The Rake and the Wallflower (28 page)

“Do not pretend shock. I feel your response.” Lord Roger laughed. “You want to learn, my lovely lady. We are too much alike to deny it. Unconventional. Wild. Free.” Again he suckled as his knee thrust between her legs.

“Release me. You go too far,” demanded Laura, trying to shove him away. But she was crowded against Diana, with no room to move. Her strength was no match for his.

“No megrims, sweetings. You knew what I wanted when you sent for me. Why else would you play the courtesan by leaving off your corset? I’ll play at seduction if you want, but I’ll not leave without taking my pleasure. Go ahead and struggle,” he added when she redoubled her effort to pull free. “I love a lively wench.”

“But you are a gentleman.” Her voice trembled.

He laughed harshly. “I’ve not been a gentleman since that she-witch trapped me at the tender age of twenty. I take my pleasure where and when I will. And right now you are my pleasure, lovely lady. I’ve dreamed of your beauty, your soft skin, the way you melt at my touch. So stop your teasing and let me in. If you turn cold like my bitch of a wife, I’ll have to hurt you. You wouldn’t like that.” He ravaged her mouth when she opened it to scream, then forced her hand to his groin and rubbed.

Laura was fighting in earnest now, clawing at his face. But she was helpless. His shoulders pinned her in Diana’s arms as he jerked her skirts up.

“This has gone far enough,” moaned Mary.

“Yes.” Gray pointed. Blake, Nick, and two footmen burst from the shrubbery and raced up the steps.

Blake tore Lord Roger away, knocking him to the floor. “You will pay for this,” he growled. “You’ve ruined your last maiden.”

“Are you challenging me?” Lord Roger tried to rise, but the others restrained him.

“Dueling is for gentlemen.” Blake raked him from head to toe. “You, sir, are a cur and will be treated as one. As for you” — he turned to glare at Laura — “Leaving the ballroom unescorted was the stupid act of a willful child. I am ashamed to have you under my care, for you have no more sense than a goose. There isn’t a man in England who will offer for you after this stunt.”

Laura burst into tears.

“That does it,” murmured Mary. “He is too furious to remember where we are.” She rounded the hedge and headed for the temple.

“M-Mary?” gulped Laura. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to prevent a scandal. Cover yourself.” While Laura tugged her gown back in place, she turned to Blake. “Save the scold for later. Not everyone is at supper.”

Gray helped the footmen hold Lord Roger while Nick bound his arms, smothering his cries for help with the padded sleeve of his doublet.

Mary glared at Laura. “Stop crying. Do you want everyone in the ballroom to remark on red eyes? Your mask will not hide them.”

“B-but he—”

“I am well aware of what he wanted. He is a rogue and a scoundrel, as everyone knows. There isn’t a drawing room in London in which he is welcome. But when all is said and done, he stole only a kiss, like others before him. You are fortunate that Blake cares enough to intervene. Lord Roger wanted much more. And he doesn’t care how he gets it.”

Laura blanched.

“Now straighten your gown so we can go to supper. Whether you care about your reputation or not, at least behave for the sake of Blake and Catherine. If not for them, you would now be ruined in truth, with no one to whom you could turn. Lord Roger would never lift a finger for you. He won’t even aid his wife, who is locked away somewhere in Scotland.” She retrieved Laura’s belongings.

“I did not know,” wailed Laura.

“You did not ask. You never ask. Thank heaven your mask covers your face, or we could never manage.”

Blake had himself under control. He thanked Gray and Nick for their help as the footmen jerked Lord Roger to his feet and forced him down the steps. Mary was following when Turner burst from the shrubbery, much the worse for wine, waving pistols in both hands.

“You killed my sister!” he shouted at Lord Roger.

“I sincerely doubt it,” drawled Lord Roger. “I reserve killing for highwaymen and irate papas.” He turned to Blake. “Who is this imbecile?”

“Leonard Turner,” said Gray.

Lord Roger shrugged.

“Don’t deny it,” sobbed Turner. “Her maid told me everything. The lies. The secret meetings. The promise of marriage and fancy clothes and fine jewelry. You even gave her a ring, you bastard. Then you disappeared without a word, leaving her with child. God, my poor Constance.” Tears ran down his cheeks.

Laura gasped.

