Midnight Scandals (18 page)

Her luck had officially run out.

John let go of her. “Go back, then,” he said. “But, Mary… We’re not through.”

Her limbs felt heavy. She was nothing but ice, through and through.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I know.”

It was better this way. She would be ice, and she would survive.

Chapter Four

T
HE LITTLE COTTAGE WHERE
J
OHN
was staying sat halfway up the hill; the window in the front room overlooked the farm. It had been built years ago, for a one-time widowed sister, long since passed away. Beauregard had offered it up as a potential residence during his stay. He’d not meant it seriously—the farm, he said, would have so many more comforts—but John had leaped at the chance. No need to disturb Beauregard in the morning, he’d explained, and besides, this way, he could contemplate the shape of the land from on high.

All good enough excuses, but the real reason he’d opted for the makeshift few rooms up the hill was the solitude he had in the evening.

Tonight, he was too exhausted to talk to anyone. From the morning work supervising the drainage, to the whirlwind tour of the best families within riding distance, he’d been busy for every hour of the day.

And then there had been that afternoon meeting with Mary. That had sucked the life right out of him.

With another early morning ahead of him, he’d prepared for bed. But night had come and sleep had eluded him. After an hour spent staring at the darkened ceiling—tired, but not sleepy—he’d donned loose trousers and gone for a glass of brandy. But the spirits hadn’t driven away his cluttered thoughts. They’d only muddled them further.

He hated, absolutely
hated,
that even now, after he’d discovered the truth of Mary’s character, she still reminded him of the woman he had intended to wed. It wasn’t just her fine, almost fragile, beauty. He’d learned his lesson well enough on that score: Never trust fine appearances.

It wasn’t even her scent, compelling though that was, nor the inviting curve of her lips. No; Mary had always been able to set him back on his heels, and today she’d done it again.

Trust in my greed, if you don’t believe in my morals.

A few offhand inquiries had borne out her claims. She had only two everyday gowns. She rarely left Doyle’s Grange, and when she did, she spoke to no one.

“So it didn’t turn out as she expected,” he muttered, taking a sip of brandy. “Small surprise that criminal behavior didn’t pay.” Maybe she’d lied for her father’s sake, and he’d abandoned her. Maybe she’d had the money once, but had lost it gambling. He’d been fooled once by her. He’d let her go, so determined to prove by his gentlemanly conduct that he was fair, generous, even though she…

I don’t love you.

He took another long gulp of brandy, but the burn that traveled down his throat didn’t distract him. He didn’t want her. It no longer hurt to remember that he’d fooled himself so badly. So why did it still sting to remember her saying that?

He let out a frustrated, exhausted sigh and took another sip—discovering, in surprise, that he’d reached the end of the tumbler. How was that possible? He’d just refilled it.

The spirits, though, only seemed to increase the weight on his soul—and on his eyelids.

He did believe her. That was the problem. He believed that if she had the partnership’s eight thousand pounds, she wouldn’t be here. If she was a hardened criminal, she’d have changed her name and fled the country. He’d seen the fraying cuffs of her gown—had even recognized the fabric as a made-over version of one she had used to wear, back in Southampton.

No doubt things had not been easy for her.

“She brought it on herself,” he said.

He’d believed it that afternoon. He’d make himself believe it again in the morning. But now…

Right now, half-drunk and completely maudlin, some part of him hoped that she
had
lied to him about at least one thing. He hoped that she had loved him. It was vindictive and cruel of him, but he wished that she’d suffered. That while he’d been back in Southampton, discovering day by day what a fool she’d made of him, she’d missed him. That she still wanted him enough to beg for his forgiveness, all so he could have the pleasure of saying no.

But true anger took energy. He could feel it sapping from his limbs as the night encroached. Sleep was finally catching up with him, and his unquiet thoughts slowly settled into a gentler mode. He set his brandy down and let his wandering imagination take him.

The first time he’d seen her, she’d been sitting at a pianoforte, preparing to play. She hadn’t looked at anyone or anything, not even the sheet music in front of her. She had simply sat, seeming so distant and far away.

Then she had begun to play, and John had been utterly lost. It wouldn’t have mattered who she was or where she’d come from. He’d heard her play, and that was the end of all rational thought. And so he’d pursued her as assiduously as he’d ever done anything, holding his breath the entire time. He understood machinery and chemicals and germination; all he knew about women was that they giggled when he came near.

But Mary hadn’t giggled. She’d smiled. They’d talked. Conversation had led to courtship.

And then one night, he’d handed her down from a carriage and found himself utterly unable to relinquish her fingers. His other hand had stolen about her waist, and he’d pulled her to him until her skirts surrounded his legs. He’d set his lips to her neck, not quite daring to touch her mouth.

But she’d turned her head, letting him kiss her.

They hadn’t said anything. They had only breathed in tandem,
wanting,
and he’d known then that he would ask her to marry him—and that she would say yes.

He wasn’t good with women, but he’d thought that moment was real. When he found out she’d lied to him…

That space between waking and sleep was slippery. It took the fury that he’d worked so hard to maintain during the day and turned it sideways. He couldn’t work himself into a rage. He couldn’t sustain any emotion more lasting than regret. Longing and anger twined together, and as usual, he drifted into sleep…and a dream that gave voice to desires he had not fully relinquished. He didn’t want just a kiss, but an embrace. He didn’t imagine the entwining of their gloved hands, but their bare bodies, skin to skin.

He could almost feel the warmth of her body next to his. But this time, there was no threat of discovery, no need to restrain himself. He didn’t need to be angry with
this
version of Mary. She was nothing but a dream, nothing but phantom caresses, haunting kisses.

