Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (23 page)

A low giggle slipped out between Lady Anne’s gloved fingers as she held them to her rosy lips and exclaimed in a gasp of part horror and part amusement, “
Danforthe
won
her
in
a
wager?
”

All other conversation faded away. The baroness fanned herself rapidly, beaming from one ruby to the other. Everyone now looked at Molly.

“Is that true?” Lady Anne demanded. “Jumping Jacks! How positively scandalous. And yet so like you, Danforthe.”

She couldn’t feel anything. Sinjun Rothespur looked mortified, but the Duke of Preston, who had clearly imbibed too much liquor even before he came to the party, bellowed with laughter. “Not exactly the case. He didn’t win her in the wager. Miss Robbins
was
the wager.”

Molly couldn’t look at Carver, who still stood behind her. If his good friend Sinjun was not staring at the carpet and wiping sweat from his brow, she would not have believed the nasty remark. Rothespur’s guilt-wracked countenance, however, suggested it was true, and then the duke added, “Seems I owe you my best hunter, Danforthe.” He blew out a cloud of gray cigar smoke and coughed. “You worked that one in record time.”

Although only the duke was laughing, that sound echoed around the drawing room until it felt as if they all laughed. She was surrounded by faces that were either embarrassed for her or ready to mock. Even Lady Anne, of whom she’d grown fond, was looking as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or frown.

“You know that’s not true, Covington.” Carver’s deep, angry voice passed over her head while Molly sat very still and straight, unable to move or even swallow. “Apologize to Miss Robbins. Now.”

“You always said you could have anyone you wanted,” the duke replied. “So I challenged you to get her into bed. Next thing I know, you’re canoodling with her at Vauxhall Gardens.”

“I never accepted your stupid wager.”

She saw a movement in the corner of her eye and knew Carver had sprung forward, but Sinjun Rothespur jumped up from his seat and put himself in the way. “I think you’d better leave, Covington.”

“Why’s ’at?” The portly drunk slurred, “’S the truth. The damn truth, I say.”

The baroness stood and closed her fan with a snap. “I’m quite ready to leave. I’ve never been to such a dull party. Really, I thought it might at least be interesting in a morbidly curious way—a novelty—but I was wrong. It seems the poor can be just as tedious company as some immensely rich folk of our acquaintance.” She sauntered to where the duke sat and offered her elegant hand to help the corpulent fellow to his feet. “Let’s leave, Fletcher darling. We’ve done our part for charity this evening. If he chooses, Danforthe can pander to that talentless little seamstress and prop her up with every penny of his fortune. That doesn’t mean we all have to treat her as if she’s something other than what she is.”

Mumbling under his breath, the tipsy duke got up and let her lead him to the door, only a few paces ahead of Sinjun, who signaled to a footman to escort them out, and even fewer paces ahead of Carver, who would have caught them at the door if his friend did not waylay him seconds before he made contact with the Baroness Schofield’s arm.

Molly was relieved he didn’t reach her in time. The last thing she wanted was to see him touch that woman, even in anger. After all, had he not said to her once that there was only a slender leap from anger to desire? She would much rather he ignored that woman from now on. That was surely punishment of the worse kind for a creature who wanted to be the center of attention however the place was earned.

But tonight she’d done her damage successfully. The villains had stayed just long enough to fire their cannon, and now they sailed away, leaving their victims to pick up the pieces.

***

Carver took Margaret and her friends home, after another half hour of everyone trying to act as if nothing unpleasant had taken place. Lady Anne, at her brother’s gentle urging, had apologized to Margaret and made several indignant exclamations about the rudeness of Covington and his guest. The young lady had been an unwitting pawn in a cruel game, and the baroness knew exactly what she did when whispering her vulgar lie into the inexperienced ear of the loudest squeezebox in the room. Margaret said very little in the carriage returning to Mrs. Lotterby’s house. Her artist friend made a valiant effort to keep the silence from becoming oppressive, but even he lost breath by the time the house was in sight. When the carriage drew to a halt, her two friends went inside, leaving them alone for a moment.

“You do know that was a lie. There was no wager, Margaret.”

She studied his face, her own countenance giving nothing away, closed off from him again. “The baroness told Lady Anne that she heard every word of it while you played billiards.”

“Then she heard half of what happened. I never took that wager. It was Covington acting like an ass, and I never took him up on it.”

She nodded, but her lips were pressed tight, well guarded again.

“I daresay Maria’s vanity wouldn’t let her believe I threw her over for you unless there was some game involved.”

“I daresay,” she muttered, her shoulders wilted, her eyes forlorn.

“If you let her upset you, she’s won,” he added.

“Yes.” But her voice trembled, and he knew she’d been deeply wounded by those spiteful remarks at the party. She might have strong, capable bones, as she liked to say, but she was not made to withstand the force of those cruel blows. Margaret was more fragile than she liked to think.

