Marianne’s hands reached for his shirt, pulling it free of the waistband of his evening trousers. Her hands slid beneath the fabric, warm and sure as they skimmed his torso and moved upwards over the flats of his nipples, his skin tingling with awareness at her touch, his nipples pricking to alertness. ‘Vennor, you’re hard everywhere.’ Her hips wiggled against another source of hardness lower down.
‘Did you think I wasn’t?’ He laughed in her ear, his body still outpacing his mind in terms of the wisdom of this course of action. His body found no reason to disguise the hardness that pressed against her thigh, unrepentant and obvious in its desire, although his mind was sprinting to catch up, to warn him that this must stop before Marianne in her recklessness, and he in his wanting, took things too far. ‘Did you think I was a prettily dressed, soft fop of a man like the other ballroom dandies who flock about you?’ Want made his voice harsh, harsh with restrained yearning for her, with a competitive male urge to stand out from her usual swains, to be seen as more than her friend.
She looked up at him with desire-drenched eyes. ‘No, I never thought that. Still, having proof is entirely different to just assuming it.’ Her hands worked the buttons of his shirt, apparently seeking eyewitness testimony. It was time to put a halt to this. The removal of clothing was a dangerous step closer to disaster and they were already in bed, already part of the way down that slippery slope, as it were. He’d never intended this room for pleasure.
Vennor stilled her hands. ‘No, things have gone far enough for one night.’ He rolled to his side and lifted himself up on one arm. ‘We have a lot to figure out, Marianne. Until we do, we need be careful not to burn the ships, eh?’ The metaphor sounded better than saying they needed to keep their options open, although the intention was the same.
He kissed her on the tip of her nose, not trusting himself to keep a kiss on her mouth chaste. He’d already stolen one dream from her tonight, although she’d recovered from it admirably. But he’d be damned if he’d steal another from which recovery would not be possible. No matter how his body burned with the temptation to take her, he knew that to do so would force them into the one thing neither of them felt ready for: marriage. After the passion there would be despising and all that might have had the potential for love would become hate.
‘I don’t want to go home.’ Marianne faced him, mirroring his posture, her length stretched out alongside his, her red curls falling over the prop of her hand. ‘Tell me about the Vigilante and not the things you’ve already told me. Tell me his stories, his adventures. Tell me what he does all night.’
He was reluctant. ‘I’m not a hero, Marianne,’ he warned. ‘I don’t save them all. Sometimes it doesn’t work out; sometimes I can’t get there in time.’
She nodded solemnly. ‘I know. No one expects you to.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’ If he did start, he wasn’t sure he would stop.
‘Start with this room. Is this why you haven’t reopened the warehouse? Because you needed a lair?’ He’d closed this warehouse two weeks after his father’s death.
‘I have a new warehouse on the India Docks. It’s bigger and better able to handle the larger cargoes as our shipping interests expand.’ All true. It was also not a constant reminder of the past the way this warehouse was. There was more to this place than just a reminder of time he’d spent here with his father. He couldn’t expect Marianne to understand that without also understanding other dynamics he was loath to discuss. It was questions like these that had caused him to choose self-imposed isolation early on. There were no simple answers. Every answer posed another question and demanded a deeper exploration of himself, a step further into the darkness.
‘Is that the only reason, Ven?’ Marianne’s soft voice probed. ‘It always just seemed so sudden to me, that is all, coming out of the blue after your father died.’
Vennor flopped on to his back, his arm outstretched, inviting her to join him. ‘I thought you wanted to hear stories of the Vigilante,’ he teased, settling her against him. His blood had cooled to a comfortable simmer, enough to enjoy the simple pleasure of holding her. ‘Let me tell you about the time I rescued a puppy from the Thames.’
