Mutual Consent (27 page)

Babs had never been more glad of anything in her life than when the door crashed open and the earl had stridden into her father’s study. The look on his lordship’s face had set her pulses fluttering with a strange fear, but his cold rage had not been directed at her.

Babs quickly glanced up at the earl’s face and away again. Her father’s contemptuous derision had smashed home the reality under which she lived. She had fallen desperately in love with her husband, but he did not want her. She was naught but an embarrassment and a trial to him, and that was all that she would ever be.

The Earl of Chatworth had lived up to every facet of their bargain. She supposed that she should be grateful, but Babs felt closer to despair than she had ever been before. It was she who had not kept the tone of their bargain. She had had the audacity to fall in love.

A choked sob escaped her.

Lord Chatworth glanced down at her bowed head. “Are you quite all right?” There was no gentleness in his tone.

Babs swallowed and her throat and whole chest burned with the repression of her grief. She tried to speak and for a nightmarish moment she thought she was going to totally disgrace herself. But at last she managed to get out an adequate reply. “Perfectly all right, my lord.”

He frowned at her, but he did not speak to her again. That was the sum of their conversation during the return home.

When the phaeton stopped at the curb, Babs did not wait for the earl to come around and hand her down. She gathered her skirts and climbed down to the sidewalk.

“Babs!”

She heard him, but she did not pause. She ran up the front steps, pushed open the door, and dashed past the astounded footmen to the stairs. It was then that she heard the quick hard rap of his boots on the tiles in the entry hall. She swallowed a sob and climbed faster.

She had reached her bedroom door and her hand was on the brass knob when his heavy hand fell on her shoulder. She was spun ungently about.

The earl’s gray eyes angrily bore down into hers. “Not by a long shot, my lady,” he said softly. Still retaining his hold on her, he reached around her and opened the door. She had stiffened at his touch and perforce he had to pull her with him into the bedroom.

“My lady!” The maid had turned upon their entrance, a glad smile lighting her face. Her expression quickly altered at the earl’s abrupt command to leave. Lucy cast an anxious glance at her mistress’s pale face as she obeyed.

The earl kicked the bedroom door closed. He released his wife abruptly. Babs staggered, then righted herself. She crossed her arms, hugging herself in an unintentional show of fright. Her eyes were huge in her face.

“What was the meaning of that display, madam?” asked Lord Chatworth, his mouth white-rimmed with anger. His fingers flexed slightly with the force of the emotion within him.

Babs glanced swiftly at the movement of his hands. Her mouth went suddenly dry. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“You ran from me,” he said with scarcely bridled anger.

Babs thought she understood then. “I did not intend to embarrass you, my lord. I was not thinking of the servants or-”

“The devil with the servants!” In one swift stride Lord Chatworth reached her and took hold of her shoulders. He shook her harshly. “How dare you accuse me of such pretension! Yes, that is just the expression. I have seen it too many times before—that damnable trepidation in your eyes when you look at me. I can feel the shrinking of your body whenever I deign to touch you. My dear wife, who runs in such fear of me.”

“No! No!’’ Babs started to cry. When he shook her again, her fingers clutched his coat. “Pray do not! You do not understand!”

She was suddenly crushed against his chest. His arms were steel bands about her ribs and his cheek pressed against the top of her head. His breath ruffled her hair. “Do I not?”

His voice was savage, but yet far less threatening than his previous tone. He pulled the bonnet completely free and tossed it aside. Putting a hand through her hair, he dragged back her head so that he could look into her face. His eyes smoldered with anger and something else. “My lady, I understand far more than you suspect. My God, when I think what he would have done to you ...”

Babs attempted to inject a note of lightness into her voice. “I do apologize, my lord. I never intended to enact a Cheltenham tragedy for you.’’ She started to pull out of the earl’s slackened hold.

But Lord Chatworth’s arm tightened about her once more, effectively imprisoning her.

“My lord!” She looked up quickly, the protest dying in her throat at his expression. She had scarcely a second to register the meaning of the strange dark light in his eyes before his lips descended upon hers.

