I Love the Earl (8 page)

“You did not.”

“I did, and you may ask Clyve. I told him so that very evening.”

“No,” she protested again, but secretly entranced by the thought. She’d been in a very ill temper that night. “You will tempt me to abuse you for the rest of our marriage.”

He gave her a wicked look from under his eyelashes. “I shall retaliate, until you are speechless with pleasure.”

Margaret smiled and stretched. “As I said: you will tempt me unbearably.”

“It is my new purpose in life.” He kissed her again, and rolled off the bed. “But first, a toast.” He pulled on a banyan and lit a candle from the fire. “I’ll fetch some wine.”

By the time he returned with wine and a plate of ham, she had gotten her corset laced again and located her shoes. She didn’t want to go back to Carlisle House yet, but to stay the night here would be unpardonable; even Clarissa would be appalled.

“I’ve sent Bunter to fetch a coach.” Rhys handed her a glass of wine. “We have perhaps an hour.” He crawled back onto the bed and pulled her into his lap. “To my bride,” he whispered.

“To our future,” she countered.

“May it last for decades.”

“In health and prosperity,” she added.

“Precisely. Although there would be some benefits to austerity.” He leered at her legs, bared to the knee.

“Shame!” she cried, laughing. “I like a little prosperity. I could never afford such shoes as this before.” She wiggled her feet, shod in black and pink silk shoes with diamond buckles.

“I have no objection to the shoes,” he replied. “Only to the dress.” She laughed again, and he kissed her again and again, until he blindly set aside the wineglasses.

A tremendous banging echoed through the house. Margaret gasped and nearly tumbled off his lap. Rhys caught her easily, and kissed her as he laid her back on the pillows. “Don’t move,” he murmured against her lips. “I expect it’s Clyve, he has no sense of timing at all.”

She laughed, her arms still tangled around his neck. “Send him away and come back to me.”

Between light kisses over her cheek and jaw, he grinned. “On second thought, he’ll go away if we ignore it long enough.”

Her smile was coyly pleased. “A clever fellow, that Clyve.”

“Indeed.” He applied himself to kissing her in earnest, having no interest in what Clyve had to say. Dimly he realized the pounding on the door had stopped, and even though he knew he had to return Margaret to Carlisle House, she was making such enticing little moans as he kissed his way down her throat. God, what was another hour, when she had accepted his proposal?

“Dowling!”

Rhys raised his head. Margaret blinked up at him, her blue eyes bright with desire, her skin rosy. “What?” she whispered, trying to pull him back.

“Shh.” He touched his fingertip to her lips as the shout echoed outside again.

“Damn you, Dowling! Open this bloody door!”

His gaze met Margaret’s. The color bled from her cheeks, and her eyes fluttered shut in resignation. “Francis,” she breathed. “Curse him.”

“A bit worse than Clyve, then,” said Rhys, trying not to grimace.

She bit her lip. “Much.” She hesitated. “I—I must warn you, he was not pleased we walked out in Vauxhall the other night. I doubt he’ll be pleased to find me here.”

“Ah.” He sat up and reached for his shirt. “Should I fetch my sword?”

“No,” she said with a sigh. “It might be best if you stay here and let me speak to him alone.”

Rhys regarded her steadily. “Are you reconsidering your answer to my proposal?”

“No, but—”

He got up and stepped back into his breeches. “Then we shall see him together. I refuse to cower and hide behind my bride.”

“It wouldn’t be hiding,” she protested as he continued getting dressed. Rhys shook out her gown and held it up, helping her back into it with considerably less pleasure than when he helped her out of it. “It would be simple prudence . . .”

“It wasn’t the most prudent thing to whisk you away from Carlisle House tonight.” He cupped one hand around her cheek. Durham’s shouts could be heard at intervals, growing angrier and louder with each moment. “I’m not afraid of your brother.”

“I never said I was
afraid
of him.”

“We are engaged to be married,” he said. “Do you regret making love?”

She blushed. “Not at all, but—”

“Excellent.” He grinned dangerously. “We’re going to do it a lot, because I found it sublime. And I couldn’t be made to regret it even if your brother resorted to medieval instruments of torture.”

