The Spinster and the Rake (17 page)

Chapter Seventeen

GILLIAN SPENT A languorous morning. She rose quite late, as was to be expected from a lady who retired a few minutes before daybreak. She had a solitary breakfast in her small, elegant room at Berkeley Square consisting of croissants, fresh fruit, and coffee, a Gallic fest the rest of the family highly disapproved of. That morning she was in no mood to listen to their everlasting criticism.

An hour at her small, papier-mâché desk was similarly felicitous. Several missives of a nature that would have startled the majority of the Redfern family were penned, along with a bank draft for nine thousand six hundred pounds for Bertie. And there was money well spent, she thought, pushing away from the desk with a satisfied smile and stripping off her frilly lawn dressing gown. Ninety-six hundred pounds in return for a sweet-natured young man who had faced temptation and would no longer be captured by it was a bargain at the price. She had no doubt that Bertie would be able to resist the lure of gaming from then on. And his friends, young Porter and Willie Meekham were far more addicted to sport than the lure of the dice. No, he would be fine.

And so would Felicity, she thought, dressing slowly in a round gown of soft rose wool. Her happiness fairly seemed to permeate the darkest corners of the Redfern house, and even Derwent had been seen to smile on occasion last evening, before Gillian had fallen from grace with such a resounding thud. Now it only remained, she thought wistfully, to manage her own life as well as Felicity had.

“Miss!” Flossie exclaimed from the doorway. “You’ve gone and dressed yourself, and without even calling me.”

“I wanted to be alone, Flossie,” she replied distantly, strolling toward the windows that overlooked the square, one hand twirling a tawny lock lazily. “I am certain you have been busy enough.”

“Yes, miss. Would you like me to fix your hair?”

“No, don’t bother,” she said, peering with her excellent eyesight at the passersby down below on the street. “I don’t intend to do much more than read today, and I don’t require anything . . .” Her eyes narrowed, and her voice trailed off as a familiar figure strolled into view. She waited one more moment to make certain the Redfern house was his destination, and then flew to the dressing table. “Don’t just stand there, Flossie,” she cried. “Help me with my hair.”

Like most less-than-needle-witted girls, Flossie grew clumsy and even slower under pressure. She pulled Gilly’s hair, dropped the hairbrush three times, and burst into tears when Gilly finally grabbed the pins from her servant’s useless fingers and did it herself. There wasn’t time for the usual severe style, and the hair was falling in loose waves about her face as she raced down the flights of stairs to the drawing room. It wasn’t until she reached the tightly shut door that she realized she wore neither stockings nor shoes.

Only for a moment did she consider racing back to her rooms for those essential accessories. Abruptly she put it out of her mind, bending her knees slightly so her wool skirts would trail along the fortunately dust-free parquet flooring, and doing her best to glide gracefully into the drawing room—a feat that is extremely difficult when one is in a semicrouch.

Derwent and Letty were sitting alone, their heads together in a fashion that was decidedly suspicious. No stretch of the imagination could encompass the thought of romance between the ill-suited couple, so Gillian could only assume they were plotting. Of Lord Marlowe’s tall, saturnine figure there was not a trace.

“Yes, Gillian?” Derwent inquired frostily.

“But . . . where is Lord Marlowe?” she demanded, remembering to keep her knees bent. If Derwent were to espy her bare feet she would be back in Winchester before the sun set.

“Why should you expect that reprobate to be here?” he queried icily. “After last night—”

“But I saw him,” Gilly interrupted. “I was looking out the window, and I saw him head straight for this house.”

“Then common sense should tell you that he has been denied,” Letty broke in sharply. “We don’t want his sort making themselves free of our home. And we certainly don’t wish to encourage his attentions toward you. They are scarcely honorable. If they had been, it would have been Derwent he wished to speak to this morning, not you.”

“He wanted to see me?” she shrieked, outraged. “And you denied me?”

“He did indeed,” Derwent nodded, a cool, superior smirk on his face. “With the message that Miss Redfern does not wish to see his lordship again.”

Gillian’s cornflower-blue eyes widened in rage and despair. “Damn you!” she cried, and ran from the room before Letty could collapse in a dead faint.

Truffles was standing by the door. “Miss Gillian,” he hissed as she stormed out of the room.

She stared up at him, a question in her tear-filled eyes. “I had to give him their message, miss,” he said apologetically. “They were standing right there listening. But I managed to wink a few times, and I think he understood. At least, I do hope so.”

