Her Protector's Pleasure (26 page)

"Didn't want to leave Chudleigh Crest. Why did you make me?" Samuel shouted.

For devil's sake.
His patience fraying, Ambrose tried again to explain. "We had no choice, Father. After you nearly burned the cottage down, no one in the village would take you all in. Now come on, we haven't time to waste—"

"Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

Ambrose twisted his neck to see Marianne standing behind him. At the mere sight of her, something eased in his chest. With her platinum hair cascading from a loose topknot and a coral column skimming her elegant figure, she looked too damned lovely to be real. But it was more than her beauty that bolstered him: it was her unflappable expression. As if she didn't find this latest calamity with his family the least bit unusual or distasteful. As if she wouldn't turn away from him because of it—the way Jane had.

Yearnings crept over him. Irrational desires that he was having more and more difficulty keeping at bay. Christ, he wanted Marianne—and not just for a tumble or two. He wanted her by his side and in his bed, wanted hers to be the face that took him into his dreams at night, the first he saw when he awoke …

But what the bloody hell do you have to offer her? You're a policeman who cannot support his own family. And you can't even give her the truth, for God's sake.

His hand clenched on the carriage door.

"Are we gettin' on with things or not?" the driver grumbled.

Marianne tossed the cantankerous fellow a coin, the glinting arc landing precisely in the driver's black glove. "That should cover your time—and your mouth, I should hope."

The man scowled, then turned his gaze forward and fell silent.

"One thing taken care of," Marianne said. "Now, Kent, if you'll hand me up?"

After a brief hesitation, Ambrose did as she asked. She took a seat next to his father.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kent." The timbre of her voice was gentle, lulling, with none of her usual acerbity. By Jove, what man could resist that siren's call?

Not his father, apparently. Samuel peered at her with interest. "Who are you?"

"Marianne Sedgwick," she said, omitting her title. "I have the pleasure of hosting you and your family in London."

Samuel's expression darkened. "Don't want to be in London. Never wanted to leave the village and damn my boy for making us leave our home!"

Ambrose gripped the doorframe in frustration. He understood his father's anxiety, but when Samuel got into this state of mind, there was no bloody reasoning with him …

"Your son only wants what is best," Marianne said in the same, soothing tone, "and that means coming into the house. The children are already inside. Emma has arranged a room for you. One that overlooks the garden—I'm told you like roses."

"Roses were Marjorie's favorite. Did you know her?"

The leap in logic squeezed Ambrose's chest. Before he'd gotten ill, Samuel Kent's mind and power of reasoning had been unparalleled.

"I'm afraid not. But I do have roses, and their scent is quite lovely. Do you want to come and see for yourself?"

His father's grip on the carriage strap loosened slightly, but his eyes widened. "I don't want to leave. It's safe in here."

Marianne wrinkled her nose. "It is as smelly and dingy as a cave in here. Wouldn't you rather have tea in the garden? I'll arrange for that: cakes and sandwiches next to the roses."

"Do you have plum pudding?" Samuel asked with the painful eagerness of a child. "I like plum pudding."

"If you like it, we shall have it. Come along, sir." Marianne held out a hand.

To Ambrose's relief, his father grasped her slim fingers. He helped Marianne and his sire alight, and he noticed that Samuel did not release her hand even when the old man stood upon the pavement. The hackney shot off, and Samuel squinted at Marianne.

"You're a looker, aren't you? Remind me a bit of my own Marjorie."

Ambrose choked back a laugh. He'd loved his stepmother to no end. But Marjorie, bless her heart, had been a short, robust lady with comfortable features.

Marianne dimpled. "A fine compliment indeed. Thank you, sir. Now shall we?"

Her gaze traveled from his father to him, and at that moment he knew his emotions hung upon his sleeve. For once, he was powerless to hide them. Whatever she saw in his face caused her to blush, duck her head in a distinctly un-Marianne-like fashion. And hope blossomed where it oughtn't, the petals catching in the thorns of his dilemma.

"Well, are we going to have pudding or not?"