Her face bright red, she turned her back to him as she pulled up her petticoats to retie her garters. But in the looking glass Rhys caught the curve of a satisfied smile on her lips. He admired the slim line of her exposed leg for a moment, and considered ignoring Durham’s rude interruption just as he would have ignored Clyve or Eccleston at a moment like this.

But the duke kept pounding on the door, which was growing tiresome. Reluctantly he put on his waistcoat and buttoned it up as he looked for his shoes. Margaret was also dressed by now. She put her hand in his extended one, and he pulled her close. “Are you truly content, love?”

She gazed up at him with sparkling blue eyes. “I am.”

He smiled and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Thank God. For I am mightily contented.” It could not be better, in Rhys’s opinion. She was clever and sensible, spirited but kind, lovely and passionate in bed. And rich—bloody, bloody rich. As they walked through the forlorn rooms, her hand nestled snugly in his, Rhys unconsciously sketched the repaired ceilings and restored furnishings in his mind. It was a bit remote from town, but the house would be a marvel if it were restored. He could let it at a handsome rent, and turn his attention to the Welsh lands. That was his real heritage, the seat of the earldom and the proper way for a nobleman to support himself. Perhaps cattle would succeed where the sheep had failed; already herds were driven from Wales to the markets south of the Thames to meet the growing city’s demands.

And he would have Margaret as well. Just the thought of keeping her with him was enough to make his blood run faster and hotter. If only Durham hadn’t chased her down. He might have kept her another few hours, and made love to her slowly, lingering over every lovely inch of her skin.

He opened the door, reminding himself to be gracious and humble. Durham wasn’t much of a gentleman, but other than fussing about the walk in Vauxhall, he’d been a decent chap as far as Rhys was concerned. He made a small, polite bow. “Sir.”

Durham glared at him. They were of a height, but the duke was down a stair. “Margaret,” he said in a frigid tone. “There you are.”

“Yes. Were you looking for me?”

The duke’s glare could have cut stone at that query. Rhys cleared his throat. “I must beg your pardon, sir, for bringing her away from Carlisle House. I told her of the cupids falling from my ceiling, and she expressed a wish to see them.”

“Cupids,” repeated Durham.

“The plasterwork is crumbling to pieces, Francis,” Margaret said quickly. “It really is quite sad—and just as promised, an actual cupid fell to the dining room floor as we walked through.”

The duke looked right at Rhys. It was a black, murderous look, and he felt a sudden need to cast his motives and intentions in a better light. “It was a sign from the gods,” he said lightly. “I fell to one knee and begged Miss de Lacey for the honor of her hand in marriage.” He covered her hand, still on his arm, with his own. “Most happily, she has agreed.”

“I have,” said Margaret, beginning to beam again. God, how he loved that smile, especially when it was directed at him.

“You have.” Durham didn’t appear surprised by this, but then he must have suspected.

Margaret nodded happily. Rhys decided a little contrition was in order. “I apologize for any impropriety in my actions of late, sir. My only defense is love, coupled with a solemn vow to be more circumspect in the future.”

Durham looked between the two of them and said nothing. “Aren’t you going to wish us happy, Francis?” asked Margaret, still smiling. “You told me I would find someone to have me, and now I must admit you were right; what a happy day this should be for you, as well as for me.”

“You’re in love,” said the duke carefully. “A love match.”

“Very much so,” replied Rhys.

“I see.” Durham roused himself as if from a stupor. “I’ve come to take you home, Margaret. Miss Cuthbert was very confused about where you’d gone.”

“Poor Miss Cuthbert,” she exclaimed. “We became separated in the crowd at the masquerade.” She turned to Rhys. “Good night, my lord,” she said politely, as if she hadn’t been sprawled almost naked in his bed just half an hour before.

“Good night, my darling.” He kissed her knuckles again, stroking his finger the length of her palm until she sucked in her breath and gave him a simmering glance. “May I call upon you this week, Your Grace?”