Hope sprang in her breast. “How long ago was this?”

“Why just half a mo’ before you came downstairs. He’s not even at the end of the square yet.”

Gilly reached up and gave the young footman a resounding kiss on his angular cheek, a cheek that turned bright red. “Bless you, Truffles,” she cried, and reached for the door.

“You’re never going after him, miss!” he breathed, scandalized.

“I most certainly am.”

“But it’s cold out there. Let me at least get you a wrap and come with you.”

Remembering her bare feet, Gillian crouched once more. “Not that cold. I’ll be back in a few minutes, Truffles. See if you can sneak me back in with no one noticing?” And she was off, her bare feet racing over the marble steps.

Fortunately the square was fairly deserted. It was a trifle early for morning visits, and late for the day’s deliveries. Marlowe was a fair bit ahead of her. Lifting up her skirts and exposing her bare feet, she took off after him at a dead run.

When she thought he was in hearing, she dropped the skirts, settling into a running crouch, and called his name. “Marlowe!”

If he heard her he made no sign of it, the broad back continuing on at a casual pace, swinging an ebony cane. “Marlowe!” she cried in a louder voice, and still he failed to check. “Ronan!” she tried, and as if by magic he stopped, turning toward her with a lazy smile.

“I thought you didn’t wish to see me again, Miss Redfern,” he said coolly as she reached him.

“You know perfectly well Derwent sent that message, not I!” she cried hotly, her feet icy on the chill pavement.

“Normally I would have thought so,” he agreed. “But I received a visit from young Talmadge this morning. He informed me that he would pay all the money he owed me later this afternoon. Apparently he won it from his aunt. Vivian has told me many times how bad a player your nephew is, and I can only assume you cheated so he would be able to pay me. A lady who assumes I would dun green youngsters would hardly wish to pursue the acquaintance.” His eyes were chill with anger in the morning sunlight, at odd variance with the mocking smile on his mouth.

“Don’t be absurd!” she cried. “I did it for Bertie’s sake. He would have been mortified if you had let the debt drop.
I
knew perfectly well that you wouldn’t press him, but I couldn’t very well tell him that.”

The rigidity in Marlowe’s face relaxed slightly. “That is a point,” he conceded.

“Then you aren’t angry with me?” she asked anxiously, her toes numb.

He surveyed her for a long moment, and the green eyes began to warm. “Perhaps just a trifle. You must find some way to placate me, dear Gilly-flower.”

“And how would I do that?” She was conscious of a feeling of excitement warring with the panic in her breast.

“You must finish what we started on your birthday.” His smile was definitely wicked.

“What!”

“The game of piquet and dinner, dear one,” he soothed. “Nothing more, nothing less. You are safe with me.”

“I’m sure that I am,” she agreed with a flash of self-deprecating humor. “If seduction was on your mind you could do a great deal better.”

If Gilly hadn’t known better, she would have said it was anger that flashed across Marlowe’s dark face. “We can discuss that this evening,” he said smoothly, his face shuttered.

“This evening? I don’t know whether I can manage to escape . . .”

“You, my dear Gilly, can manage anything you set your heart on, I have no doubt. In the meantime, don’t you think you’d best get back to your house? You’ll likely catch inflammation of the lungs and expire before this evening if you don’t, and I have no intention of letting you escape so easily.” He smiled his sweet smile that had the unfortunate tendency to make Gillian’s heart turn flip-flops. “I’m greatly flattered that you thought it so urgent to come after me, but perhaps next time you might remember your shoes.” They both stared downward at the delicate bare feet just peeping out from under Gillian’s hemline.

She blushed a deep, mortifying red and crouched down again. “Shall I send my carriage for you?” he continued suavely, watching her blush with amusement.

“No, I would prefer to get there on my own,” she said in a strangled voice. “What time would you like me?

“If I were to answer that honestly you wouldn’t approve, so I shall say whenever you can safely escape from your relatives,” he replied. “I have little doubt they’d disapprove heartily.”

“I don’t see that I need to tell them.”