His mouth was demanding, possessing her and tasting of her as though she had no will to call her own. Babs had instinctively stiffened, but all too soon her thoughts were in confusion. His lips assaulted her inexperience, beating down what resistance was left in her. She had dreamed for so long of being held in his arms. For Babs, in those indescribable and chaotic moments, the difference between dream and reality blurred.

His lips, his hands, were everywhere. Her being was played to the erotic music that he evoked. Scalded by burning kisses and stroked to an ever-spiraling heat, Babs perceived only him. She did not know when a rough hand pulled the pins from her hair or when her dress was torn from her shoulders.

She felt softness give beneath her. Her fingertips slipped over bare, warm flesh and entangled in silky hair. The warmth that enveloped her shifted away. She opened her eyes confusedly. The earl stared down at her, braced with his muscular arms upon either side of her, his breath quickened. His half-hooded eyes were ablaze. “We shall do better than we have done,” he promised softly. Then his head dipped and his lips caught hers again.

Babs moaned low in her throat. Her arms of their own volition wound about his neck. Slowly, the earl dropped into her embrace.

When Babs woke, she sighed a little. It had been such a peculiarly vivid dream. Never before had she dreamed of the earl with such clarity. The heat rose in her as she recalled certain details.

The significance struck her with horrible clarity. She started up, swiveling at the same time as she snatched the bedsheet close.

A lazy arm pinned her back against the bed. The earl smiled down into her horrified green eyes. He wore the peculiar smile that she particularly disliked.

“Surely my lady does not wish to rise so soon,” he said, a note of laughter in his quiet voice.

“You . . . were ...” Words failed her. She closed her eyes, feeling a burning shame. She had not dreamed it, after all. It had all been too ghastly, too wonderfully, real.

“Yes, my lady wife. It has been an altogether refreshing interlude, and easily one I could wish to prolong.” His fingers twined in her glorious hair where it lay splashed across the white pillow.

Babs swallowed against the sudden jump of her heart into her throat. She opened her eyes to look up at her husband, but he was not looking directly at her. His gaze was still on her hair and there was an abstracted frown on his face.

As though he felt her wary scrutiny, the earl’s glance turned to meet hers. His eyes filled with an unholy amusement. “My dear Babs, I may have seduced you, but I do not think that you can have many complaints. As I recall, you were not precisely unwilling.”

A flush burned her face. It was true, what he said. She had been anything but unwilling. She had been altogether wanton. Babs wondered what her aunt might have said to that. Lady Azaela had warned her of what to expect of a gentleman, but she had not breathed a word of what to expect of herself.

Babs knew that she was in an untenable position, but she gathered what shreds of dignity she still possessed and said, “I have but one complaint, my lord. Our agreement was made for a marriage of convenience. I cannot recall anything said of seduction, willing or otherwise.”

Lord Chatworth’s face split in a dazzling grin. He shook his head admiringly. “True, my dear lady. But, then, our agreement was in some respects incredibly shortsighted.”

Babs silently and wholeheartedly agreed. When she had made her pact with the Earl of Chatworth, she had then had no notion that she would fall in love with him, or that their agreement would become such a burden to her very happiness.

The earl sat up and in a single fluid motion pulled her up to sit beside him. With an elaborate care that made her bite her lip in vexation, he tucked the sheet chastely about her so that she was decently covered. He slanted his own peculiar smile down at her. “I hope that you are comfortable, lady wife.”

“Quite comfortable,” lied Babs. She was resting against his side, and his arm encircled her. The warmth of his long torso and of his arm was distracting to the coherence of her thoughts.

“I am glad of it, for we have business to discuss.”

Lord Chatworth’s voice had lost its intimate quality and the words were clipped. An icy stake was driven into the insulating warmth. Her mind cleared instantly. “Yes, my lord?”

Her chin was caught between hard fingers. Startled, she looked up into the cool expression of his eyes.”Understand me once and for all, Babs. I am Marcus to you, whether you will it or not. That is one thing that will come out of the sharing of this bed.” His voice was harsh.

