Rebecca Hagan Lee (10 page)

"I don't need to apologize or explain myself to you."

"As a guest in my home, you owe me some courtesy after turning my life upside down. I'll accept an apology and an explanation."

"That's very magnanimous of you." Her voice was soft and laced with sarcasm.

"I think so." Blake agreed. "You were alone in a carriage riding through town in the pouring rain at half-past seven in the morning wearing a cape and a petticoat and raging with fever." Blake knew he was being unfair. He knew why she'd been without her clothes. He knew why she was alone. What he didn't understand was why she had chosen to run from him when he had been the one to rescue her from Rudolf's amorous intentions. Didn't she realize how lucky she was? "Surely such extraordinary behavior from a first season debutante deserves some explanation. And if you don't care to explain that behavior, you might try explaining why you assaulted me with a necklace while I was trying to help you. Yes, Miss Fairfax, I think you owe me an explanation. Not to mention cab fare."

"Cab fare?" Cristina sputtered. "You'd dare to charge me for the cab fare after commandeering it for your own purpose?"

Blake smiled. A little color had returned to her face. He realized that he preferred the flush of her anger to the deathly white of resignation. "I thought you understood. I'm a man who dares many things. Good evening, Miss Fairfax." Blake delivered his parting shot and left her fuming.

Cristina stared at the bowl of broth, wondering if she dared fling it and the tray across the room. He had no right to treat her so high-handedly when he'd treated her so kindly once before. She hadn't asked to become his houseguest. She hadn't asked him to assume responsibility for her. She hadn't asked for anything except to be left alone. She appreciated the care he had given her during her illness, but she didn't need it any longer. She needed to be on her own and she had no intention of exchanging her mother's domination for Lord Lawrence's. She intended to use the necklace as her avenue to freedom. She would sell it. And once it was sold, she would pay Lord Lawrence for his dubious hospitality and use the remainder of the cash to join her father.

The thought of the cash the necklace would yield comforted Cristina. It meant she had the means to pay her way. It was reassuring to know she wasn't alone and penniless. Reassuring. Until she remembered that the last time she'd seen the necklace he had held it in his hands, demanding an explanation. His hands, not her own.

She had been asleep for a long time. The necklace could be anywhere. She had to get it back. And with that thought in mind, Cristina picked up the spoon and began to spoon the tepid broth into her mouth with grim determination.

My only books

Were women's looks

And folly's all they've taught me.

--THOMAS MOORE 1779-1852

*Chapter Eight*

Hours later, Mackie peeked into the sickroom to check on her patient and found Cristina curled up on the big bed. The girl was sleeping like an angel and Mackie couldn't help wondering what had happened to make Master Blake storm into the kitchen and demand his dinner be served in the library instead of in the sickroom with Miss Fairfax as planned. Nor could she understand why he'd gone into the library muttering blasphemies about "that ungrateful girl."

She shook her gray head. No doubt the strain of staying up and worrying about the young lady during the night and working during the day had taken its toll on Master Blake.

Mackie was mistaken. The strain of work and worry had very little to do with Blake's explosive frame of mind. For one split second when Cristina had stubbornly refused to take the broth, she had reminded him of Meredith.

Unfaithful, deceitful Meredith, crushing his youthful dreams of love.

He stood staring into the flames that licked at the dry, seasoned logs in the fireplace, hoping to quell the unreasonable anger that surged through his body. He had lost control and allowed his temper to get the best of him and that was something that surprised him as much as it appalled him. He almost never lost control of his temper. Men in his position could lose everything they had worked so hard to gain simply by losing control of their emotions.

Exposed emotions made a person vulnerable to his opponents and Blake had vowed never to be vulnerable again. He refused to let anyone have the upper hand over him and hiding his true feelings behind a mask of indifference that gave nothing away had become second nature. But that slip of a girl, not even old enough to know her own mind, had penetrated his stony exterior and caused him to lose control of his carefully guarded emotions. It infuriated him to know she could get under his skin without realizing what she was doing.