He reached out a hand and brushed a stray lock from her flushed face. “Hoyden,” he remarked appreciatively. “Shall I escort you back?”‘

“Not if you value my life. Till this evening,” she promised recklessly, and took off, her bare feet flying over the chill pavement. When she reached the Redfern portal she allowed herself one brief glimpse backward as Truffles tried to pull her inside. Marlowe was still standing there, watching after her. It was too far away to see his expression. On impulse, Gilly waved her hand. She had just enough time to see him return her lighthearted salute before Truffles forcibly dragged her into the deserted hallway, shutting the heavy oak door behind her with silent care.

Gilly leaned against the door, her eyes shining, cheeks flushed from cold, feet half frozen, a dazed smile on her face. “Truffles,” she said in a dreamy voice.

“Yes, miss?”

“I am in love,” she sighed. “In love, in love, in love.”

“Yes, miss.” A shy smile lit his face. “I’m very happy for you, miss.”

“And so am I, Truffles,” she murmured dazedly. “So am I.” Humming an aimless little tune, she wandered up the stairs, her hand trailing along the banister, her feet doing a careless little dance on the carpeted stairs. “In love, in love, in love.” Her voice floated down into the empty hallway on a soft sigh, and then she was out of sight.

Chapter Eighteen

GILLIAN SURVEYED herself in the dim candlelight of her bedroom. It was going on ten, and the house was deserted except for the servants. The entire Redfern family, accompanied by Felicity’s beaming fiancé and a strangely lighthearted Bertie Talmadge, had departed hours earlier for a ball at the Castlereaghs’, and Gillian, having pleaded a headache, knew she could rest assured that her absence wouldn’t be noticed if, by some strange chance, she happened to arrive home after the Redferns.

She truly hadn’t thought that far ahead. As she eyed her reflection approvingly, she didn’t stop to think what effect the décolletage of the clinging silk gown would have on Marlowe. Her hand strayed toward the bit of lace she customarily used to preserve her modesty, then resolutely withdrew it. Her tawny hair was a cascade of artless ringlets down her back, artless ringlets that had taken her hours to achieve. She had even been prepared to use paint to enhance nature, but in the end there had been no need. No need for belladonna drops to put a sparkle in her eyes, no need for red papers to put a flush on her pale cheeks or color to her tremulous mouth. In the dim light she looked seventeen years old, and in truth, she felt it.

“This is madness,” she told herself frankly. “You must be out of your mind.” She reached for her thin cloak and draped it around her nearly nude shoulders, drawing the hood protectively over her head, giving herself one last, anxious glance in the mirror before securing her reticule.

“Are you ready, miss?” Flossie, her brainless accomplice, hissed from the doorway. “The coach is waiting.” She peered through the gloom at her usually staid mistress. “Are you certain you wish to do this, miss?”

Gillian snuffed out the candle on her dressing table and gave one last look around the room. “Absolutely certain,” she said, and the waver in her voice was not noticed by her maid. Touching the diamond earbobs that swung from her shell-like ears for luck, she swept from the room.

WHEN SHE STEPPED from the carriage she stared about her in dismay. “This isn’t the front entrance, Truffles,” she informed the second footman, dragooned into service for the night.

“I was told to bring you to this doorway, miss,” he said, gesturing toward the entrance with his whip. As if in answer, the door opened, and a staid, reserved-looking manservant appeared. “Miss Redfern?” he inquired in sepulchral tones. At her nod he continued smoothly onward. “His lordship thought it might be better if you were to use this entrance. A bit more discreet. You may leave, coachman. His lordship will see Miss Redfern home.”

Truffles stood his ground. “Are you certain you want to stay, Miss?” he inquired with a trace of belligerence.

Gilly was half tempted to run back to the safety of the carriage. The hallway just inside the door was bright and well lit, and the butler beside her looked so very proper that she should laugh at her misgivings.

“There’s no need, Truffles,” she replied in a deceptively steady voice. “I am certain I can trust Lord Marlowe to take care of me.”

An undutiful snort was all the answer Truffles offered before moving away. With strong doubts about her own sanity she watched the small, closed carriage disappear down the rain-swept London street.

“This way, miss.” The servant beside her gestured, and she had no choice but to enter.

“Is this the way all his lordship’s lady friends visit him?” she inquired, only half facetiously, as she picked her way up the winding stair, her cloak held tightly around her. Why had she worn such a low-cut dress, she thought with a belated trace of desperation. She was practically naked underneath!

“Not usually, miss,” he replied, leaving her as uninformed as before. At the top of the stairway was a small landing, a hallway, and at the end, a doorway. The man beside her moved ahead, opened the door, and announced her in the same gloomy tone of voice.

