseechingly on Gillian’s arm, and yet Gilly felt that this was a woman who seldom failed to get precisely what she wanted. She wanted to yank her arm away, just as she had with Marlowe, but she was a lady, or had been until tonight, and she knew how to hide her strong emotions with a proper exterior.

  “How may I help you, madame?” she inquired politely, pushing her misery back farther.

  “I was wondering if this truly is the residence of Lord Marlowe?” she inquired prettily. “My coachman insists that it is, but I can scarcely credit it. I would have thought Ronan would be living in the highest kick of elegance.”

  Gillian stared at her, wanting to throw up. Finally she answered. “This is his gaming salon, madame. His residence is on Bruton Street.”

  “And where is his lordship right now, eh?” she inquired. “I can tell by the miserable expression on your face that Ronan has been up to his old tricks. Has he broken your heart?”

  “Not likely,” Gillian replied stiffly. “And yes, his lordship is upstairs. I am sure anyone can direct you to him.”

  “I wonder . . . could you be so kind as to escort me?” The lady begged prettily. “I do hate wandering around unfamiliar places. And after you do, my coachman will be pleased to drive you wherever you wish. Which I hope, for such a pretty young lady, is to your home.”

  Gillian shook her head. “I’m afraid I cannot. You are extremely kind, madame . . .”

  “Actually, I am Lady Marlowe,” the foreign beauty said with a small preen. “But you must call me Helene.”

  The numbness was spreading, chilling Gillian’s heart and reaching over her entire body. “You are Lord Marlowe’s wife?”

  “Indeed, yes. I haven’t seen my dear Ronan in almost three years, so I was delighted when Vivian’s letter reached me. Not that I have any intention of dancing to his tune,” she confided. “Please, my dear.”

  Gillian was too numb to stop her as the woman pulled her through the front doors of the gaming palace. She wanted to pull away, to run, but Ronan’s wife had a grip on her arm that was almost unbreakable, and the last thing she wanted to do was make a scene.

  “I had reasons of my own for seeing my husband again, reasons I have no doubt he’ll be glad to hear,” Lady Marlowe said confidingly. “Especially now that I’ve met you, Miss . . .”

  “Redfern,” Gilly supplied in a fog. “I am Gillian Redfern.”

  “And Ronan no doubt calls you Gilly,” she said shrewdly. “You aren’t at all in his usual style, chérie. He tends to confine his attentions to the older, more experienced sort.”

  She was turning to a block of ice. “I believe I was more in the nature of a wager,” she replied, as Marlowe’s wife pulled her through the crowded salon. More than a few pairs of eyes watched their passing, and the level of conversation sank to a furtive whisper.

  Without bothering to knock, Gilly reached out and opened the door to Marlowe’s private rooms, gesturing her ladyship to enter. Helene did so in a manner that suited a duchess better than a countess, and Gillian knew she should leave, but a cold rage had settled over her, and she followed Marlowe’s wife, closing the door behind them all and turning to survey the scene.

  It was a surprising tableau. Vivian was lying on the floor, his nose bleeding furiously and one eye closed. From the moans and groans it was apparent that he was still conscious, but preferred his position of comparative safety on Marlowe’s Aubusson carpet.

  Marlowe himself was staring at Helene with mingled disbelief and exasperation. His knuckles were grazed, no doubt from contact with Vivian’s unyielding nose, and the lines around his mouth were grim.

  “Chéri!” Helene cried, holding out her scented arms to him. He eyed her coolly, ignoring Gillian’s waiting figure.

  “What are you doing here, Helene?” he said in a cool voice.

  “Your charming friend Gillian brought me up here. Aren’t you happy to see me, mon amour?” Her full red lips curved into a pout that was meant to entice.

  Marlowe remained stonily unmoved, his green eyes hard as emeralds as they flitted briefly over Gillian’s still figure before they returned to his wife’s opulent form. “Not particularly,” he said. “And I meant what brought you to England?”

  “Actually, it was your friend Vivian. Or may I assume that the two of you are no longer friends? Very wise, I must say. He is far from trustworthy.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Helene,” he said ironically.

  “I have some more advice, chéri. I can tell that you have treated Miss Redfern very badly. You didn’t used to be maladroit with the opposite sex. You must apologize to her for ill using her so, and—”

  “Will you mind your own damned business!” Marlowe exploded.

  Vivian chose that moment to try to sit up, apparently secure in the knowledge that Marlowe wouldn’t harm him further with two witnesses. “Helene?” he murmured piteously, peering up toward her out of one rapidly closing eye.

  “Yes, my dear, it is me,” she replied briskly, moving toward him and helping him to rise to unsteady feet. “All your plans have gone awry, have they not? Poor little cabbage. I could have told you that you shouldn’t cross swords with my dear husband. Come along with me, and I’ll clean you up a bit. You do have other rooms, do you not?” she inquired of Marlowe, who gestured roughly to the left. It wasn’t until the two unlikely companions were out of the room that he allowed his brooding gaze to fall on Gillian.

  She came to with a start. “Good evening, Lord Marlowe,” she said hastily, starting for the door. He was there before her, reaching behind her head to hold it shut.

  “Will you give me a chance to explain?” he questioned in a low, bleak voice.
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  “What is there to explain?” she shot, determined not to react to his nearness, shocked that she still did. “You admitted to the wager. Are you going to deny it now?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want?” she cried. “Haven’t you enjoyed yourself enough at my expense? Surely you don’t need to torment me further.”

  His mouth moved a fraction of an inch closer, and she could feel the heat from his body as it held her prisoner, a few inches away from her, the door hard at her back.

  “Gillian,” he said softly, urgently. “I never meant this to happen. I merely thought I’d give you a taste for some of the things you’ve been missing, cooped up as a slave to your relatives, never having a life of your own. I thought I would show you what life is like, and then you could find someone suitable and marry him. I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly, just to . . . to bruise you a bit.”

  “How devastatingly kind of you,” she said with heavy sweetness. “So all this was done purely out of noble motives? I should have known. Haven’t I always insisted you were much maligned? And even I hadn’t guessed the depths of your philanthropy. Such an effort you’ve been making, and so selfless of you! Of course, there was the thousand pounds besides, but I’m certain that was of little moment to you. Did you ever think of joining the church, my lord? With your selfless nature I have little doubt you’d make sainthood in a matter of months.”

  “Gilly, don’t!”

  “What is needed now, my lord, is an apology,” she continued, her cornflower-blue eyes bright with rage and unshed tears. “Just to clear your conscience, of course, and to make me feel truly wretched. Come now, it’s very simple. Just say, “My dear Miss Redfern, I am sorry for any inconvenience I have cost you, and deeply regret leading you on like this.” And then I will say very prettily, ‘Oh, no, your lordship, it is perfectly all right,’ and we may part civilly.”