Candice Hern (2 page)

"A challenge, indeed," he said. "I shall find no joy in it, but seduce her I will."

Sheane raised his eyebrows. "You think so, do you?"

"I know so. I have no intention of handing my best horse over to you. And I covet that bay gelding of yours. I shall alert my head groom to make room for him in the stables."

"I would not get your hopes up, Rochdale. That woman will not be seduced. I guarantee it."

"Yes, she will." He watched her walk away and detected the merest hint of a sway in the hips beneath the silk of her skirts. "She will be one of those delicate cases that will take a bit longer than others. But I shall have her before Goodwood.
I
guarantee it."

Twickenham, June 1813

She would not panic. Grace Marlowe never panicked. She prided herself on her stalwart composure in any situation. Even as she watched her friends' carriage disappear down the drive, leaving her alone at night in a small, tucked-away villa two hours from London with the worst libertine in all of England, she refused to panic.

Grace stood in the open doorway and did not move. The night air had grown chilly and the carriage was long out of sight, but she did not turn around.
He
stood behind her. Lord Rochdale. She could feel his presence like an ill wind at her back, could feel his eyes on her, assessing, judging, mocking.

Those heavy-lidded blue eyes had been plaguing her for weeks. At balls and concerts and routs, they seemed to seek her out, to follow her, to compel her to return his gaze. She never did, of course. He was a horrid man with a horrid reputation. He'd seduced countless women and utterly ruined at least one. Grace could not imagine what possible interest he could have in a woman like her, a woman of high morals and impeccable propriety, but his unsettling gaze seemed to follow her everywhere. She had no intention, however, of giving him the satisfaction of seeing even a hint of discomposure.

At first she had assumed he was simply leering at her the way he did every woman under the age of ninety, and she'd ignored him. But he had not been rebuffed, and his continued attentions had begun to seriously annoy her, even to frighten her a little. At a public gathering she could turn away and pretend not to notice him. But here ...

"Well, now." His voice was low and tinged with mockery. "This is an interesting development, is it not, Mrs. Marlowe? Your friends have sadly deserted you, leaving you all alone here. With me. They must have great faith in your resourcefulness. Or my restraint. And so here we are, you and I, with this house all to ourselves. Whatever shall we do?"

Grace turned and was brought up short to find him closer than she'd expected. His proximity caused her almost to lose her balance, and she instinctively put up her hands to steady herself, only to find them pressed against the buttons of Lord Rochdale's waistcoat. He chuckled softly as she quickly removed them and stepped back.

He was half a head taller than she was, and was still close enough to seem to loom over her, so she took another step back and set about collecting herself. She brushed at her skirts, to give her hands something else to do, and said, "This entire evening has been a series of interesting developments, sir, from the moment we heard that poor Emily had been prevailed upon to run off with you, until her young gallant knocked you flat."

Rochdale smiled and fingered the darkening bruise beneath one eye. "Your tender ministrations helped to soothe my wounded pride. But in my defense, ma'am, allow me to say that it was I who was prevailed upon, not Miss Thirkill. The whole thing was that little vixen's idea."

"And I daresay you did not think to dissuade her, even knowing she likely had no idea what she was doing."

"She's a beautiful young lady. What man could have resisted such a tempting offer, to be the instrument of her ruin?"

"Not you, certainly."

Emily Thirkill, a headstrong girl of seventeen, was the niece of Grace's friend Beatrice, Lady Somerfield, who was acting as Emily's chaperone for the Season. When it was discovered that the wretched girl had run off with the notoriously wicked Lord Rochdale, Grace had accompanied Beatrice in her pursuit of the runaway. Mr. Jeremy Burnett, who was in love with Emily, had also insisted on coming with them, and he had brought along Lord Thayne to be his second, in the event of a duel. Thank heaven it had not come to that, as it appeared they had arrived before the girl's seduction and ruin were complete, and Lord Thayne had persuaded his young friend to forgo the scandal of a duel. Grace was pleased, however, that Mr. Burnett had not allowed Rochdale to escape entirely unscathed.

She had, though, felt awkward and uncomfortable when prevailed upon to help Beatrice tend to the cuts and bruises inflicted on Lord Rochdale by Mr. Burnett.