She stepped inside and found herself directly beside the gold-draped bed at the far end of the room from Marlowe’s amused gaze. With all the coolness at her disposal, she averted her eyes from that embarrassing piece of furniture and moved toward her host with head raised and shoulders back.

With his usual lazy grace he came to meet her. “You look as if you’re on your way to the guillotine,” he greeted her quizzically. “Very brave, very noble, and very beautiful. I’m not going to eat you, you know.”

Gilly’s shoulders relaxed their militant pose, and she allowed a small smile to escape her firm lips. “I trust not,” she replied. “You promised me lobster at least.”

There was a fire blazing in the hearth by the sofa; the heat penetrated Gilly’s chilled bones. She hadn’t chosen her clothing for warmth that evening, and with a small shiver she pulled the protective cloak closer about her.

“I can tell by that gesture that it would be useless to try to take your wrap. May I interest you in a glass of champagne and a seat closer to the fire?”

“Champagne?” she echoed suspiciously, taking the seat proffered. It was the sofa, but she remembered hazily from her previous visit that that had been a surprisingly safe perch.

Not tonight. Marlowe lounged beside her, his long legs stretched out in front. “You could always drink brandy,” he suggested affably. “It would warm you up in no time and take some of that panic away from you.”

“Panic?” she echoed in an outraged squeak. “I am hardly afraid of you.” That last came out in a slight waver that belied her strong words, and she expected Marlowe to laugh. Instead, however, he put a gentle hand up and pulled the hood from her head, smiling at her in a way that was far more disturbing because it contained none of his usual mockery.

“Of course you’re not,” he agreed. “And why should you be? I’m a fairly harmless gentleman, when all is said and done.” His hands moved to the ribbons at her neck, untying them deftly before she realized what he was doing. She reached up her hands to stop him, and his strong, warm grasp caught hers, and held it. His dark green eyes met hers for a long, searching moment, and her breathing grew rapid under his gaze.

“I don’t for a moment believe that,” she said, and her voice was husky.

The hand released hers, and he rose abruptly, striding across the room toward the far doorway. “I’m having Tilden wait upon us tonight,” he said with a carelessness that was belied by the tension in his broad shoulders. “I’ve locked the door to the gaming salon and told everyone I’m not to be disturbed. I thought it would be better if no one knew you were here.”

“Doubtless,” she agreed nervously. “They must be somewhat used to this.”

“Hardly. But I have little doubt Vivian will contrive to muddle through without my assistance.” He strolled back toward her, pausing to refill his brandy glass but making no attempt to pour one for her.

“He, of course, is in your confidence.”

“He, least of all,” Marlowe said enigmatically, coming to stand above her while he swirled the brandy in his glass. “Aren’t you going to take off that wretched cloak?”

“It isn’t a wretched cloak. It’s my very best one,” she said, stalling for time.

“Well, then, aren’t you going to take off that very attractive cloak?” he inquired, the mockery back.

Taking a deep breath, Gillian pushed the wrap off her shoulders, keeping her eyes downcast. It was the prettiest dress she had ever worn, and she sat there, waiting for some slight expression of appreciation. There was dead silence. Finally she raised her eyes and looked at Marlowe.

He was staring at her with an odd expression on his face. “You look . . . very nice,” he said finally.

She couldn’t understand the strange undercurrent in his voice. “You don’t like it?” she asked doubtfully.

“Oh, I like it very much. Far too much, as a matter of fact,” he said grimly, draining the half-full brandy glass. “Tell me, Gilly, why did you come here?”

“Because you asked me to,” she replied, at a loss.

“And would you do anything I asked you to?” he demanded. “Don’t you realize that if anyone knew you were here you’d be ruined?”

“I realize it,” she said quietly.

“And you realize that I have never once mentioned marriage as any kind of possibility? And that I never will?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you here? Why aren’t you home safe in your virginal bed, safe from rakehells like me?” There was real pain in his face as he towered over her, and Gilly longed to reach up and smooth away that expression, the cause of which she couldn’t even begin to guess. Unless, of course, it was put there by a sudden, latent surge of guilt. The thought was as unlikely as it was curiously touching, and Gillian dropped her last defense.

“Because I love you,” she said quite simply.

“You
what?
”

“I love you,” she repeated patiently. “You asked me to come, and I did.”