Samuel's impatient demand broke the spell. Clearing his throat, Ambrose took his father's other arm. Together, the three of them climbed up the steps into the townhouse.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Clad in a smoking jacket of maroon velvet, the gentleman made his way to his study. He'd decided to spend the evening in; he had much to contemplate, and he wanted no distractions. Locking the door to his private sanctuary behind him, he went to his desk. He clicked the hidden mechanism beneath the ledge; an instant later, there was a soft whir, and the panel of the adjacent wall slid open.

He stepped into his inner sanctum. No one but he knew of the existence of this chamber. As he gazed upon the gilt-framed portraits on the walls, some of the tension drained from him. He brushed a finger against one of the canvases, and he could almost feel a downy cheek instead of oil and cloth.

"Do you miss me, my sweet flower?" he murmured. "Never fear. We shall be together soon."

He walked from painting to painting, perusing each with proprietary delight. There were four in all: one to mark each of Primrose's birthdays since she'd entered his life. His child bride—almost ripe enough to claim. Almost, but not quite.

That hunted feeling returned, quivering in his midsection. His mama had always berated him for his delicate stomach. Then again, she'd been an overbearing termagant who made everyone around her miserable, including his father. The gentleman didn't blame the man for escaping to an early grave; death was preferable to being shackled to a shrew.

Well, the gentleman had learned his lesson. Unlike his sire, he was in a position to make a marital choice to improve his happiness rather than to replenish the family coffers. He'd invested his dead mother's fortune so that he wouldn't have to wed for any reason other than desire. Even if those desires came from traditions too noble for modern society.

He'd first come across the depictions of medieval child brides in the library books at Eton. His stomach churned anew at the memory of that godforsaken hellhole. The bullies. Their taunts and fists. Perspiration sprouted on his brow as the room closed around him, turned into the suffocating cellar of a village tavern. Fumes of stale ale and sex choked him. The boys' voices clamored in his head.

Prove you're a man. Stick your cock in her. Fuck her.

The old whore with her wrinkled breasts and rotted breath shouting back,
Wastin' your time an' mine, lads. This one's small eno' to toss back. 'E's limp as a baby eel!

Face burning, the gentleman shut out the laughter, the jeering. Rage poured over him. He
was
a man—he'd show them all. While his old schoolmates were now dragged around Town by their prune-faced wives,
he
would have the most beautiful bride of all by his side.

His pulse calmed as he stared at the latest portrait of his love: at eight, Primrose had exceeded his expectations of her beauty. The purity of her corn-silk hair made a breathtaking pairing with eyes of translucent jade flecked with gold. His angel. His sweet-voiced, soft-skinned doll. She'd never gainsay him. Belittle him.

Sighing, he pressed his lips against her tiny pink slippers. Thank God he'd found her, a fresh blossom amongst the rubble of the stews. It had been Fate that led him to Kitty Barnes. The bawd had had a four-year-old orphan in her care: the by-product of an affair between an opera singer and a noble lover, she'd claimed. One glimpse of Primrose, her beauty and class, and the gentleman had known he had to rescue her.

He'd hired Leach to handle the transaction anonymously on his behalf. The thought of the blasted solicitor made his stomach pitch. With a shaking hand, he poured a drink and sat in the wingchair to nurse it. He assured himself that he'd carried out this last business with Leach perfectly: he'd tied a loose end … and tossed in a few diversions as well. Enough to keep that Draven bitch busy whilst he figured out a way to rid himself of her once and for all.

The dirty slut thought to take what was his? His hand clenched the snifter as fury spiked.

I saved Primrose. Me. No one's taking her away.

Given the physical similarities between his sweet Primrose and the baroness, he couldn't deny the obvious conclusion. Kitty Barnes had lied about Primrose's origins; the Draven whore was the mother, and all that she'd done since arriving in Town—snooping around, hiring a Runner—had proved that she meant to have Primrose back.

Over my dead body. I've been cultivating my flower all these years. She's MINE.

The gentleman forced himself to take several calming breaths. Yes, Lady Marianne was proving more of a nuisance than he'd first believed, but his secret was still safe. He had Primrose securely tucked away. He must not panic; he must stay on course and stick to the original plan.