"Certainly not," he said. "When a pretty girl asks me to take her away and make love to her, I am generally happy to oblige. But since the lot of you arrived in the nick of time, so to speak, no harm has been done." He lowered his voice and quirked a flirtatious smile. "Not yet, anyway."

Grace lifted her eyes heavenward and sent up a silent prayer. How was she to deal with this loathsome man? He was precisely the sort of gentleman — if such a term could be used to describe him — who rendered her most uncomfortable. His blue eyes, which her friend Beatrice had called "bedroom eyes," were too knowing, his black hair too long and deliberately rakish, his tall form too languid in its grace. She could observe him from afar, flirting and flattering and dallying, bringing laughter and blushes and yearning glances from other women. But whenever he turned that roguish, assessing gaze on her, which was rather too frequently of late, she always had the cowardly inclination to run and hide.

Outward composure, however, was second nature to Grace. Her late husband, the great Bishop Marlowe, had trained her well in presenting a serene, unflappable face to the world. One odious man was not going to break her.

"I can only rejoice," she said, stepping back and putting more distance between them, "that we were able to remove that poor girl from your clutches, Lord Rochdale. And for her sake, I trust that no unseemly gossip about her will make its way through the clubs."

"No need to give me that fish-eye glare, my dear Mrs. Marlowe. Thayne already extracted an oath from me in that regard, though he needn't have been so deuced high-handed about it. Say what you will about me, I am not one to spread tales. I am, in fact, the very soul of discretion."

Grace gave a derisive little snort. "Indeed? And here I thought you were famous for debauching young ladies and publicly abandoning them."

He arched an eyebrow. "You presume a great deal of knowledge about my private business, madam."

"Even respectable women hear tales of your ... amorous adventures, my lord."

"For shame, Mrs. Marlowe. I would have expected an upstanding churchgoing woman like yourself to be above such gossip."

The truth of his words brought a brief flush of heat to her cheeks. "I do not spread gossip, sir. But one cannot help hearing the tales. I am sure every vigilant mother in London has heard them and warned her daughters about you."

"Do you have daughters, Mrs. Marlowe?"

"No."

"Then why do you care?"

Grace opened her mouth to speak and found she had no honest response. Instead, she clamped her lips tightly together and said nothing.

His lip curled into a mocking smile. "It is neither here nor there to me what tales are spread about town, Mrs. Marlowe. People may say whatever they want about me. And frequently do."

"And the ladies? Do you have no concern for involving their names in public speculation or scandal?"

His blue eyes regarded her with amused contempt. "I always allow the lady to decide how public or private a love affair should be, as it really doesn't matter to me in the least. As Miss Thirkill's family — and Thayne, for some reason — wish tonight's little episode to remain a secret, I have promised not to speak of it, and I will not. In fact, for you, my dear Mrs. Marlowe, I shall go a step further, just to prove what a ... er ... gentleman I can be. If gossip about tonight does arise somehow, I promise to put a halt to it by stating emphatically that the girl was never here. I trust that will eliminate any apprehension on your part."

Grace was a bit taken aback by this unexpected pledge. She was not entirely prepared to trust him, but for now would have to take him at his word. "Thank you, Lord Rochdale."

He reached out and touched her forehead, just above the bridge of her nose, causing her to flinch. "Do not look so puzzled, my dear. It creases your lovely brow, which is much too fine a thing to mar."

She took another step backward, instinctively shrinking from his touch and the unwelcome tingle on her skin it left behind.

He grinned at her retreat. "I am not a complete ogre, you know. Not all of the time, anyway. I actually have a scruple or two. At least, I think I must have one somewhere, otherwise tonight would have turned out quite differently."

"I am glad to hear it, my lord," she said in a clear voice that betrayed nothing of how unsettling his touch had been. "In fact, I shall call upon those scruples right now, if I may. I should like to request the use of your carriage to take me back to town."

His dark brows lifted in mock surprise. "What? So soon? When we're alone at last? Surely you are not in that big a hurry. Do come back inside, Mrs. Marlowe, and relax for a while. You must allow me to offer you a brandy, or sherry, if you prefer, to calm your nerves after such a trying evening. I could have a cold supper prepared, if you like. A cozy table by the fire, just the two of us."