He turned away from the fire. The copper flames reminded him of the young woman who lay upstairs tempting him. Getting rid of the little vixen with her alluring body and her sword-sharp tongue would be a relief. The sooner he had her out of his house and out of his mind, the better.

As soon as she was on her feet again, he was sending her home where she belonged. But before he allowed her to leave, he intended to find out how she came to have that particular necklace in her pocket.

He tossed off another brandy and walked to the safe behind the portrait of his great-grandfather, the sixth marquess of Everleigh and restorer of the family fortune. Blake moved the portrait aside and spun the dial of the hidden safe. He pulled down firmly on the handle and the door of the safe swung open to reveal its contents.

The necklace lay nestled in a box lined with soft black velvet and alongside of it lay a matching bracelet and a pair of drop earrings. Blake had recognized the necklace the moment he'd held it in his hand. He had designed it himself and had it made for his bride. His bride. Meredith. His beautiful, faithless bride.

Blake rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers as the memory of his impetuous courtship and marriage returned to haunt him.

Meredith Brownlee had been the darling of Sussex. A spoiled, beautiful girl with an adventurous streak and a flair for riding to the hounds. Being the youngest of five children and the only daughter of an impoverished squire had left its mark. She was pampered, willful, and absolutely ruthless in obtaining her heart's desire. And despite her family's lack of wealth, she was the envy of every young girl in the village, the desire of every young man who was fortunate enough to glimpse her riding across the meadows dressed in a blue velvet habit with her long, ebony-black hair whipping in the wind.

Blake had seen her that way. He was home from Oxford and preparing to take up his post in Vienna when he caught sight of Meredith flying across the fields on a roan horse with all the fury of a modern-day Joan of Arc. His heart had pounded at the sight. And he'd decided then and there to have her for his very own.

The courtship was fast, furious, and so intense, Blake paid no attention to second thoughts. He was too enthralled by the breathtaking beauty of Meredith--too caught up in the dream of having her. He had never once paused to ask himself if Meredith returned his affections. He never wondered why she agreed to the courtship though she barely responded to his kisses. Blake didn't want to know why she agreed. He only cared that she had. He told himself she was shy, that she would learn to love him because he couldn't stand to think that she might not. He couldn't stand to think that his wealth might be more of an attraction for Meredith than he was. So he never asked. He never delved too deeply. He simply pursued her with single-minded determination to have what he wanted. And he won.

His four-week holiday flew by and at the end of the month, the little village of Everleigh was dazzled by the marriage of Meredith Brownlee to Blake Ashford, the ninth earl of Lawrence. The groom's father, Lord Everleigh, the marquess of Everleigh, had spared no expense for the wedding of his only son and the result was every young girl's dream of a wedding.

The bride was a vision of loveliness in her cream-colored satin gown, her black hair braided with sprays of orange blossoms. The groom, equally resplendent in an elegant, striped morning suit, stood tall and handsome beside his bride in the village church.

They made a handsome couple.

Everyone agreed. They were perfectly matched. Blake thought so, too, until he kissed his bride.

Their first exchange as husband and wife had been revealing. Too revealing.

It was a greedy kiss, grasping and desperate, but devoid of love or tenderness. It was passionless. It was disgusting. It was faked. Meredith pretended overwhelming passion but she shuddered with disgust and a barely concealed tolerance of his touch.

It was as if a veil had been lifted from Blake's eyes. He had been so blinded by her beauty that he hadn't been able to see what was clearly visible. She didn't want him.

Nigel had seen it as had Beth, Nigel's wife, and his own parents. They had all tried to caution him not to be too hasty, but he hadn't listened to them.

Marry in haste, repent in leisure. The idle phrase ran through Blake's mind as he stared down at the emerald creation that had triggered the Pandora's box of his memories. He had repented and repented and repented. He had repented for six bloody years--until mercifully, the farce had ended.

Blake jabbed his fingers through his hair. Had there ever been a bigger farce than his wedding? He remembered brooding all through the reception following the wedding. He had stood in the midst of the celebration and gaiety accepting congratulations, and wondering how he would cope with the ugly realization that his wife--his bride--didn't return his affections, until Meredith interrupted him.