Durham had already started toward his coach. At Rhys’s question he froze mid-step, then slowly turned back. “Yes, Lord Dowling,” he said. “You should. Margaret?” Without waiting for her, he climbed into the coach.

Reluctantly Rhys released her. “Only a few weeks until you’re mine forever,” he breathed.

“Endless,” she murmured back. “Call on me.”

“Of course.”

He stood on the steps watching until the coach drove off, and walked to the edge of the drive to watch until it disappeared, heading back to Mayfair.

Then he let out a shout of triumph, and swung his fist in the air.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

R
hys arrived in Berkeley Square several days later, brimming with satisfaction. Today would be the beginning of a new period in his life; he would finally put an end to the excruciating decade of disaster. He had called on the Duke of Durham the day after his tryst with Margaret, and the duke was accommodating, if not gracious. He paid that no mind; Margaret had warned him her brother wasn’t best pleased by her choice, but had promised he wouldn’t interfere. Rhys did his best to be humble and keep in mind that the duke was being protective because he cared for his sister, but it was still a rather unpleasant negotiation. It was a relief to conclude matters, shake the duke’s hand, and rush off to spend an hour with his betrothed.

He walked up the steps of the Duke of Durham’s gleaming new mansion and rapped the knocker smartly. By God, what a fine day it was. He was the most fortunate fellow in London, it seemed. Within an hour or so, he would be bound to Margaret in man’s legal eyes, if not yet in God’s eyes. He remembered the feel of her skin beneath his palm, and an unconsciously fierce smile crossed his face. His—in a matter of weeks, or even days.

And the money. His solicitor had looked over the contract sent by Durham, and confirmed all was in order. Rhys was tired of being dunned for unpaid bills, but he truly couldn’t wait to begin building his estate back into what it should be. He pictured Margaret at Dowling Park, her pale beauty vivid and fresh amid the wild Welsh marches, and said a brief prayer of thanks to Clyve’s mother for putting a middle-class spinster on her list of brides.

The butler opened the door and ushered him inside, through the corridors to the duke’s study. There was a lingering smell of freshly cut sawdust, and a whiff of new paint. Rhys surveyed the interior of the house with the eyes of a man who would soon be hiring his own builders and decorators, and liked what he saw. Margaret made many of the choices in the house’s completion, he knew, and he was quite pleased to see her taste was elegant and clean, preferring brightness over dark. There wasn’t a single cupid to be seen. Damn, he was a fortunate man.

Durham was waiting. He was civil enough but had a curious air about him, a sharp tension that plucked at Rhys’s attention. He tried not to let it bother him—he and Durham didn’t need to be friendly relations—but he couldn’t ignore it, either.

“Shall we get on with it?” he asked. “I hope to see Margaret once everything is signed.”

The duke gave an odd twisted smile. “Of course.” He led the way to his desk, where the necessary papers were laid out. Rhys seated himself with barely restrained triumph. This was everything he’d wanted: a wife he could love and desire, and a fortune to restore Dowling for the sons she would give him. Durham pushed the papers his way, and Rhys barely stopped himself from scribbling his name all over them in a blind rush so he could hurry off to Margaret. She must know he was here; would she be waiting for him?

“I made a few minor changes,” said the duke idly. “I trust that won’t cause a problem.”

He nearly grinned and said “of course not,” because almost nothing could keep him from signing these papers and securing Margaret’s hand in marriage, but at the last second he really noticed the duke’s expression. Durham watched him with a heavy-lidded gaze, his eyes hard and cold. He leaned back in his chair as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but the hand on his knee was curled into a fist. Something coiled up in alarm within Rhys’s breast. Durham did not look like a man pleased to be marrying off his spinster sister. He had more the look of a cardsharp about to rook a mark of everything he had.

Rhys did not intend to be the gullible mark. “Ah. If you’ll be so kind as to allow me a moment to review them?”

Durham inclined his head and waved one hand. “By all means.”