“Constance… Constance…” Lord Roger frowned. “Oh,
that
chit.” He shrugged. “You can’t blame me for that. If you let her roam the countryside unescorted, what do you expect? And her clothes! I took her for a tavern wench. But she was eager for it, no matter what her maid claims. Passionate little devil. Didn’t really expect it. Had a face like a horse. But her body…” He smacked his lips. “Much better than those whores Rothmoor collects. Poxed, most of them.”

Turner fired, hitting Lord Roger in the shoulder. The footmen dove for cover. Mary ducked behind the rail, though it offered little cover.

As Lord Roger staggered backwards, a second shot rang out — from the same gun — nicking his arm. Laura screamed.

“Devil take it, he has those double-barreled pistols,” exclaimed Gray, boosting Mary over the side.

Footsteps pounded toward the folly.

“He still has two shots,” shouted Blake, tossing a shrieking Laura over the other side.

Nick tackled Lord Roger as Mary’s foot caught on the railing, toppling her head over heels toward the ground. A third shot exploded through the night.

The world went black.

* * * *

Gray’s heart stopped when Mary went down. Chaos reigned behind him, but he barely took it in.

Lord Justin raced around the hedge and tackled Turner, wresting the pistol from his hand. Mr. Turlet arrived to press a cloth to Lord Roger’s shoulder while Roger cursed, swearing vengeance on Rockhurst and Turner.

Turner’s tears turned to hiccups. He rolled from Justin’s grasp to vomit on Lord Roger’s leg.

Gray leaped the railing, horrified to find Mary in a heap. For a ghastly moment, all he could see was his mother’s body sprawled at the foot of the stairs, blood pouring from her head. But he managed to shake the memory away.

It was too dark to tell if Mary had been shot, but he feared the worst. She didn’t move and seemed not to breathe. Scooping her up, he raced toward the house. The library window stood open.

She sagged like a corpse. When light from the first torch revealed a stream of blood rolling down her temple, he staggered.

“No! Not again!”

Spots crowded his eyes, making him sway. But he could not faint now. Mary needed him.

All his life this weakness had set him apart — which answered Mary’s question about why he tried his hand at matchmaking. He had always felt out of place — reviled by his father for eschewing manly pursuits, mocked at school for his devotion to study, teased even by his friends for avoiding sports. He knew the pain of rejection well, so he could not tolerate seeing others in the same straits. They needed help to move into the world to which they belonged. And he needed to give that help so he could maintain his own tenuous tie to that world.

But his need for Mary went beyond any quest for acceptance. He needed her more than food or drink or air to breathe — more than life itself. If she were gone…

Staggering inside, he laid her on a couch, then tugged a handkerchief from his trunk-hose and wiped away the blood. The scent revived memories of every beating that had tried to turn him into a man, every swoon triggered by the resulting blood, every retch when Rothmoor forced him to watch butcherings. He tasted bile. The room faded as he fought dizziness. But he refused to succumb.

At least she had not been shot. There were no holes. But blood continued to flow.

He cursed himself for freezing after Turner’s first shot, for pushing her out of the temple, for allowing her into the garden in the first place. He should have covered her, protected her. But his first reaction had been to escape. Run and hide lest he see blood and faint. Cower so society would not learn his weaknesses.

Tears escaped. Mary lay insensible, and it was all his fault.

“Mary! Wake up, love,” he begged, chafing her hand. More blood welled. He wiped it away, fighting the spots swimming before his eyes. “Please be all right, Mary. I can’t lose you.”

Still she bled.

“My God, Mary! Wake up. I don’t know how to fix this!” He dashed away tears with the bloody handkerchief, smearing his face.

“Gray?” Her voice was weak, but her eyes fluttered open.

Relief nearly overwhelmed him. “Thank God. Are you all right, love?” He wiped away another stream.

“Don’t dab at it,” she ordered. “Press firmly.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” She cocked her head. “How is it that you remain on your feet?”

“You needed me.” He held her eyes. “I could not let you down. I love you.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. I thought Turner shot you.” He was shaking again.

“I caught my toe on the rail.” She lifted her arms.

He scooped her into his lap, pressing his handkerchief against her temple. “Can you ever return my regard?” he asked, surprised to find that he was more terrified now than before she’d awakened. He’d never felt more vulnerable.

“Oh, Gray. I already do.” She smiled. “I fell in love with you in Lord Oxbridge’s library.”

“Why? I was weak as a kitten that night. I could not even sit up properly.”