She was naked, as women in sensual dreams often were. She trailed her hands down his chest to touch his navel, the waistband of his loose trousers. Somehow, his dream shifted to some nondescript bed in a nameless room. In the way of dreams, she straddled him—soft and warm, a welcome weight on top of his hips. He was hard beneath her, hard and desperate.

But for all her brazen nakedness, dream-Mary’s touch was hesitant. She didn’t grab his member (alas) or take him inside her (double alas). She touched her fingertips to him—lightly, in threes.

It reminded him of watching her play the pianoforte that first time—as if she were finding chords on his body. If only he could listen well enough, he might make out the melody. But his dream was silent…and still too chaste.

“Ah God, Mary,” he said. “Put me out of my misery already, and suck my cock.”

Speaking shattered the pretense of dreaming. He’d said those words aloud—he could feel his vocal chords vibrating in a way that brought him back to reality.

The moment before he opened his eyes seemed impossibly long. It wasn’t some indeterminate bed under him, but the sofa in the front room at Oak Cottage. The night air was still warm around him, disturbed by the soft sounds of wind. And there was someone atop him.

His hands rested on hips. Warm, bare skin met his fingers. Muscles tensed in those hips, and the weight shifted above him.

He fought for consciousness, breaking into wakefulness, and opened his eyes.

“Holy Mother of Christ,” he swore, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Because Mary was really here. She
was
naked on top of him. And she’d only hesitated that instant, before her hands went to the drawstring of his trousers, no doubt to implement his last command.

It was her eyes that shocked the last vestiges of drowsiness from him. They were pale and flat, entirely devoid of desire.

He caught her hands at his waist, pulled away from her, and pounded his fist into the cushion of the sofa in sheer sexual frustration. “I swear on Ovid and the Bible. What the
hell
are you doing, Mary?”

You don’t have to stop her
.

Yes. Yes, he did.

“I’m delivering a full accounting,” she said. No tone in her voice. None at all. She removed her hands from his and reached for his trousers once more. “Shall I continue?”

He brushed her hand away. “I was asleep. I didn’t mean what I said.” But his cock thrummed, putting the lie to his words. “And what do you mean,
a full accounting?
I don’t want your…your person.” More lies. He tried to concentrate on her face, but he couldn’t help but take in all of her—those small, round breasts, so close to his face; the curve of her side in the moonlight. Christ alive.

She raised her chin. “But it won’t balance without me. That’s what I came here to tell you. Would you like to know where all that money went? It went to a select finishing school in Vienna. It paid for journeys to and fro—for a private companion, and a German tutor, and lessons on the pianoforte from a true master. My father knew I loved playing, and so spared no expense. He stole all that money for me.”

God, those words sounded so bitter.

“Ah, Mary.” He wasn’t sure what to think, what to say.

“All that money, and now the only thing of value that I have is—”

He put his hand over her mouth, but she moved away.

Her chin rose. “I know the way of the world better than I once did. I’m not a lady any longer. Everything about me can be traded. My labor. My time.” Her voice faltered, but she drew a deep breath. “My body.”

And a very lovely body it was. He didn’t mean to keep looking at her, but the faint starlight from the window illuminated everything to her waist. And as for the portions below, hidden in shadow—they were inches from his hands. He could explore them, find out everything that was cloaked by darkness. She’d always smelled of sugared lemon, and this time, if he tasted her, she wouldn’t stop him.

Hell, she’d just volunteered for the task. It wouldn’t even be
wrong
. Well, maybe only a little wrong.

“Bloody temptation.” He pushed himself to his feet, and strode back to the bedchamber. “Stupid, bloody cock,” he muttered, giving the offending organ a thump. It made no response. “No morals to speak of.” Still rock-hard. Still desperate. Reprimands, clearly, did no good. He yanked a blanket from his bed, and marched back into the front room.

She was sitting up and watching him, her arms crossed over her breasts.

He dumped the blanket over her shoulders, covering up all that luminous, tempting skin. He could still smell her.

“Christ,” he muttered, and grabbed a chair from across the room. This he placed a good two feet away from her, and then he sat.

She didn’t say anything. Silence enveloped him. Her breath was shallow.

“Calm yourself. I’m not going to accept your offer.” Which was a true act of heroism. “I don’t hate you that much.”

She didn’t look at him. She wasn’t even really hearing what he said, he realized. “I know it can’t make up for what you lost,” she was saying. “I’m simply sick, thinking of those thousands of pounds just stuck in my skin with no way to give them back. It wouldn’t be enough, but can’t you just…take it anyway?”

Couldn’t he, though? For a moment, he indulged in a fantasy. He could make it good for her. So good, she’d lose the flat intonation in her voice. She’d smile again, a warm smile that would encompass her eyes. He’d be generous, and she’d be happy, and…

And that was lust talking again, not logic. How exactly would that happen? Because he had a cock made of magic? Unlikely.

Temptation was a bleeding monster.

He sighed and reached forward, wrapping the blanket more firmly about her shoulders. “It would be like trading oranges for moonlight.” He tucked one corner about her waist like a belt. “Besides, even if the exchange had made sense, it wasn’t my money at risk. It was my nephew’s. He’s seven years old.”

She looked up at that. Their eyes met, and this time, he wasn’t even sure what passed between them.

“How awkward,” she finally said.

Her hand rested on the cushion next to her. Her fingers moved, making unconscious chords. This time, if he listened, he could almost hear the music—a sonata by Mendelssohn he had once heard her play.

“I can’t make this right.” Her voice was low.

“Maybe,” he suggested, “if you tell me everything that happened…”

“I—” She choked on the remaining words. Her shoulders trembled. Her breathing grew even more ragged, and she pulled her arms around her, swaying from side to side. “It was—”