The Madcap Marriage (12 page)

“Very well. We’ll leave in the morning,” he murmured, abandoning further discussion for the lure of seduction.

“Thank you.” Her green eyes glowed.

Her hip pressed against a burgeoning erection. He licked her lips, then covered them. His temperature soared.

“Rafe!” she gasped as his hand cupped her breast, teasing its nipple into a hard ball.

Easy
, he admonished himself as his hips flexed against her. He was supposed to bind her with passion, not succumb to his own.

But her response drove his need higher than ever. Every touch sent sparks raging through his body. Every moan heightened his need. It took all his considerable control to defer acting on the fantasies raging through his mind. He longed to toss up her skirts and take his pleasure. It had been years since he’d last coupled in a carriage.

But he couldn’t. They were already in Maddox Street.

“We’ll finish this later,” he murmured, smoothing her gown as he forced calm over his ragged breathing.

She was too stunned to respond.

He smiled as his groom let down the steps. By the time he actually bedded her, she would be blind with desire.

* * * *

Brockman had already arrived for their daily meeting. Rafe introduced him to Helen, then headed for Hanover Square, accompanied by his secretary, Barnes.

Number fourteen was on the west side, part of a brick terrace constructed shortly after passage of the Building Act of 1774. Helen was right about its size. The terrace was second-rate, according to law, so the units were a modest three bays wide and three stories high, occupied mostly by merchants. Cramped, though it would do for now.

The iron railing around the kitchen area was rusting. A glance into the area itself revealed broken steps and enough dirt to start a garden. The staff had clearly skimped on cleaning.

No one answered the front door. The knocker was down, but there should have been a caretaker.

“It’s unlocked, sir,” said Barnes, testing the latch.

“Damn.” That could only mean trouble.

Entering confirmed his fears. The hall was littered with debris from deliberate, wanton destruction. Someone had hacked the walls and turned the banister to kindling. Shards of mirrored glass were everywhere. “I should have sent Sir Steven to Bow Street,” he growled. But he’d considered Steven’s attack a momentary burst of temper. The man should have come to his senses by the time he reached the street.

He’d been wrong.

Rafe glared at the destruction. If Helen had explained Steven’s obsession earlier, this wouldn’t have happened.

A quick tour revealed damage in every room, though not as bad as to the hall. Her trunk stood upstairs, her clothing scattered but intact. Any jewelry was gone, though, along with any money she might have had. He wondered what else was missing.

“Stay here,” he ordered Barnes. “Find out where the staff is – the neighbors should know. If Sir Steven turned them off, rehire them and order an inventory. Otherwise hire new. Arrange for repairs, and I want new locks on all the doors.” Steven might have a key.

“At once, sir.”

“And send a note to Shipley. I’ll call at four.” He added details, then loaded Helen’s clothes into his carriage and headed for Berkeley Square.

The familiar façade of Alquist House revived his grief. Alquist had turned a wild boy into a responsible gentleman, offering the respect Rafe had never received at home. He’d been the anchor that kept Rafe from harm. Now the anchor was gone, and that boy was again adrift.

“Good morning, Harris,” he said when the butler opened the door.

“Master Rafe.” Harris welcomed him inside. The spacious opulence stood in stark contrast to the ruins in Hanover Square. Alquist House was solidly first-rate, occupying a double lot deep enough for a separate servants’ wing, formal garden, and mews. With eight bedrooms and its own ballroom, it was the sort of house Rafe had always wanted. But that was for later.

“I just discovered that Alquist named me guardian to his ward, but he’d never discussed the girl. May I check his desk to see if he left any instructions?” 

“Of course, sir.” Harris led him to Alquist’s study.

The desktop was empty of its usual clutter. “Where are his papers?” he asked.

“Lady Alquist ordered everything sent to Hampshire so Rhodes could deal with it.”

Rafe nodded. The secretary had been with Alquist for thirty years, longer even than Harris. His collapse at the burial meant it would be some time before he could manage. Something else Rafe must see to. There might be matters that needed immediate attention. Alquist’s son was with the army in North America. Until he returned, Rafe was the nearest kin.