“I understand.’’ He released her then and her lashes swept down to hide the swift angry tears. Her fingers folded and refolded the sheet covering her. She had thought the measure of her humiliation full before, but she was discovering that he had the capacity to exact more than she had ever thought possible.

“I am glad. As I told you, we shall deal better than we have done before. That is my promise.”

Babs’ eyes flew to his face, then away. She thought she understood all too well. The tenets of their agreement had come completely undone and what Lady Azaela had predicted and warned her of was coming to pass. The Earl of Chatworth had grown tired of possessing a wife in name only. Her pulse beat dully at the thought, whether in revulsion or in fascinated anticipation she was not certain. She had yearned for just such a thing to come to pass, after all. But of one thing she was quite certain: she loved him, and nothing at all could ever change that.

“However, our own considerations must be set aside yet awhile longer. Your father must be our primary concern just now. His ultimatum does change matters slightly,” said Lord Chatworth. He reached to brush her hair back so that it no longer partially curtained her face. “Babs, what were you trying to accomplish this morning? You must have known that it was a futile gesture.”

Babs held herself quite still. She did not want to meet his eyes. “I am grown weary of my father’s interference, Marcus. I thought that if I could remove the vowels from his possession, then he could no longer blackmail you to do his bidding. And we would be free of him at last.”

Lord Chatworth sighed. “My very foolish wife, did it never occur to you that as a man of honor, even if the vowels were destroyed, I could never have let go of proper payment? Can you not understand, Babs? A gentleman’s debts of honor must be paid, no matter of the consequences to himself or to others.”

Some part of her snapped loose of her careful control. “What I understand—and all too well, my lord—is that you have consistently refused any offer of help from me,” she flashed. “I thought our agreement was to work together to be free of my father, but not once have you taken my help seriously. These last months I have been confused by your scorning of my aid, but at last I have come to the one unmistakable conclusion that makes any sense, and that is that I am my father’s daughter, naught but an encumbrance and an embarrassment that must always remind you of your own humiliation. Your hatred of my father is quite strong, but a part of it has always been reserved for me as well, has it not, my lord?”

The anger in his eyes was unmistakable. She gasped when he rolled over to imprison her between his elbows. Shrinking back against the pillow, Babs held her breath. He bit off his answer to her accusation. “I should make you eat every last lying word, madam. But I have not the time, just now.”

The earl eased himself away from her and left the bed. He walked across the room to his discarded clothing, completely unaware of the view that he afforded his wife or of the blushing aversion of her gaze. He dressed swiftly in his buckskins and shirt, then bent to pick up his boots, coat, and wrinkled neckcloth. When he had finished dressing, he regarded her unsmilingly. “I have a few matters to set in motion if I am to meet your father’s deadline on the morrow. You must trust me, Babs. After it is all done, why, we shall continue this discussion. On that, lady wife, you have my word.” Lord Chatworth strode to the door that connected her bedroom to the pretty sitting room and to his own bedroom beyond. The door crashed behind him.

Babs was left staring at the door. She could scarcely make any sense of what had just happened. She knew only that this morning she had made a complete and utter fool of herself, first by attempting to make right a matter that her husband would not allow her to involve herself in, and then by tumbling willy-nilly into his arms. She wasn’t quite sure what he had meant in his parting words, but somehow there had been conveyed a threat, of that much she was certain. She pounded on the coverlet with frustration. What did it all mean, and more to the point, what, if anything, did the Earl of Chatworth feel for her?

The earl did not return until very late that evening. Babs had remained in the drawing room until long past her usual hour, waiting for his lordship.

When she heard his voice and his firm step in the entry hall, she flew to the drawing-room door. She stood just inside the opened door, her gaze rested on the earl’s face. He looked drawn and deep lines bracketed his mouth. But when his eyes fell on her, he smiled. “Babs.”

She felt the warmth rise in her at his easy recognition. She went to him and gently took his arm. “Come into the drawing room, Marcus. Smithers will bring you a cold collation,” she said, throwing a look toward the butler. He nodded understanding and quietly relayed the order.