Her Protector's Pleasure (21 page)

"I'll make myself useful and fetch you some lemonade, my dear. Lady Draven?"

"None for me, thank you."

Staring off at her departing spouse, Helena said in bemused tones, "One day that man will drive me mad."

"You married him. And did a good deal besides to secure his affection," Marianne said. "I hope it was worth it."

If possible, Helena's color grew higher. "Of course it was—a thousand times over. You know I adore Harteford. It is only that sometimes he can be a bit overbearing."

"A predictably masculine trait."

A pause, and then Helena cleared her throat. "Speaking on that, as your long-time friend and one who is concerned about your well-being, I have something to ask you."

Marianne stiffened. She knew what was coming. "Indeed."

"What is going on between you and Mr. Kent?" Tipping her head to one side, Helena studied Marianne with concerned hazel eyes. "After the fireworks at our dinner party, Harteford was reminded of a similar interaction between you and Mr. Kent during Percy's rescue. He said Mr. Kent seemed rather
protective
of you."

"Is that so unusual with the male sex? Really, they're not far removed from dogs, the way they growl at the slightest provocation," Marianne drawled.

Inside, panic thudded with each breath. She had not yet come to a decision about Kent. Whether to trust him. Whether to give into her impulses, which had led to nothing but trouble in the past. If she did not fully know herself, how could she explain the situation to Helena?

"'Tis true that males do tend to fall all over you. You've never seemed discomfited by it before." Though gentle, Helena's words were also perceptive. "Yet both Harteford and I have observed that you seem to enjoy baiting Mr. Kent."

Marianne despised indecision—particularly her own. Having no desire to air her laundry in this time and place, she opted for the classic subterfuge.

"Surely you are not accusing me of having interest in a
policeman
, Helena?" she said in haughty tones.

Nothing like snobbery and the schisms of social class to curtail a conversation.

"If I were saying that, it would be no accusation. Mr. Kent is a good, honorable man who has done much for my family." Helena's brow furrowed. "I like him, and Harteford trusts him. As far as I am concerned, you could do a lot worse."

A quiver of old resentment broke through. "Because of my own lowly origins, you mean? Because my father was a drunken, ill-bred squire?"

"Of course not." Helena blinked at her. "Why would you even think that? What I meant was that Mr. Kent is intelligent and handsome, and he has a kind heart. You deserve a man who would care for you truly."

"Oh." Marianne swallowed, feeling small and foolish for misjudging her friend. Her next words did not improve her assessment of herself. "You think Mr. Kent is handsome?" she blurted.

Helena's chestnut curls bobbed with enthusiasm. "He looked very fine in his evening clothes, wouldn't you agree? More importantly, he is unaffected and honest—a man who knows himself. Do you not find such self-assurance attractive, Marianne?"

Helena didn't know the half of it. Or—judging by the glint in the marchioness' eyes—perhaps she knew too well.

"Yes," Marianne heard herself admit. "I do."

"Then there's no harm in getting to know Mr. Kent better, is there?" Helena said brightly. "If you'll allow, I shall arrange a small get together. A cozy supper perhaps ..."

As Helena chattered on about her plans, Marianne allowed herself to envision that fantasy of a normal life. She and Kent would court like any couple, spending time with her closest friends. In this imaginary reality, she would have never lost Rosie, so her daughter would be there too, playing with Helena's brood ...

For so long, Marianne had been alone, and a lump rose in her throat at the notion of somehow joining the world around her. Of being free to seek out love and true companionship. Of inhabiting her own skin.

Yet she was
not
free. She had suspects to hunt down and a beloved daughter to regain. Could any man support her through such dark travails? Understand and accept the flawed, damaged creature she truly was?

Could Kent?

The thought shot across her mind like a bright star, dazzling in its possibility. She had to admit that Kent had proved himself rather stalwart thus far. He'd put up with being shot, cock-teased, insulted, and propositioned by her; he'd dragged her across the rooftops of London in order to rescue her. Not to mention the fact that he'd shown her time and again pleasure she'd never known existed. He'd done all of this and demanded nothing in return.

"I shall send an invitation to Mr. Kent, then?" Helena inquired.