Marianne laughed, ‘The Vigilante has quite the repertoire, not just damsels in distress.’ Her hand was light on his chest, resting, not playing, not seducing, just lying there with a comfortable ease. There’d always been that easiness between them. He was glad it was still there, that the night hadn’t destroyed it in favour of other things. It was hard to come by. He could not say that he’d found it with any of the women with whom he’d engaged in affairs. The comfort, sometimes, but not the ease. There was always a wariness, a holding back, that he had to be something for them, that they expected him to be the heir, to be the thing. He wasn’t allowed to be human. He knew instinctively that no matter what happened, no matter what paths they took after tonight, he would never duplicate what he had with her. Who else would want to hear about rescued puppies?
‘Our erstwhile dog, you see, had been chasing a cat, only the cat was much nimbler on the bridge. The puppy lost its footing and fell in.’ He tried to make light of the story. It had happened early in his career and it had been one of the more foolish things he’d done. He’d heard the puppy crying in the dark swirling waters as it struggled to paddle to shore, then begin to panic when it realised it wouldn’t beat the current. He’d jumped in, boots and all, for the dog, risking a ducal dynasty for the sake of an errant puppy. Honeycutt had been furious when he’d come home dripping, a muddy dog under his arm.
‘Where’s the puppy now?’ Marianne was curious.
‘He’s in the mews behind the town house. He took a shine to one of my grooms.’
‘We’ll have to visit the puppy.’ Marianne snuggled closer. ‘Who else? Tell me more.’
‘Children, women, boys, all sorts.’ Vennor sifted through the stories in his mind, looking for a suitable one. He would shield her from some of the bloodier tales. Now that the first story was out of the way, the dam on the reservoir was starting to crumble and it was becoming easier to talk about his escapades; the tales began to flow, one after another, as the night slid by. Marianne was a good listener, interspersing an exclamation or a curious question, encouraging him to elaborate, and with each telling he felt lighter, that the burdens he carried alone were eased. He’d not talked to someone like this, cathartically, and meaningfully, since his parents had died. There was so much more to say, so much he was not ready to talk about it yet, but this was a start.
* * *
The lantern had burned down, leaving them in complete darkness, and still they talked until dawn edged the night and Marianne grew uncharacteristically still beside him.
‘Marianne, are you awake?’ he murmured, smothering a yawn of his own when he got no response. He placed a soft kiss in the tangles of Marianne’s curls and whispered the simple words, ‘Thank you.’ What a gift she’d given him tonight. To share the Vigilante with her, to talk about how he’d been spending his life, was nothing short of an immense relief. Vennor shut his eyes, holding her close, the night catching up to him at last.
* * *
‘Catch.’ Hayes tossed a red wig to the whore and shut the door behind him, locking it. ‘I don’t want us to be disturbed. I have something particular planned for tonight, Elise.’
She caught the wig and disappeared behind the dressing screen. ‘Is there someone you’d like me to be, my lord?’
‘A fine lady who needs to be punished.’ Hayes sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots, beginning to undress. ‘Don’t bother with anything more than a dressing gown, Elise, and a little rice powder. I don’t want to look at the cut on your face. You know I don’t like blemishes,’ he scolded. For the price he paid her, one would think she could remember the little things that made him happy. Then again, she wasn’t a high-priced courtesan who had an education in nuance. But h
igh-priced courtesans weren’t generally in the market for the type of play he preferred. So he settled for Elise, a self-taught street whore. Her skills consisted primarily of lying on her back and making the appropriate noises.
Not with him, though. Hayes untied his cravat and laid it aside for later. A crop to the backside ensured rather more genuine sounds. He pulled out his shirttails and lay back on the pillows, his member rousing as he thought about what was to come. They would start with a confession, he would make her disrobe for him, stand before him naked, then he’d tie her to the bedpost and take a crop to her until she begged for repentance, and then, only when she was penitent and he was bursting with arousal, would he give her a penance. She would kneel before him and take him in her mouth. Elise was very good with her mouth and the whole time he could pretend it was Marianne Treleven who knelt before him in supplication, whose full, sensual mouth was on him, who begged him for mercy. Would she beg for Penlerick’s life if he asked it of her? What would she do to save her friend? Or perhaps he was something more than a friend? The events at the Mayfields’ had been telling in that regard, an affirmation that his instincts were right—recently, the potential for something more between Marianne and Penlerick had indeed blossomed.