He curved his hands around her face and lifted it so the lamplight gave him a better view of her features. If those were tears in her eyes, she wasn’t letting them fall, but the sight of several shining droplets caused his heart to ache. He never wanted to see her unhappy. Never. He kissed her. Right there in the street. It was dark, but for those few street lamps, and he did not care who saw anyway. “Tell me you believe me, Margaret.”

“I believe you.”

Thank god she was too sensible to let Maria’s words cause a rift between them. “Let there be no misunderstanding,” he choked out under his breath, “that woman will pay for causing you any pain or embarrassment.”

Her eyes widened. “I would rather you say or do nothing to her. Don’t engage her in the quarrel she clearly wants to have.”

“But she cannot be allowed to get away with it.” His fury against Maria Schofield had frozen into a great solid block of ice in his gut where it sat heavily and would never thaw out again until he’d said his piece to that witch. He was equally incensed by Covington’s behavior—bringing her to that party for one purpose only. Their malicious strike against his Mouse would not go unpunished.

Margaret straightened the collar of his coat. “Please let the matter rest, Danny,” she whispered gently. “I want it forgotten.” Her hands tidied his white scarf, and she paused a moment to look at the initials sewn under the fringed hem, running her finger over the stitches. He was relieved to see her smile, even if it was rather a sad one. “I’m putting my past behind me and moving forward. You must do the same. Promise me.”

He swallowed hard. She looked so young and vulnerable tonight in the light of the gas lamp. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, but they were brave too, fighting, determined.

His own temper had been raging hot, but her words were soothing, calming.

“It’s just about us,” she said. “You and I. That’s all that matters.”

Carver’s heart slowed its beat, and he felt several stone lighter suddenly. She was right. What else mattered?

“Yes, of course.” He gave her another kiss before she walked away, and he watched her pass under the hanging lantern that lit the doorway of the house.

His heart always hurt when she walked away, he realized. He found himself seeking ways to make her stay longer in his embrace, delaying the moment when that pain would come. How sweet she was, yet not naive. Margaret would never act the way Maria Schofield had done tonight. She had no meanness in her, no spite.

Knowing this made him want to earn her respect. He wanted to hold her, protect her, make her trust him. He never wanted to see tears of sadness in her eyes ever again.

He looked up at the sky and took a great breath of the warm night air. Was this how it felt to fall in love? How would he know?

Frankly, it terrified him.

The orders for Ascot kept her busy. Lady Anne Rothespur, anxious to make amends for the unfortunate scene at her party, brought all her young friends to Molly’s shop, and for several hours, while they skipped about among the pattern cuttings and reams of fabric, she could barely hear herself think.

“I do hope you can forgive me,” said Lady Anne. “I really must learn to curb my tongue and not spurt things out the moment they come to me.”

“Impulsive spirit often comes with youth. And you are not the one at fault.”

“But I feel wretched, Miss Robbins.”

“Please do not concern yourself a moment longer. The incident is already gone from my mind. Wiped clean.”

Lady Anne looked pensive, squeezing her gloved palms together, little chin wobbling indignantly. “That frightful rum doxy! When I see her again, I shall set her straight.”

“I think the less said about the entire matter the better, Lady Anne. When a woman feels…affection…for a man, she must take the bad with the good. And no one”—she sighed—“no one is perfect.”

The girl nodded slowly. “My brother says Danforthe has changed, however. He drinks and gambles much less and never goes out now.”

Molly would like to think she had a hand in his reform—if it was more than a passing phase—but it seemed unlikely that her presence in his world could make such a difference. His presence in hers, however, continued to improve not only her life, but the lives of those around her.

Mrs. Lotterby’s house was no longer drafty and damp, Mrs. Bathurst’s health was tended by the Danforthe family physician, and a tearful Mrs. Slater was presented with a brand new spinet, which was just small enough to fit in a corner of her room by the window.

One evening as the lovers lay together on the chaise in her little room above the shop, Molly told Carver the sad story of Mrs. Bathurst’s child and asked if he might help find out what happened to it. The lady’s health was deteriorating, despite the care of Carver’s learned physician, who bled her daily with leeches and tried all manner of new medicines. Molly worried that Mrs. Bathurst would soon depart the mortal world, and the only thing she could possibly do for the lady now was to find her lost son.

“London is a very large place,” Carver replied drowsily, threading his fingers through her hair.

“I know. But I thought the Earl of Everscham could do anything.”

“You are, it seems, the only person who believes that.”

She smiled, lifting her head to kiss him on the lips. “Am I not all you need?”

“Yes,” he replied, not smiling. “You are everything I need.”

Molly laid her head down again on his wide, warm shoulder. “Her son was born about thirty years ago, and poor Mrs. Bathurst never saw him since. I should hate for her to die and never even hold his hand once. Never know what became of him.”