“I am returning to Hampshire tomorrow. In addition to instructions, I was hoping to discover what bothered Alquist that night.” He met the butler’s shuttered eyes. “I’ve never seen him so pensive. If it was concern over his ward’s trustees, I need to know.”

“I know nothing of that.” But he shifted his weight from foot to foot in a very unbutlerly fashion.

“But you do remember something.” Rafe pulled several scraps of paper from a drawer – Alquist had always jotted notes to himself.

Harris finally spoke. “A man called after he left that evening.”

“Who?”  Not a gentleman, or Harris would have identified him as such.

“He claimed to have an urgent message for Lord Alquist. I sent him to White’s. But Lord Alquist had no time to act on that message. I fear something important was forgotten.”

“Rhodes would know. Or the solicitor. Whoever sent the message would write to them,” said Rafe soothingly, but his stomach churned. No one had delivered a message to White’s. Rafe had spent the entire evening with Alquist. Had the caller’s goal been to learn Alquist’s location?  “What did the fellow look like?  Perhaps I know him.”

“I doubt it, Master Rafe. He was only a messenger – coarse, dark, and dressed worse than a groom.”

“In that case, the matter cannot have been as urgent as he claimed.” The description would fit half of London, including Goddard, though he doubted the man was smart enough to effectively impersonate a servant.

Harris nodded and left him to his search.

The closing door unleashed a tidal wave of grief. Every inch of the study was dear – the chairs flanking the fire where he’d discussed everything from money to manners, Alquist’s favorite walking stick propped in the corner, books, maps, a painting of Alston Place. Much of what he knew about the world he’d learned in this room. It was hard to believe he would never see Alquist again.

Tears burned his eyes. Alquist House was the only real home he’d known – the perpetual war at Hillcrest was hardly welcoming.

Unable to blink away his grief, he laid his head down and sobbed. How could he go on alone?  He couldn’t count on his aunt. She’d been too shattered to speak to him. Could Helen ever fill even part of the void?

Minutes passed before he pulled his tattered control in place and set to work. A quick search turned up no instructions. The notes weren’t much help, either.

Audit A bks.

H to wed – why no word?
  Formsby must have mentioned Helen’s supposed betrothal.

Send R to A
. Probably Rhodes. If the ‘R’ stood for Rafe, Alquist would have said something at White’s. Apparently he’d decided to conduct his own inquiry in addition to Formsby’s audit.

Inv S and D
. A reminder to invite Sharpton and Diggery for cards. His friends had returned to London the day after his death.

The others confirmed Alquist’s concern about Sir Steven and his determination to protect Helen – a course that might have cost him his life. Rafe hoped the papers Lady Alquist had taken to the country would contain more information. Or perhaps Rhodes would know something. Alquist might have found information that could hold Steven at bay.

In the meantime, Helen needed jewelry. It was time to show the world that he could properly support a wife. The best jeweler was Rundel and Bridge, which lay on the way to his solicitor’s office.

Her half-mourning made the errand easy. He emerged from the shop with two boxes tucked into his pocket. One contained a stunning necklace of carved jet with matching eardrops. The other held pearls. He would return for the emeralds that matched her eyes another day.

* * * *

Helen woke to find Rafe sitting on the bed, his hand sliding seductively up and down her arm. His touch recalled those incendiary kisses in his carriage. She shivered.

“You should not have pressed so hard today,” he said, sounding concerned. “I can’t believe how pale you look. It’s time to send for a doctor.”

“No.” She forced a smile when he frowned. “The day was wearying, but I feel much stronger now that I’ve slept. I always look pale because my hair is so red.” She reached back to touch her bump, then added, “The swelling is much reduced.”

“Let me see.” He helped her sit, then slid behind her to examine the wound, curving his legs around her hips. “You’re right. It’s improving, with no sign of fresh bleeding, but I wish you would see a doctor. Head wounds are tricky, and I’m not exaggerating your pallor. You are several shades lighter than when we met.”

“And will likely remain so for several days. Mother always swore I looked at death’s door after even minor injuries. It was especially bad the time I fell from an apple tree. Even Papa looked at me askance – and his coloring was as odd as mine, so he was accustomed to it.” She realized she was babbling, which wasn’t like her, but Rafe’s touch scrambled her wits worse than Steven’s blow. His hands had drifted down to massage her shoulders.