Penlerick’s appearance at the Mayfields’ had made that abundantly clear. The man had been desperate to find her, desperate...beyond the concern of a friend. Hayes had rather enjoyed thwarting Penlerick’s efforts. He’d been absolutely no help at all. He wondered whether Penlerick had gone to her house and whether she’d actually been there. There was always the possibility Marianne had chosen to avoid the company of both men. It hardly mattered what the outcome was; it only mattered that Penlerick had been willing to chase after her. Hayes hadn’t been willing. In his book, a man never chased after a woman. It gave a woman too much power. The pursuit of courtship was as far as Hayes was willing to go to work himself into a woman’s good graces. Of course, the ends justified the means. There would be time enough after marriage to re-establish the appropriate hierarchy between husband and wife.
He calmed his rampant thoughts and shifted on the bed. There was no use in spending himself before the play could commence. Once they were married, Marianne would be his to use as he desired. He would demand abject obedience and humility from her. He would make her pay for shunning him as she had at the Mayfields’ ball, as she had for every supper dance that ought to have been his. She knew very well what his intentions were, she could not pretend innocence there, yet it was Newlyn she favoured, further proof that things could not be as platonic as was rumoured between them.
He could imagine throwing her across his knee and drawing up her skirts, taking his crop to her white buttocks so that she’d remember him every time she sat down. He squirmed, wishing Elise would hurry. By Jove, he’d never been this hard in his life. The only fly in the ointment was Newlyn himself. As long as Newlyn was around, there was a chance he would not make it to the altar with Marianne. The trick would be earning her consent to wed. If Newlyn were to declare himself, Hayes wasn’t sure of the outcome. The only guarantee his plans could proceed as originally intended would be to ensure Newlyn was dead.
He fingered his member idly, giving it a slow stroke up and down, revelling in the unyielding rigidity of himself. By the heavens, he was like Thor’s hammer.
He didn’t just want to take Marianne from Penlerick, he wanted to take the dukedom, everything the Penlericks had worked for, everything they’d stolen over the years from the Moores. With Penlerick out of the way, Marianne and Cornwall would be at his mercy and it would feel good to have revenge at last.
‘How do I look?’ Elise came out from behind the dressing screen, the red curls of the wig falling over the full swells of her breasts which were barely hidden behind the cheap, satiny fabric of her dressing gown.
A slow, cruel smile took his face. ‘Perfect.’
* * *
He would leave her a little extra, he thought as he finished dressing. The little room was darkening now as dusk fell. They’d played away the afternoon, but he had one last piece of business to discuss. ‘My dear, do you know any men who might be interested in some work?’
She moaned, not quite awake. He strode towards the bed and gave her a shove into alertness. ‘I’m not through with you yet. Answer my question.’ He brought the crop down on the mattress with a resounding whack. That got her attention. Elise scrambled up, red wig tangled and askew, curls rioting everywhere as she pulled the bedsheet up protectively. He’d used her hard this afternoon, he thought with satisfaction.
‘What kind of work, milord?’ she asked with a wary tone.
‘Work like last time, Elise. I’m happy to pay them handsomely—and you, too, for arranging it. Didn’t I leave a tidy sum when I left for the Continent?’ He paced the room, flicking at this frippery and that with his crop. ‘You’ve been able to afford little luxuries. Perhaps this time, there will be enough to get a cottage of your own some place where you can leave this life behind, if you so choose.’ He glanced back towards the bed. That got her attention. Freedom. It was what they all wanted, viscounts and whores alike. Freedom. The power to decide one’s own fate. Freedom took money. With enough of it, freedom could be bought. People weren’t so very different in the end. The only difference was in what they’d do to get it.