“I daresay he was far better off without her.”

Molly raised her head again. “How could you say such a thing?”

He looked surprised. “An unwed woman cannot raise a child. Look at your friend Mrs. Slater. She has troubles enough, and her child is at least legitimate. A woman who keeps the product of an affair is making a grave mistake. For herself and for the child.”

She stared. He was so somber and certain, his words left her chilled.

“Wherever the son is now,” he added, “I doubt he would care to have his life set asunder by the discovery of his birth mother. They would be strangers after all this time. Boys are resilient creatures, and they can survive a great deal.”

“I do not agree.” Once, not long ago, she could never have said those words to his face. As his servant, she had keep her opinions tucked away. She suspected that not many people ever dared disagree with him. “What do you know of boys, little children?”

“Plenty.” He seemed about to say more, then stopped himself and altered course with a smile. “I was one once.”

But she very much doubted his childhood had been anything like that of Mrs. Bathurst’s son.

He tilted his head against the arm of the chaise. “It surprises me that you are so fond of that lady. She was a courtesan, you know, and you have always been so prim. I would not expect you to approve of her at all.”

“How can I be a hypocrite? I’m a fallen woman now too.”

He blinked, and his eyes narrowed. “But you are not the same. Your situation is different.”

“In what way?” she demanded, annoyed that he could be so apparently callous about Mrs. Bathurst’s situation and overlook her own.

“Margaret”—he stroked hair from her cheek and looped it behind her ear—“you will never be passed from man to man as she was. You belong to me.”

“Only for now.”

His mouth tightened. He said nothing, just stared at her, his features half in shadow. Firelight couldn’t quite reach and only teased her with glimpses.

She was so accustomed to the planes of that handsome face now—to seeing it almost every evening. Her world without him would be a lonely one. She’d given too much of herself in a temporary affair.

When it was over, she would be just like Mrs. Bathurst in many ways—all but one, for she had no child, of course.

“Margaret? You’ve gone very pale.” He sat up, concern lining his brow, his hands reaching to steady her shoulders. “Don’t be upset,” he said. “I’ll see what I can find out about Mrs. Bathurst’s son. If you wish it.”

She thanked him, but the curt way in which he had dismissed the idea of Mrs. Bathurst’s child needing her in his life stayed in Molly’s mind, stuck there like a splinter.

Two days later, while trying on bonnets at a shop on Oxford Street with Mrs. Slater, she chanced to see the reflection of Lady Cecelia Montague over her shoulder in the mirror. She was with a small group of women, and one of them had glanced Molly’s way.

It was a quiet shop, making it easy to pick out the occasional word from other conversations, and Molly heard Lady Cecelia’s words clear as a bell ringing a death toll.

“Yes, that’s her, over there. Everscham’s whore.”

The picture in the mirror became blurred. Her fingers lost their grip on the silk ribbons she’d been tying under her chin. All the breath and blood seeped out of her as if she’d been stabbed in the back by a cruel dagger.

She closed her eyes and saw her mother turn her back, and her father’s hands dropping her out of the warm blue sky.

Had the milliner not approached at that moment to ask if she liked the bonnet, Molly would have toppled from the stool on which she sat. Instead, she waited for the uneasy spell to pass, her hands gripping the display table, shame and humiliation streaking a wide path through her.

Finally she opened her eyes and managed to reply that she thought the bonnet did not suit her. Then she left the shop with Mrs. Slater at her side and Lady Cecelia’s voice rattling around in her head.

Everscham’s whore.

It might as well have been painted on her forehead in scarlet letters. The way he’d once written TOMFOOLERY on her palm.

Everscham’s whore.
That was what the world now thought of her.

***

He was at his club that evening when a message was put into his hand, informing him that a young woman desired an audience. Since women were not allowed inside the club, he had to step outside to meet her. The moment he saw Margaret’s face in the light of the gas lamps, he knew something was amiss, but she gave him no time to ask what. A few fat spots of warm summer rain had begun to fall, already making the silk ribbons of her bonnet stick limply to her shoulder.

“I’m afraid I cannot continue,” she said, words rushing out, scrambling over one another. “This is not what I came to London to be. I have let myself down. I do not blame you, sir. I’m sure it will never trouble you to conduct a private affair in public, but I’m afraid I cannot endure it. This must end now.” She abruptly handed him a small packet. “The remaining payment of your loan, sir.”

Carver waited a moment, thinking he must have misheard. Her hands were clasped again now, and her face solemn. The spark of hope for him was gone from her eyes, and he felt a hard pit in his stomach. “Most amusing, Mouse. What’s the trouble? What couldn’t wait until I saw you later this evening?”

“I cannot see you this evening, sir. Or any other.” Her eyes were dull, unblinking.