Marianne's throat tightened. Could she share the truth with Kent? Surely, he wouldn't betray her like other men had—or would he? He had promised to help her: if she told him about Rosie, would he help her find her little girl? She looked at Helena's expectant expression, and guilt punctured her hopes. She'd kept secrets for so long; was she even capable of letting down those walls of fear and shame?

"Let me think on it." At the other's crestfallen countenance, she said quietly, "I appreciate your concern. You are too good to me, dearest."

"Just try not to think too long," Helena sighed, her hand fluttering to the amethyst silk over her belly. "Soon I shan't be fit for company, and you know how Harteford gets when I am increasing."

As if on cue, the marquess came striding through the crowd bearing a glass of lemonade. His eyes flashed with concern as they honed in on the position of Helena's hand. "Tired, my love? Would you like me to find you a seat?"

"No, thank you. What I should like to do is dance," Helena said.

"Dance?" Harteford's dark brows came together. "But are you certain—"

"They're playing a waltz, and you are my favorite partner. You know the physician has cleared me for my normal activities."

When her husband looked as if he meant to argue, the marchioness stood on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear. She must have delivered her tit-for-tat because his jaw turned quite ruddy.

He cleared his throat, his smoldering gaze fixed on his wife. "If you'll excuse us, Lady Draven?"

"Of course," Marianne said.

The pair headed off—not in the direction of the dance floor, she noted with a mixture of amusement and envy—but toward the exit. When Helena turned back to mouth, "
Let me know
," Marianne gave a quick nod.

Alone, she was left to deal with the encroaching gentlemen. Turning down offers of champagne, dancing, and other activities best left unrepeated, she made her escape to the periphery of the ballroom. She took momentary shelter behind a small white gazebo the hostess had fancifully erected indoors. Peering around the wood frame, she saw the looks of consternation on the men's faces—thank heavens her pursuers hadn't the brains to match their libidos.

"Tiresome, isn't it?"

Her head whipped in the direction of the smooth accents. She recovered in the next instant.

"What is, pray tell?" she said, arching her brows.

"Being pursued. I, myself, prefer being on the other end of the hunt." The tawny-haired rake flashed her a white smile. "Devlin St. James, Viscount Ashcroft, at your service Lady Draven."

"I know who you are," she said.
Now I mean to discover what you're hiding. What did Leach have on you, you blighter—did he buy Rosie on your behalf?

"My reputation precedes me, then. In a good way, I hope."

Clenching the sticks of her fan, she shaped her lips into a flirtatious curve. "If your reputation is as large as they say, my lord, then I should say it is in a
very
good way."

Ashcroft laughed. Up close, she saw he had a weak chin—one made soft by easy living and dissipation. "Touché, my lady. Then, again, you have quite the reputation yourself."

"It takes one to know one," she said in a coquettish tone.

"In that case, I suggest we avail ourselves of Auberville's fine champagne and get to know one another's
reputations
better." Winking, Ashcroft held out an arm.

Though her stomach recoiled, her fingers went to rest lightly on the black superfine. "By all means, my lord, I'd like nothing more than to know you better."

TWENTY-TWO

An hour later, Marianne found herself rolling along in Ashcroft's well-sprung carriage. It was a position no doubt envied by some, but it was all she could do to suppress a shudder as he ran a gloved finger down her arm. Though her cloak covered her, his touch raised the hairs on her skin. His pale gaze was bloodshot, his expression more leering than suave. This was likely due to the fact that she'd plied him with drink at the Aubervilles' assembly while scarcely partaking of her own. She wanted him three seas over; it would make him easier to interrogate.

"You have the most beautiful eyes. Like big, shiny emeralds," he said in slurred accents.

"You
are
original, aren't you?" she said.

He grinned, apparently beyond the reach of sarcasm. "That's what all the ladies say. I'll show you things in bed that you've never even heard of. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve to tickle your fancy—and elsewhere."

Be still my beating heart.

"How, er, delightful. As it happens, I was hoping we could put your cleverness to another use first. I find myself in a tight spot, and I thought you might help me."

