The Marquess Who Loved Me (6 page)

“What do you think I owe you? If you want an apology, I’ll give it,” she said.

Her voice was soft but resolute. Ellie would apologize, just as she had apologized the first time she’d broken their engagement. But when he had found out who she would marry and came back to dissuade her — she hadn’t apologized then.

Even if she did now, even if he could believe an apology from her, it wouldn’t be enough.

Only revenge would be enough.

“You owe me more than an apology. You can pay me on your back, or on your knees — but you’ll start tonight.”

She almost wished he’d slapped her. A bruise would fade. But those words, cruel and implacable, would run endlessly through her dreams.

She sucked in a breath. His heart had beat for her. She was sure of it. But his eyes denied it. That brutal look was back. His mouth — the mouth that kissed her like he’d never left her — was an uncompromising line, a weapon he would use to eviscerate her.

Ellie forced her fists to open, forced herself to settle back onto her heels. She’d come to her toes as though the added height could help her. The darkness in his voice told her to run. But the images already playing in her mind, the memories of all the ways they had loved each other back when she had thought that love conquered all, made her heart race and her palms dampen.

As revenges went, there were worse fates in the world than sharing a bed with Nick.

Still, she’d pleased and placated men before, and always,
always
regretted it. Nick, her father, Charles — different men, to be sure, but they had all, in some way, wanted her as a possession.

If any man were to own her, she should have chosen Nick. But now that no one owned her, she couldn’t let him try again. She wouldn’t let herself be seduced by the idea of what might have been — or give herself away for less than she deserved.

When she thought she could speak without betraying herself, she said, “I understand your hatred. But I won’t be your whore.”

“This has nothing to do with what happened between us. It’s a business transaction, nothing more.”

She laughed bitterly. “I don’t know what you’ve heard of my reputation, but any lovers I’ve had were for pleasure, not lucre.”

“Then you failed to earn what you’re worth, but that’s not something I’ll take the blame for. Do take your experience into account when you negotiate your fee with me — you’re surely better than you were the first time I had you.”

The first time
. Eleven years ago tonight — her birthday present from him. She treasured that memory, the way he’d touched her, how he’d tried so hard not to hurt her. It hadn’t been perfect. They’d tried again, as often as they could over the next four months, until it was. But it was one of her most perfect memories.

He tarnished that memory now, like fetid air settling on precious silver.

“How dare you come into my house and insult me like this?” she snapped.

“Ah, ‘your house.’ Now we come to the crux of it,” he said. He finally stepped back. She might have escaped the room, but he stole the key from the lock before crossing the room and pouring whisky into a fresh glass.

“Not going to offer me any?” she asked, knowing she sounded churlish rather than confident.

“I will, if you want to add to your debt.”

He sat without waiting for her — a breech of etiquette that twisted the knife he’d already embedded in her gut. He took her chaise without asking, lounging on it as she couldn’t do earlier. He braced an arm against the rolled cushion and sipped his whisky as he watched her. Caesar might have looked the same, waiting for Cleopatra, a queen brought low, to pleasure him.

But Cleopatra had had her own agenda. Ellie let her hips sway as she walked toward him — a sway made more pronounced by the tight, dropped waist of her old-fashioned gown. His eyes were drawn to the movement. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard — and it wasn’t whisky in his throat when he swallowed again.

“And what, pray, is my debt to you?” she asked as she drew nearer.

His eyes slid back to her face. The question seemed to confuse him momentarily — long enough for her to see something haunted, more like a trapped animal than a ruthless hunter.

Then Caesar was back in command. “Forty thousand pounds, give or take. I suppose a glass of whisky is negligible.”

“Impossible,” she said flatly.

She veered off toward the whisky anyway. He stayed silent while she pulled out the stopper and poured. It was only when she turned to face him that he smiled.

“I have the receipts to prove it. Tell me, Ellie my love — how many nights will it take to repay that debt?”