He forced himself to read each word of the tedious contract’s first page. This was supposed to have been done already, any differences negotiated between his solicitor and the duke’s. It was ungentlemanly to confront each other this way. He reminded himself Durham hadn’t been a gentleman at all until very recently, and then made himself read even more carefully. Everything appeared normal, just as he had expected, just as Simpkins, his attorney, had told him it would be . . . until he reached the terms of the settlements.

There he found Durham’s minor change. Instead of forty thousand pounds in hard currency, Miss Margaret de Lacey was endowed with only that clothing and jewelry she owned at the date of her marriage, plus five hundred pounds inherited from her father. Nothing else.

His breath roared in his ears. Christ. He had signed contracts, wanting to make the house ready for his bride. Hired workmen. Placed orders. Made commissions. It had all made perfect sense when he was poised to marry the greatest heiress in London this year, but now . . . He was ruined more completely than ever.

“A minor change?” he asked, affecting as calm a tone as Durham used.

The duke’s smile was chilling. “A last-minute reconsideration. Surely you understand.”

Rhys met his gaze, keeping his temper with great effort. “May I inquire into the cause of this reconsideration?”

“A mistake on my part.”

“What did you mistake, sir?”

Any trace of smile, however cold or mocking, was gone from Durham’s face now. “My sister deserves a husband who wants more than her money. She’s not a willful ambitious beauty capable of pursuing her own pleasure while he does the same; she’s not made to live a parallel life with a man she can neither trust nor respect. And she certainly shouldn’t be misled by a calculating seducer.”

His hands shook with fury. “Some might call this breach of promise, Your Grace,” he bit out.

“Ah, breach. You intend to file a suit?” The duke’s face was fierce with victory. “I suppose we could reach an agreement, as gentlemen. No doubt five thousand should atone for any expenses you may have incurred on unrealized expectations.”

Then Rhys saw. Durham didn’t trust him, or didn’t want Margaret to marry him, or simply wanted to exercise his whim. Durham wanted him gone. He expected Rhys to put down the contract and bow out, abandoning his pursuit because the real prize, her dowry, was no longer available. Three weeks ago he would have probably done just that, back when he wasn’t so sure running off to the Continent would be so bad a choice.

But now . . . Now he couldn’t think of it. Now he knew what she looked like when she threw back her head and laughed with sheer joy. Now he knew how capable and sensible and intelligent she was. Now he knew how her arms felt around his neck, what her mouth tasted of, and how intoxicating it was to make love to her.

This was his choice, then. Margaret and her love, or five thousand pounds. A vision of Dowling Park crumbling into the ocean crossed his mind, and the hollow hallways of the London house falling into ruin. He imagined sliding into true poverty, no longer with a mask of gentility, and his stomach knotted.

But then there was Margaret. What sort of man would he be if he bowed out now? If he didn’t sign the papers, what would she think of him? He couldn’t betray her like that, even if doing so wouldn’t have ripped out his own heart and left it to die on the duke’s polished mahogany desk.

“If I sign this contract, I get Margaret and nothing else,” he said, to be very certain. “If I stand up and walk away, you’ll pay me five thousand.”

Durham nodded once.

Slowly, Rhys reached for the pen. He dipped it in the ink, carefully tapping the excess away, and signed the contract with deliberate care. “If you would be so good, Durham.” He pushed the contract across the table and held out the pen.

Durham didn’t move. “You’re a damned fool.”

“Indeed. Your signature, sir.” He kept his eyes trained on the page. After a moment Durham sat forward and reached for the contract. He watched the duke’s hand as he stabbed the pen into the inkpot and then scrawled his name. Sunlight flashed off his gold signet as he reached for the pounce pot and poured it over the wet ink. Only then did Rhys let out his breath in a silent sigh. It was done. “I would like to set a date at once.”

The duke sat back in his chair and watched Rhys with a probing glare. “How are you going to provide for my sister?”

A damned impertinent question, given how he had just crippled the life they might have led. “I won’t question your business acumen, Your Grace, and will thank you not to question mine,” he said through thin lips.

“If she’s ill-treated, I’ll ruin you.”