‘Yes, milord, I might know of some men.’
He made a show of setting down a small stack of pound notes on the dressing table. ‘Good, we can discuss it further when I come next time. Keep the wig, I’ll want you to wear it again.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Keep your hood up. I don’t want anyone to get a good look at your hair or your face if we can help it,’ Vennor cautioned for at least the tenth time since they’d set out from Mayfair, slinking out of the Tetlow ball shortly after eleven. ‘Both are far too memorable.’
Marianne tugged the hood of her cloak up a little higher, not for her sake, but for his. Vennor was nervous. She didn’t want him regretting having brought her. She understood the risks inherent in her presence. If someone connected her to the Vigilante, they might connect the Vigilante to Vennor. It was a minute chance. After all, no one in the slums knew her directly, but it was still a risk—word travelled fast in London.
She and Vennor had been careful in other ways, too, since that night in the East Docks, careful not to give away what had transpired between them in the warehouse apartment. Outwardly, nothing had changed. He still showed up late to balls, just in time to claim her for the supper waltz to Lord Hayes’s ever-growing chagrin. If anyone had changed in outward appearances, it was Hayes, who was becoming more possessive by the day and more alert to Vennor’s presence.
The coach jolted over the cobblestones, the ride becoming jarring as they neared the docks. Perhaps she only imagined Hayes’s growing obsession because she was more aware of Vennor’s presence than ever. Vennor’s hand felt different at her back as they danced, his gaze held secrets just for her and her body trembled with the knowledge of it, of what they could do to one another. Yet they had not discussed it. That night in his arms lay between them, but neither had addressed it. She had hoped he would bring it up, not because she was a coward but because she wasn’t sure how to begin.
She studied Vennor’s face in the dimness of the carriage. He had not yet put his mask on and his features were stark with alertness, his body tense in anticipation of what the evening held. Did one simply come out and say, I liked your kisses. I want you to kiss me again. And, oh, by the way, what does it mean, these kisses between us?
It had occurred to her that Vennor had said nothing about it because it hadn’t been life-changing for him and he saw no reason why the one interlude should alter anything between them. Why should he? They both knew he was in no hurry to marry and she’d been clear about her own hesitations in that regard. Maybe the question she ought to be asking herself was what did that night mean to her b
efore she concerned herself with what it meant to him?
Marianne played with the strings of her hood, twisting them into a single strand before letting them spin upwards and unravel. The night had been precious as much as it had been passionate. She’d revelled equally in the stories he’d told her as much as she had the kisses. For a few hours she’d had her friend back, the one who told her everything, the one who’d slipped away from her in the intervening years. She’d held him in all ways that night, but the morning had come and with the dawn she’d lost her grip.
Across from her, Vennor tied on his mask, the dark silk transforming him once more into the powerful, physical stranger who’d rescued her. Her skin began to tingle with vivid remembrances of the Vigilante’s hard, wicked kisses as the carriage came to a stop. ‘We’ll go on foot from here.’ Vennor’s tone was gruff as he surveyed her one last time for any obvious giveaways. He reached out and pushed a curl back into the depths of her hood, his touch gentle, at odds with his voice, as his fingers skimmed her cheek. ‘There, that should do.’
‘Who are we meeting tonight?’ Marianne gathered up a satchel which held her writing materials, excitement beginning to take hold. This would be her first interview. It was really happening; she was going to get her chance. She was determined it would go well.
‘You are meeting Mrs Broadham. She’s the proprietress of a boarding house. I will be out patrolling the streets. There are new Indiamen in port and the sailors will be on shore leave with money in their pockets and high spirits.’
‘She sounds respectable.’ Marianne’s high spirits deflated a bit. She’d been hoping for a prostitute or a runaway. She’d rather be out watching the Vigilante at work, making sure Vennor didn’t do anything rash, but she knew better than to push her luck. She’d come this far. For now, that would be enough.
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Page 9