“And would you get into that bed with me if I asked you to? Knowing I won’t marry you?” he demanded harshly.

“Yes.”

With an explosive oath he rose, stalking across the room. “Where the hell is Tilden?” he demanded of no one in particular. He turned back to the astonished Gillian. “Put your cloak back on. Tilden is taking you home. Now.”

“But I don’t wish to go home,” she said in bewilderment, not moving. “You promised me a lobster dinner and a hand of piquet.”

“Among other things,” he agreed bitterly, taking her wrists and pulling her to her feet. “Well, I’ve thought better of it. You’re going home before any more harm is done, and no one will be any the worse for it.”

“But I want to stay here with you!” she cried. “You took Letty, why not me? You’ve never lied to me, you know. I thought . . . I thought that you found me not unattractive. Don’t you want me?” The tears that had been hovering in her bright blue eyes spilled over and ran down her pale cheeks, and with a curse Marlowe pulled her into his arms.

“Dear God, of course I want you,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve never wanted anyone so much in my life. And it’s because of that that I’m sending you away. I don’t want to ruin your life as well as my own.”

“If you send me away you’ll ruin my life,” she said, and reaching up, she put her mouth on his.

He was unyielding, his mouth like marble, and she started to draw back, stricken, when he suddenly yanked her to him, cradling her head in one large hand, and took over the kiss.

It was . . . astonishing. His other kisses had aroused her, excited her, twisted her with longing. This was something entirely different, so much more powerful than anything she could have imagined. He tipped her head back, slanted his mouth across her, and pushed her mouth open with his, shocking her with the feel of his tongue. She jerked, startled, but he held her tighter, sliding his arm around her waist, drawing her up against him as he kissed her. She wanted this. She didn’t care what he did with her, she wanted whatever he would give her, for as long as it could last, and she put her arms around his neck, rising up into his kiss, using her own tongue in shy imitation of his.

He groaned and lifted her so that she fit more closely to him. He was much stronger than she had realized, and she could feel the insistent push of that part of him she wasn’t supposed to know existed, pressing against her skirts, and another frightened thrill sliced through her veins as she held on, letting him do what he wanted, wanting more. She was wicked, wanton, and she didn’t care.

And then to her horror he set her back on the floor, trying to pull away. “You need to get out of here, Gilly-flower,” he said hoarsely. “You’re not this kind of woman.”

She didn’t release her hold on him. “I want to be. I’ve spent my whole life doing just as I ought, taking care of everyone else. I want tonight. Just for once, I want something for me.”

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Before she could realize what he was planning he’d scooped her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the shadowy back of the room, to the ornate bed that she’d dreamed about, setting her down on the soft mattress and then stepping back.

“Should I . . . should I undress?” Gilly asked, wishing there wasn’t a slight quaver in her voice.

He didn’t move. “Is there any way I can get rid of you?” he asked in a harsh voice, and it felt like a knife to the heart.

She moved fast, rolling to the far side of the bed and leaping off it, trying to keep the sting of tears from her eyes. She stood still, staring at him across the rumpled bed. “Don’t be absurd, Lord Marlowe,” she said with a brittle laugh. “I certainly didn’t mean to importune you. I’ll leave.” She started moving away from the bed, away from him, when he caught her.

“No, you won’t. Damn me for a selfish, rutting bastard, but I can’t let you go.” He pulled her against him, and she struggled, just slightly, until she realized her dress had come loose and was sagging about her shoulders. He’d somehow managed to unlace the complicated thing with the deftness of a master. This time when he loosened his hold her dress fell away from her, pooling on the floor, and she stood in front of him in her stays and shift, frozen.

He was just as adept with the corset, stripping it off and then lifting her onto the bed clad only in her shift. He reached for her foot, taking off her kidskin dancing slipper and tossing it to one side, then removing the other, leaving the stocking that were tied to her thighs in place. “Lie back,” he said in a low voice.

Automatically she did what he told her. “Do I get to keep this on?” she asked, hopefully.

His smile was slow, wicked, as he shook his head. “I just want to enjoy taking them off you.”

He slid his jacket from his shoulders with an ease that belied its excellent tailoring, tossing it to the floor so that it settled on top of her discarded gown, following with his waistcoat and shoes. He pulled his shirt free from his pantaloons, and then he stripped it off, leaving her face to face with the first male chest she had seen without clothing, and she took in a breath.