"Feeling a bit tight myself." Though squiffy, he was quick; he grabbed her hand and pressed it to his groin. She forced herself to stay calm, to keep her mask in place even as her stomach lurched. "Hard as a rock, too. Wager I'm the hardest and biggest you've ever had, eh?"

As a matter of fact … no.

"How impressive, my lord. Yet I've heard that your manhood is not the only thing about you that is so generous." She squeezed lightly.

He groaned, his head falling back against the cushions. "What is it that you want, you saucy wench? Money? Jewels? Thought that dead husband of yours left you plenty of both."

"I have no need of either. Only a bit of advice."

Ashcroft's eyes closed as he ground his erection against her palm. Dear God, she would need to scrub her hands with lye after this. "What advice?"

"Rumor has it you were acquainted with a certain Reginald Leach," she said.

His eyes slit open. "Who told you that?"

His sharp tone belied his drunkenness. She'd hit a nerve. Through the uncovered windows, she saw that they had arrived back at her townhouse. The street was shadowed, devoid of activity. She inhaled, bolstering her courage to proceed with her plan. If worse came to worse, she'd make a run for it. Her house was steps away; though she could not see Lugo, she knew he was monitoring the goings-on.

Pasting on a smile, she said, "One hears things. I, too, knew Mr. Leach, you see." The rehearsed lie rolled over her tongue with the smoothness of morning chocolate. "And I am concerned about what will happen to certain information he possessed now that he is gone."

Ashcroft stared at her. She judged his expression as surprised … yet not worried. He betrayed no sign of guilt, no concern that she knew the solicitor he might have used to procure a child. The solicitor he might have murdered.

Instead, he barked out a laugh. "It seems we truly are birds of a feather, dove. Wouldn't worry your pretty head over it, though. Leach was a bastard, but his lips were locked tighter than a virgin's thighs. By the by, what nefarious deed was the old goat helping you keep under wraps?"

If Ashcroft did indeed have Rosie, his behavior concerning the solicitor was incredibly blasé, even for a jaded scoundrel. Doubt about his culpability crept in, yet she had to make certain. In for a penny …

Leaning close to his ear, she murmured in suggestive tones, "I'll show you my secret if you show me yours. I think it would be quite stimulating to whisper our naughty misdeeds to one another, don't you?"

"Subversive little minx, ain't you? Demme, if that doesn't make me want to fuck you more," he panted. "On the count of three, then ..."

At the cue, she whispered a fabricated and lurid indiscretion. Simultaneously, Ashcroft deposited his transgression into her ear; though it did not involve her daughter, Marianne's heart nonetheless thudded with disgust.

"I know I haven't shocked you." His hot, moist breath made her shudder. "In fact, I think you'll like my brand of fun. More than that squealing provincial bitch did at any rate ..."

Marianne dodged his lips. When she tried to move, he grabbed her arms.

"Let me go," she hissed.

"Not until I get what you've been flaunting at me all night. Go ahead and struggle,"—Ashcroft yanked off her cloak, his expression hard, sneering—"the fight only heats the blood."

Fear gave her sudden strength. She twisted away, reaching for the door. The handle did not budge. In the next instant, Ashcroft was upon her, forcing her to the cushions. She clawed at his face, and his curses filled the carriage the moment before he backhanded her. Her cheek exploded with pain, the metallic taste flooding her mouth as she fought a wave of darkness. The colliding of past and present.

You dirty whore. You deserve this. You like this.

Screaming, she continued to struggle, but he overpowered her. His hand clamped over her mouth, and he pinned her in place. Panic suffocated her as he shoved up her skirts. Her moors loosening, she felt herself detach from her skin and begin to float up to that place where nothing could hurt her. Where words and violence could not reach.

Where only numbness existed.

She heard a shout. A door slamming. Ashcroft's weight lifted off her.

Reality came roaring back. She bolted upright. Through the open door, she saw Ashcroft's body fly onto the pavement, a dark figure advancing upon him.

*****

"Get up," Ambrose growled. Bloodlust flowed through his veins as he closed in on the nob sniveling in the street. His hands fisted in readiness to swing again. "Get up and face me like a man."