“I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you.”

“Certainly you do. I am calling a halt to the foolishness upon which we embarked.”

It sounded as if she got that from a book, he thought. Or had rehearsed it all the way there. In the next beat of his heart, she turned and was walking away. Just like that. As if she had a right to leave his presence without so much as a by-your-leave.

He trotted down the steps and followed, not caring about the rain that fell harder now. “Miss Robbins, you forget something.”

She kept walking. “I doubt it.”

Carver sped up and stepped in front of her. “Our contract. We still have one fortnight.”

“I am canceling the contract.” Head down, she walked determinedly around him, but he followed again. “I have put up with more than enough gossip about you and me,” she added hurriedly, staring at the wet pavement. “It must have been a moment of madness when I agreed to your contract. I thought we could be discreet and civilized, but I see that is impossible for you. Now my success is blighted. They are calling me your whore.”

Margaret walked faster now, not looking back. Carver, standing in the mellow glow of a street lamp, could not think what to do to stop her. He only knew that he could not let her leave. She would not be permitted to abandon their agreement. He was hurting. Badly. She did this to him.

A hansom cab clattered down the street behind him, and he quickly raised his hand to stop the horse.

He leapt up. “Follow that woman,” he yelled. “Don’t let her out of your sight.” Whatever he had to do to keep her longer in his arms, to keep her safe and himself from hurting for as long as possible, he would do it. Regardless of whatever “civilized” rules she hoped to cling to. Besides, she was the one who had called him wild.

He didn’t care much for “civilized” he decided.

***

She heard the hooves galloping after her, but thought it was simply someone in haste to get out of the rain and rushing along the street. The last thing she could have expected was an arm swooping down like a hook, claiming her around the waist and scooping her off her feet.

With a cry of alarm, she found herself dragged into a moving carriage and held prisoner. “Get off me,” she squealed, swinging her fists and heels.

“Never,” he shouted back at her as the vehicle continued on at its reckless speed. “You owe me a fortnight, woman. Two blasted weeks, and I’ll have them. Every minute of them.”

“What are you going to do?” she exclaimed, breathless, her bonnet knocked off her head. “Keep me locked in your cellar, fool man?” How typical of the rogue to think he could manhandle her like this.

“No.” His eyes flared, savage and determined as he loomed over her, pinning her to the rocking seat. “I’m taking you into the country with me.”

“What?”

“We’re going to the Sussex estate, where I shall have your full attention.”

The Earl of Everscham wanted her attention and apparently meant to get it, no matter what he must do. Once the shock had worn off, she was rather thrilled by the prospect. And then quickly ashamed of herself for being so. She resumed her wriggling, although she knew that even if she got free of his arms she could hardly leap out of a racing cab without cracking her skull open on the cobbled street. “I’m not leaving London. I have a business to run, orders to fill. You’ve distracted me long enough already. Let me go, foul beast! Release me at once. How dare you?”

“The contract, madam. You signed it, remember? There is no out clause.”

“Well, I just put one in it.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“You changed it. So can I.”

“Indeed you cannot. You will see this through to the bitter end, damn you, woman! You walked back into my life and turned it all arse about face, just when I thought I was rid of you.”

“I turned
your
life arse about face?”

“Ladies don’t say arse.”

“Arse! Arse! Arse!” she screamed.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re not a lady. You’re a country ragamuffin! I briefly forgot with all these airs and graces you’ve adopted.” He was clearly lacking breath, and she suspected he’d made this decision on the spur of the moment, but his countenance was that of a man satisfied with his actions. There was definitely a wicked smirk pulling on his lips, even as he struggled to keep her from squirming and kicking. Twisting around, he wrestled her into his lap and closed his arms hard around her.

“Fourteen full days to go,” he muttered. “Only then may you leave me.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“Tsk, tsk! You forgot to call me your lordship, Mouse,” he growled, his breath hot against her brow as he held her captive in his lap.

“You’re being ridiculous,
your
lordship
.”

“I am forced to take these dire measures. This is how the landed gentry dealt with difficult women once. It’s in my aristocratic Norman blood.”

“For pity’s sake!”

“Pity?
Pity?
What is this pity? Never heard of it. They don’t teach us that at Eton or Oxford either.”

She groaned. He was impossible. “What
do
they teach you?” She was instantly sorry she asked.

His lips curved against her brow, and he whispered, “Shall I show you here and now?”

“Certainly not!” But it was too late, and her words did not come out as stern as she meant for them to be. His mouth already moved to her cheek and then the side of her neck. She felt the slight graze of his teeth as passion ran away with him as speedily as the horses’ hooves charged down that rain-washed street. There in that rattling carriage, he devoured her, and she realized, perhaps for the first time, the full extent of his powerful strength. Tonight the beast escaped and took her with him.