“That matters not. You are intelligent, you care for others, and you never succumb to dishonor. Besides, you are the first man I’ve ever been able to talk to, and you’ve accepted me from the beginning.”

“I loved you, too, though I didn’t recognize it.” He smoothed her hair. “But you’ve seemed so aloof these past days that I feared you regretted this match.”

“Never.” She sighed. “What I feared was giving you a disgust of me. You have too often been plagued by hoydens like Laura.”

“I love you. I need you. Never fear to show me you care, my dear, for your caring is real.” He kissed her, keeping the touch gentle lest he aggravate her wound. But passion flared. The handkerchief fell unheeded to the floor as Mary stroked his bare throat. He gave up and plundered, twisting until he sprawled atop her.

“I should know better than to start this when I can’t finish it,” he groaned some time later. “How can I endure four more days without you?”

“It will be difficult.” Her fingers combed his hair. “Perhaps impossible. But we can’t here. Blake and Catherine will find us soon. We cannot burden them with new scandal. They will have enough trouble surviving Laura’s latest escapade.”

He nodded, but did not sit up. “Are you sure you are all right?”

“Yes. Has the bleeding stopped?”

He nodded.

“Then it is merely a bump. No worse than the time I fell in the dairy, and far less than the broken leg I sustained at age ten. I will have a sore head for a day or two, but no more. And you?”

“Vastly relieved. A little dizzy from watching you bleed to death,” he admitted freely. “I don’t ever want to endure that again.”

“That I can’t promise, but we will survive whatever happens.”

He nodded, indulging himself in another long kiss.

“What will happen now?” she asked when he pulled back.

“We hide our growing frustration, bid farewell to Lady Wharburton — who will doubtless be in shock that a shooting occurred at her very proper masquerade, though with luck we can keep Laura’s part in it quiet — then see you home to bed. Alone, alas.” He kissed her again.

“That isn’t what I meant. What will happen to Mr. Turner?”

Sighing, he helped her sit up. “Transportation, if he is lucky. There is no way to save him, Mary. I tried. I told him no one could identify the culprit after all these years, for I knew he would transfer his obsession to Lord Roger. But he discovered the truth anyway. Now Lord Roger is wounded. He might be a cad, but his father is a duke, and Turner is merely the younger son of a baron and on poor enough terms with his brother already.”

She sighed. “Poor boy. He does not deserve such a fate.”

Gray agreed, but there was nothing he could do.

* * * *

Yet they were wrong. By Monday morning, when they met to release the hoopoe in Hyde Park, Turner was free and Lord Roger was gone.

The Duke of Athland had settled matters personally. He had long deplored Lord Roger’s vices. Allowing Grayson to bear the blame for Miss Turner’s seduction was the last straw. The attack on Laura, which had become public knowledge thanks to Mr. Turlet, merely sealed his fate. Athland gave Lord Roger a choice — leave England forever or stand trial for assault. Lord Roger’s courtesy title would not avail him at the Old Bailey, where he had no more privilege than the lowest knave. His arm hung in a sling when he boarded a vessel bound for the Caribbean.

Laura was also gone. The second bullet had grazed her cheek, digging a furrow that would leave a four-inch scar. Her hysterics had lasted two days. Laura defined herself by her beauty. Blemished, she could not even face her family. The moment Dr. McClarren allowed her out of bed, she fled London.

Gray’s reputation was completely restored. Turner had credited him with tracking down and exposing Lord Roger, thus saving society’s daughters from the ruin Laura and his sister had found. So Gray was now a hero.

Mary met him in the chapel of St. George on a sunny Tuesday morning. Only a dozen witnesses joined them, though Blake expected hundreds for the wedding breakfast. As Blake escorted her in, she scanned the faces.

Lady Beatrice beamed, as did Lady Horseley. Lady Sheffield sat with Mr. Turner — she had told him much about his sister’s last days, helping him put her death behind him. Catherine was already shedding tears. Nick, Justin, Medford, Gray’s manager, and—

She stumbled when she identified the last three faces — their presence compliments of Gray, no doubt: William, who must have broken speed records to make it from Devonshire on such short notice; Thomas, up from Eton; and Andrew, one arm in a sling. What fate had brought him back from Spain in time for her wedding? He could not yet have received her letter announcing her betrothal. Mary nearly burst into tears at the sight of her favorite brother.