She went hot, then cold — a nerveless, spineless dread. Whisky would make it worse, but the glass was already in her hand. Drinking it was better than dwelling on that question.

When she thought she might be able to speak, she said, “How can I possibly owe you forty thousand pounds?”

“Servants, dresses, paints, canvases, parties such as tonight’s — you spend far beyond your means, my dear. I’ll grant that it took you longer to reach this sum than I thought it would, back when Charles died and I inherited. If only you liked gaming hells.”

“I know I spend your money on servants — it’s your estate, damn you, and Marcus said you specifically invited me to live here as long as I liked. But the rest comes from the income from my marriage settlements.”

“Sadly, you are mistaken.” His eyes weren’t sad — they were triumphant. Then they widened, the picture of innocence. “Surely Marcus explained that you were borrowing money from my estate?”

The floor dropped out from under her. All these years, she’d thought she’d been on solid, albeit unhappy, ground. But he yanked it from her, leaving her in a murky swamp of betrayal.

She shook her head. “Marcus wouldn’t do that. I trusted him —
trust
him — to handle my financial affairs.”

“He worked for me before he worked for you. If it’s any consolation, he says you are quite disciplined with the funds you are allocated. I could have beggared you long ago if you weren’t so good at managing your household.”

It was no consolation, and he knew it.
Marcus
. Clever, treacherous man — calling a truce after Nick left, offering to deal with her father’s and husband’s solicitors to make sure she got every penny owed her when her father would have forced her to marry again. She’d been too grateful to spurn Marcus’s offer, even when she knew he blamed her for Nick’s absence. And he was so helpful, for so many years, that she never hired someone to replace him.

Never asked how he had invested her monies so well that she could consistently take more than five percent of the capital every year.

Never thought to check his books.

“Marcus doesn’t work for me. He’s my friend,” she said, clinging to what she’d believed rather than what Nick would make her see.

Nick tossed back the dregs of his whisky. Since he’d already thrown the table aside, he set the tumbler on the floor and leaned back. The bastard was enjoying himself — and suddenly she hated him for coming back, more than she ever had for leaving.

“You should have read your Machiavelli,” he said. “The fact remains that you signed quarterly receipts from Marcus, on behalf of my estate, for monies approaching nearly six thousand pounds a year. He was most scrupulous in using the income from your settlements and properties to repay what he could — you would owe another twenty thousand if he hadn’t treated you fairly. I’m sure he can show you the accounts if you’re curious.”

Ellie wanted to vomit. It was a harsh, uncharacteristic feeling. She never lost control like this. But she knew what he’d left unsaid.

The forty thousand pounds from her marriage settlement were invested in an unbreakable trust. She could live off the interest, but no one — not Nick, not Marcus, and certainly not her — could touch the principal.

And if she only had two thousand pounds a year, she couldn’t possibly pay him back.

“Why?” she asked. “Why this? And why now?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You married Charles for the title, this estate, and so you didn’t have to share a bed with a peasant like me. I can’t take your title, alas. But I can ruin you so comprehensively that you cannot afford the circles it lets you move in. As for the rest — you can surely deduce it while I plow you like the peasant I am.”

She kept her face expressionless, even though she couldn’t control her angry flush. “And why now?”

He shrugged. “You aren’t getting any younger — no sense delaying the harvest.”

He watched her face as he insulted her. Did he hope for begging? Tears? Some sort of display that would prove he’d hurt her?

She tossed her hair back, downed her whisky, and threw the glass across the room to shatter in the same spot where he’d thrown her first one. He didn’t flinch — just raised an eyebrow.

“You are unbelievable, Nick. Only an out and out villain would spend ten years plotting this. Why didn’t you just have me murdered? It would have been quicker, and it certainly wouldn’t have cost you forty thousand pounds.”

“I don’t know what the going rate for murder is. But I find your display worth the price.”

“I’m sure murder is trivial,” she said. “I will gladly find someone to do the job on you since you didn’t think to do it on me.”

He grinned, a flash of real humor that was gone almost before she registered it. “Wouldn’t you rather murder me yourself? You’re resourceful enough.”