She regarded him with a practiced arrogance that generally discouraged unwelcome attentions. Not that she expected it would work on Rochdale. "No, thank you, my lord." She kept her tone excruciatingly polite, even though she knew that what he was suggesting was anything
but
polite. He was deliberately trying to provoke her outrage, which seemed to amuse him, but she would not give him the satisfaction. "All I require is your carriage. At once, if you please."

"Well, as it happens, I do
not
please. I was hoping to stretch out in front of the fire for a while with a beefsteak on my eye, a brandy in my hand, and you by my side to keep me amused." He heaved a sigh. "But as I can see you are determined to be off, I shall sacrifice the beefsteak and bring a flask along with me. Happily, I shall still have you by my side to amuse me."

Grace's famous reserve almost slipped. "I ... I beg your pardon? I did not mean that you should —"

"My dear Mrs. Marlowe, surely you do not believe I would allow you to travel all the way to London alone? So late at night?" He shook his head and tried to appear serious, though his eyes twinkled wickedly. "I would never forgive myself if some harm came to you on the road. I shall certainly accompany you."

"That will not be necessary, my lord, I assure you."

"Of course it is."

Grace's head began to buzz with unsettling visions of two hours with this beastly man in the close confines of a carriage. It was not to be borne. "I do not wish to be rude, Lord Rochdale, but I would prefer to travel alone."

"I am quite sure you would. But that is not how it will be. I must return to town myself in any case, so it will be more convenient for us to travel together."

"Please, my lord, I —"

"If you wish to return to London, Mrs. Marlowe, it will be with me beside you. Now, come inside and make yourself comfortable while I instruct the coachman to prepare the carriage. I daresay there will be time for a glass of sherry while you wait."

Grace Marlowe, who seldom allowed spirits to pass her lips, hoped the glass would be a very large one.

* * *

It was almost too good to be true.

Rochdale had been doing his subtle best to get under her skin for quite some time now. She was a difficult case, to be sure. A delicious challenge. He'd been studying her for weeks, circling like a predator planning his attack. Her outward reserve, that cool self-restraint, lay over her as smooth as the features of an elegant bird, tightly and neatly arranged, not even a wisp of down out of place. The perfect image of unruffled calm. Yet if one looked closely, as he so often did, miniscule hints of disarray, almost invisible, could be discerned beneath the pristine plumage. It was those tiny disorderly feathers he intended to keep tweaking, in hopes of ultimately dislodging all the rest.

Contrary to popular belief, Rochdale had no experience seducing virtuous women. In point of fact, he'd spent most of his adult life avoiding them. When it came right down to it, though, he supposed they were no different from the rest. Manipulative. Grasping. Shrewish. The primary difference with a woman like Grace Marlowe was that her sexual nature would be tightly repressed or closely guarded. It would take some finesse to coax it into the open, but who better to do so than the Great Libertine?

He had watched her everywhere, and made sure she knew he was watching. She'd pretended to ignore him, but he could read her uneasiness in the way she held her body, in the tight tone of her voice, in the too-obvious manner in which she avoided eye contact. And especially in the secret looks she'd cast in his direction when she thought he wasn't looking.

Fixing his gaze on Grace Marlowe had been no hardship. The longer he looked the more her beauty was revealed to him. She may be the sort of sanctimonious prig he despised, but she was easy to look at, with her thick, golden hair and gray eyes. Under the right circumstances — in the moonlit garden or a candlelit bedroom — he could imagine those refined, aristocratic features softening, and he suspected she would be quite breathtaking.

And here was his first real chance to begin steering her toward that ultimate softening.

He'd been almost knocked off his pins when she'd shown up at his doorstep tonight with the rest of the erstwhile rescue party. When that hotheaded puppy had flattened him and then Thayne had rung a peal over his throbbing head, Rochdale had assumed the presence of Grace Marlowe in his country villa was to be a lost opportunity. Then the Fates had smiled upon him when she was obliged to give up her seat in Thayne's carriage to the Thirkill chit, leaving her behind with him. Alone.