"Darling, I'm going upstairs to change."

"I'll go with you," Blake suggested.

"No." Her objection was hasty. Too hasty. She tried again, softer this time. "No, stay and enjoy the reception a while longer. I need a few minutes alone. To get ready." The words rolled off her tongue convincingly, but Blake was aware only of the fact that his wife was stalling--delaying her wedding night.

He told himself it was natural for a bride to be nervous, to dread the unknown, but a seed of doubt had been planted. He wondered about his wedding night. And, as he wondered, he ceased to look forward to it. He dreaded what he would find. A stone-cold wife. A wife who hated his touch. He prayed he'd be wrong, prayed he'd misread the situation. He hoped he was mistaken, hoped he'd find passion and love.

Blake had waited an hour, then half an hour more before he made his way up the stairs. He paused outside his bedroom then tapped on the door. He knew what he would find as soon as he heard the voices, the urgent, unmistakable murmurs of lovers. Still he had waited, delaying the inevitable, listening through his bedroom door like a thief or a spy--or a betrayed husband.

The jewelry box slipped out of his grasp and dropped to the tabletop and Blake squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for a brief moment that he could finally blot out the ugly image burned in his memory. When he opened his eyes again, he fixed his sight on the mantel, then walked over and poured himself another brandy, waiting for the pain to begin--waiting for the vivid, wrenching knife of betrayal to turn in his gut at the remembered sight. A snort of self-contempt for the boy he'd been escaped him. He had wanted so desperately to find Meredith consumed by passion. And he had.

She was so consumed by passion she'd risked discovery on her wedding night.

The memory of that night and the voices assailed him.

"Goddammit, Meri, this was a stupid idea! He could walk in at any minute."

The man snarled at her between grunts and groans. "Did you even bother to lock the door?"

"Of course not." She laughed. "The thrill of discovery has always lent a certain edge to the fun."

"You're crazy," he muttered.

"I always have been. About you. For as long as I can remember." She gasped in pleasure and a series of whimpers escaped her.

"If he walks ... in ... everything ... is ... ruined."

"Not necessarily." She paused to kiss her lover. "He might enjoy watching.

Or even participating. A threesome might be enjoyable. I might even be able to bear his touch if you were here helping."

"The way you help with the serving girls?" They shared a laugh. A secret lover's laugh. And, on the other side of the door, Blake had clenched his fists in anguished impotence. He knew that voice. That laugh. He'd heard it many times before. He struggled to maintain control, agonizing between the need to see for himself and the desire to remain in the bliss of comparative ignorance.

"I can't help it." Meredith purred, "I'm so jealous of them. You've spoiled me for other men. I don't like it when you take other women."

"They're just a substitute for you. For when it's too dangerous for us to be together," he groaned.

"Truly?"

"Truly," he promised.

"What about your wife?" Meredith asked.

"She means nothing to me," he avowed. "Now open up, my beauty. Spread your legs for me. Let me in."

"Oh, God! Oh, Jack!" In the moment of supreme pleasure, Meredith cried out her lover's name.

And Blake quietly opened the door.

She lay on the huge bed, the bodice of her wedding gown open, her lush breasts exposed and glistening with the wetness of Jack's mouth. Her skirts were crushed about her waist, the satin crinkling in rhythm to the man pumping between her legs. Jack. Her lover.

His first cousin.

Blake fought to keep from retching at the sight of his bride with his cousin. The man who had always been as close as a brother was sprawled between Meredith's thighs. For the first time in his life, Blake wanted to kill. Both of them. "Get off." His voice was calm, his actions clearly restrained as he grabbed Jack by the back of his collar, pulled him from the bed, and flung him into the opposite wall. Jack howled as his nose smashed forcefully into the wall.

"Cover yourself!" he ordered Meredith, ignoring Jack's cry.

She ignored him. She continued to lie with the bodice of her wedding gown open and her skirts bunched up around her waist as the mark of his cousin's possession seeped down her inner thighs.