“Blood is so very hard to clean up. But I’ll sacrifice a carpet or two if you push me.”

He waved a hand magnanimously. “If you have a better offer for how to repay me, I’ll entertain it. I am a man of business, not a monster.”

His eyes dropped, blatantly, to her breasts. She crossed her arms over her chest, seeing red again. “You’re a beast. And I don’t need to become your mistress. There are men who will marry me, and then my husband can repay you.”

“Men who will take a soiled twenty-nine-year-old widow with thousands of pounds of debt?” Then he made a show of glancing behind him to the clock on the mantel, which read a bit past two in the morning. “Excuse me, a soiled
thirty-
year-old widow. Many happy returns on your birthday, love.”

“You can go to hell and take your happy returns with you.”

He laughed. “Already been there. I’m afraid the devil’s bored with me and cut me loose. I await your offer.”

He was serious. He couldn’t be serious — couldn’t have planned this, couldn’t want what he’d asked for. That brief kiss earlier, before she’d broken it off, had been a taste of the old Nick, even if he was rougher than he used to be with her.

For a moment, she thought he’d forgiven her, even if he wouldn’t say the words. She thought he’d come back for her, ready to fight for her the way she wished she’d fought for him.

She was sure he’d felt something for her — for a moment, at least, even if the moment died.

Which meant that this wasn’t cold revenge. It was methodical, and it was most definitely cruel. But she’d felt the heat behind it.

As long as he felt passion for her, she had at least one advantage. She just needed to keep her own passion in check.

“One week,” she said abruptly.

His gaze roved over her body — her soiled body, as he called it. She gritted her teeth.

“That is nearly six thousand pounds a night. You won’t like what I would make you do for that, especially not when you have houseguests.”

She didn’t think she’d ever blushed as fast and hot as she did when his drawl broke over her. “Then what is your offer?”

“Come to me and I’ll tell you.”

His eyes dared her to run. But he held the key to the door — and everything else. And anyway, if this was about humiliating her, she wouldn’t give him an ounce of satisfaction.

So she walked with her head held high. When she reached his side, she looked down into his eyes, as vivid as any sea she’d tried to paint. There was triumph there, yes — but lust predominated.

She should have left Folkestone when she had had the chance, gone someplace where she could have pretended, forever, that he would have forgiven her if he’d known where to find her.

But that chance was gone. She brushed her hand through his hair. “Don’t do this, Nick,” she said, knowing as she said it that he wouldn’t hear her warning. “If not for me, then don’t do it to yourself. There are sins that are unforgivable. Don’t damn yourself as I have.”

His hand slid to her waist and pulled her down into his arms. “I’m already damned.”

She sighed. “Then tell me what you want so we can get on with it.”

His hand rose to her breast. She didn’t flinch — barely felt it anyway through all her heavy brocade.

“Four months,” he said, silky smooth despite the subject matter. “You’ll do whatever I ask, in bed or out, for four months. And at the end of it, your debt will be forgiven.”

He ran his thumb across her collarbone. Her body warmed under his touch even as her heart turned to ice.

“Can I guess the date you’ll release me?”

He smiled. “The thirteenth of June, of course. Consider it a belated wedding gift.”

“The thirteenth of June,” she repeated. She braced herself against his shoulders and scanned his face. “How long have you been planning these dates?”

“The duration — always. But it’s merely a convenient coincidence that I came home in time to start tonight. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I returned just for this. I’ve other business in London, but I may as well collect from you since I have four months to spare for the task.”

Four months. It was obscene, a dark reversal of their ruined courtship. The dates were exact — from the anniversary of their first coupling, to the day she had married Charles instead of him. And again, she knew that whatever the temperature of his voice, his anger was too hot to be passionless.

“I want it in writing,” she said, ignoring his fingers as they slid through her hair. “Marcus has proven himself a poor witness, but he and my maid will do — I don’t want to take any more people into our confidence than necessary.”