In another three or four years, Primrose would ripen. At that time, when she was at the peak of her perfection, he'd pluck her once and for all. His loins stirred with anticipation.
See? I am a man! A man with rarefied taste.
Smiling dreamily, he imagined taking her abroad, marrying her some place free of nonsensical age of consent laws. After a few years, they'd return to Britannia with none the wiser.

Only one obstacle stood in his way: Lady Marianne Draven. The bitch had more lives than a feline. Somehow, she'd not only survived his efforts to have her killed, but also his cleverly designed plan to have her framed for Leach's murder. His
coup d'état
would have killed two proverbial birds with the same stone. Yet she'd somehow escaped.
Goddamn her.

For the inconvenience, she would have to suffer—she and that dull-witted policeman she'd managed to mesmerize. Anger hummed in the gentleman's ears. He'd taken a great risk in tapping Leach to engage the services of Bow Street, and all of it had come to naught because that
nobody
, that bloody River Charley, had failed to do his duty.

Agitated, the gentleman jumped to his feet. Paced before the portraits. Looking into Primrose's big green eyes, he saw her loving wisdom glimmering there.

"Only you understand me," he murmured. "Tell me, precious, how shall we get rid of them?"

The solution burst into his brain.
Divide et impera
—Caesar had the right of it. He chuckled with the sheer simplicity of the first step. A
fait accompli.
Nothing like betrayal to cause a schism. As for the second step … For the sake of Primrose—and this
was
for her, to protect her and the love he would give her—he would show no mercy. Draven and Kent would have to die and in a clean manner, one untraceable to him.

Something in the order of … an accident.

Yes, a tragic and public mishap would suit his purposes well.

The gentleman poured himself another brandy as the plan unfolded in his head.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Kent made his way toward Marianne's suite, grateful for the thick carpeting that muffled the sound of his footsteps. As he passed each closed door along the hallway, he feared that it would open to reveal one of his siblings. God knew what he would say if they asked him what he was doing skulking there in the middle of the night. Tactful by nature, Emma had not disclosed his relationship with their hostess, going along with his more circumspect assertion that he was being employed by Lady Draven and she had decided to act as a patron of sorts to his family.

He'd finessed the situation to protect Marianne's reputation; when she'd gotten wind of it over supper, she'd raised her brows and continued coaxing his father into eating the potato soup with a fancy French name. Nowadays, any change in routine roused his father's truculence, yet Marianne's unexpectedly patient and soothing manner had seemed to awaken Samuel's charm. Ambrose hadn't seen his sire so lively since before his stepmother's death.

Ambrose arrived at Marianne's door, which had been left ajar. Exhaling, he stepped inside and closed the door behind. His blood went hot at the sight of Marianne lounging on her bed. She looked up at him, and her welcoming smile made his cock jerk to attention.

"What took you so long?" She put down her book, her blush-colored robe fluttering languidly as she stretched her arms. "I almost fell asleep reading."

He had planned to first update her on the progress of his investigation. To demonstrate to her that he was committed to finding her daughter—and that her generosity to his family would be repaid in kind. Yet the invitation in her eyes dissolved his words. He found himself striding to the side of the bed. He sank his fingers in her hair and claimed her lips in a hard, demanding kiss. When it ended, both of them were breathing raggedly.

"I wanted to do that all night," he said, cupping her jaw. "All through supper, I thought of naught else."

She gave him a sultry look. "So that was why you looked so famished? And here I was thinking it was Monsieur Arnauld's excellent menu."

"The food was delicious." With each course that had appeared, his siblings' eyes had gotten bigger and bigger, and they'd piled more on their plates than politeness allowed. Knowing how little they'd had of late, he hadn't had the heart to chide them. "It was a treat for my family," he said gruffly. "Thank you."

"It was little enough."

"It was not little to them. Your generosity ..." He trailed off as the knots in his chest tightened. "A policeman's wages affords a simple life. My sisters and brother have known little in the way of luxury."

"They are delightful and unspoiled." With dexterous fingers, Marianne removed his cravat. "I shall enjoy rectifying the latter situation."