“I’m already ruined, as you well know,” he retorted acidly, even as the seed of worry sprouted. Would he be able to provide for a wife? Certainly not as Margaret deserved. It was one thing for her to proclaim herself indifferent to his lack of fortune when they both believed she had a large one of her own, and quite another for her to embrace his reduced circumstances for herself. He pictured her admiring the black and pink silk shoes, the diamond buckles glittering in the candlelight, and the worry blossomed into a chilling anxiety. Good God, had he arrogantly thrown away her fortune so blindly? Without asking her? Perhaps she wouldn’t wish to marry him any longer, without the money.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I should like to visit my bride now.” He got to his feet and gave a curt bow. “Good day.”

Durham just inclined his head, eyes still sharp with suspicion. Rhys forced himself to walk calmly until he reached the corridor and was out of sight. He let out a shaky breath. His shirt stuck to his back, damp with perspiration. His mind seemed in shock, jumping from one frantic question to the next without fixing on any answer. He would have to cancel the order for roofing slate—cancel the furniture ordered for Maggie’s sitting room—tell the artist there would be no wedding portrait—tell Maggie—tell Maggie. . .

God help him. He had to tell her she would be marrying into penury. If she still agreed to marry him at all.

He asked the footman where Miss de Lacey was. In the garden, was the reply, and Rhys followed the man out of the house. A number of servants were busy outside, pulling weeds and clearing ground for the new plantings she envisioned. His chest hurt; he could never give her that sort of garden at his house, not now. Fear and dread tore at him. Perhaps she was better off here. Perhaps he ought not even put the choice to her, for she might choose him.

He walked through the garden, his steps falling faster and faster until he was almost running. Ahead, almost by the arbor, he caught a glimpse of her flat straw bonnet, tied on with a bright green ribbon.

She looked up at his approach, but her happy smile faded at his expression. “What’s wrong?” she asked at once, without any form of greeting.

Rhys took her by the hand and pulled her behind him, away from the prying ears of servants. She threw down her basket and clapped her free hand to her hat, hurrying along with him. When they were quite alone, he stopped.

“Rhys, what is it?” she asked again, fully alarmed now.

“Do you love me?” he asked, grasping her arms.

“Do I—? Of course, you know I do,” she protested.

He shook his head. “No. Not that playful, flirting way.
Do you love me?
”

Margaret gaped at him. His fingers dug into the softness inside her elbows, but she barely noticed for the intense, almost agonized, expression on his face. “I do,” she replied quietly but firmly. “More than anyone or anything. Come what may, my heart is yours forevermore.”

His fierce look faded, replaced by relief and a dawning smile. “Thank God. The only way I could have misplayed this . . . mistaken this . . . was if you didn’t love me.”

Margaret didn’t know what to make of that. “Misplayed?” she repeated. “Is there some—some game I do not understand here?”

A vaguely bitter smile crossed his face. “A game. Yes, I do believe it has been a contest.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?” A terrible thought struck her. “Does this involve my brother?”

“Yes.”

Her heart fell a thousand feet. Francis had refused. After all she had said and sworn to him, her brother hadn’t given his consent. “I will tear his bloody head off,” she said venomously. “I will make him rue the day he ever considered contravening my wishes—”

“We signed the marriage contract,” he told her. “Just now. I hope you can assemble your trousseau quickly, for I have no patience for a long betrothal.”

For the second time in minutes, Margaret stared at him, speechless. “What?” she cried. “He—You—he consented? We are truly to be married?”

“Of course.” He grinned at her. “Did you think I would be denied?” And he kissed her. Margaret felt the ground shift beneath her feet, as it always did when his lips touched her. For a while all thought of Francis faded away; who cared for brothers . . . or really anything but Rhys . . . at a moment like this?

“But then why did you look so grim?” she asked several minutes later, when her head had cleared. “Are—are you suffering doubts?”

“Doubts,” he repeated, holding her close. One hand moved soothingly over her back, but then he released her and turned away. “Perhaps. Not for myself, but . . . We did play a little game, your brother and I.”

“A game?” She hovered anxiously beside him. “What sort of game?”