She glanced back, meeting eyes silver with heat.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I enjoy touching you.”

“And I enjoy your touch.” She smiled when the words brightened his eyes even more. His fingers slipped beneath the neck of her gown.

Rafe clamped down on desire. The gentling process was progressing at lightning speed, but it was too soon for intimacy. Her face remained white even as her breathing quickened in response to his caress. Lines at the corner of her eyes spoke of continuing pain, and she’d flinched when he’d touched her head.

He should not have kissed her in the carriage, for it left him frustrated. As long as she remained injured, his purpose would best be served by keeping her aroused. But to retain his sanity, he must do so without promising his own libido satisfaction. So he lightened his touch, sliding his fingers down her arm to tease her wrists – and brush her breasts as he passed.

She instinctively arched, then leaned against him, baring her throat to his lips.

He couldn’t resist.

“I retrieved your trunk,” he murmured to divert his thoughts from the bottom nestled against his groin.

“Steven’s gone, then?”

“From Hanover Square. Anything of value is gone, but your clothes are intact.”

She turned her head to nibble his ear. “I didn’t bring much – a few guineas and some trinkets. But I’m grateful for the clothes. Napping in this gown has done it no good at all. I should change for dinner.”

“True.” Since she couldn’t reach the fastenings, his fingers jumped into action, opening the ties to bare her shoulders. His lips followed, drawing her gasp. Her lack of a maid gave him opportunities gentlemen rarely saw – and tested his control to the limit. “Paul should return with food shortly,” he managed huskily, mostly to himself. His hands slid her gown lower.

She arched against him, wiggling until he nearly exploded. “The gray should be wearable. It crushes less than the others.” The breathlessness with which she uttered the words raised his temperature another notch.

He had to move before his control snapped. Her innocent ardor was too tempting. Was it an act to bind him?  But he dismissed the idea. She lacked the experience for such a scheme.

Extricating himself, he lifted her from the bed, letting her slide slowly down his body in a long, agonizing caress. Torture.

He added to the torture by prolonging the undressing process, touching every inch of flesh he could reach, from the upper half of her breasts to her long, long legs. By the time he settled the new gown in place, they were panting as if they’d raced to Kensington and back – on foot – and he could barely string two words together.

His hands shook as he fastened the gown. Leaving her to comb her hair, he fetched the boxes, then practiced deep breathing until he had his libido back under control.

“For you, my sweet,” he murmured, hooking the jet necklace around her elegant neck. Her perfume made his senses reel.

“It’s beautiful.” Her eyes sparkled greener than ever as she fingered the carving, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Thank you, Rafe. I’ve never seen anything so exquisite.”

“Then thank me properly.” Leaning forward, he kissed her.

With a moan, she twisted, throwing her arms around his neck as she sucked his tongue deep into her mouth. She was the fastest learner he’d ever met. In twenty-four hours she’d gone from novice to a Siren capable of bringing him to his knees.

He stifled the thought, gasping, “I’ve pearls, too,” as he nibbled his way to her ear.

“You’ve been busy.” Her hands threaded his hair as she blatantly rubbed against him.

Need exploded so fast he was untying her gown before he realized it. She rubbed harder in a long caress that nearly blew the top off his head. Her thighs cradled his shaft. As his hands cupped her bottom to lift her against him, she moaned, driving every coherent thought from his mind. In an instant he was on the brink of completion.

He was turning toward the bed when Paul rapped on the door. “Dinner, sir.”

Damnation!  What the devil was he doing?  He’d successfully incited her passion. Losing control of his own would negate that victory.

“We’ll finish this when you are recovered,” he managed, reluctantly doing up her ties.

“I certainly hope so,” she murmured, then blushed.

Sucking in a deep breath, he led her to dinner. At least she no longer resembled a corpse.

Helen was grateful for his silence. She could barely form a coherent thought as she took her place at the table. Every time Rafe touched her, she went up in flames. Yet he retained complete mastery of himself – just as Alex had always done. It didn’t seem fair that men could remain emotionally aloof.