Wedding Night Revenge (15 page)

'There's no need—'

'No. I shall pour a fresh one,' Rachel insisted, a hint of obstinacy shrill in her tone. 'It is no trouble. There is still plenty in the pot.' She backed away a pace, the cup held out rigidly in front of her as though she feared she might upset the rest on the way back to the table. Why had she not let Noreen perform this stupid ritual? she silently berated herself.

Although her eyes were riveted on the delicate floral porcelain, she was aware of the moment he relinquished lounging against the mantel. She increased her pace backwards as he advanced, the crockery rattling in her damp hand. Firm fingers coiled about her wrist, making it steady so he could relieve her of what remained of his tea.

She watched a hateful rivulet of orange pekoe tracing a delicate blue vein on the back of her hand while wending its way towards him. He dammed the flow with a dark thumb, then, placing down his cup, dried her skin with a handkerchief idly extracted from a pocket. When the linen had disappeared whence it came, still he held her and still her eyes were fixed to the manacle of brown fingers on her wrist. His closeness, his light administering touch, reminded her, undeniably, of last night. Her complexion lost its appealing pallor to a remorseless surge of blood as she remembered cuddling up quite shamelessly to him in his carriage when he brought her home: But they had spoken little, other than for him to tease out of her the necessary information that, yes, she was staying at Beaulieu Gardens, and, yes, but for servants, she was alone...

From settling herself uninvited in his hallway to plunging into a deep dreamy sleep that necessitated him waking her to eject her, she had behaved outrageously. The awful irony was that she could clearly recall being on the point of making ready to fly away home. But before she could act, Isabel had called to her, as often she did when she was upset and weary and, with her eyes heavy and her heart heavy, she had wanted to go to her...just for a short while.

Heaven only knew what his stepbrother must think of her, having seen her thus. No, that wasn't true.
She
knew exactly what he must think of her. He had never liked her. Now, instead of classing her a shallow little flirt of nineteen, he would brand her a calculating spinster out to filch this noble bachelor's attention from worthier females. Jason Davenport and Mrs Pemberton probably had one solitary thing in common: they both imagined she was desperate to once more insinuate herself into Connor Flinte's good books, and any shameless method would do. And they were right...but not for the reason they thought. Thank you for bringing me safely home last night,' she blurted out. 'Also, I owe you an apology and an explanation for my...my bizarre behaviour.'

'I'm sorry you had such a long wait and received such poor hospitality in my absence. I've to speak further to Joseph about that.'

'Joseph? Your butler? No...you must not scold him,' she hastily interjected.

'Considering how...bold and presumptuous I was, it is a wonder he allowed me over the threshold at all. And he served me a little refreshment. I intended at first only tarrying a while in case you returned for your dinner. It is my own fault I stupidly lingered so long, then fell asleep. You weren't to know of my visit, so mustn't feel guilty that you did not appear sooner.'

'You're right. I won't,' he drawled with a silky softness. 'On reflection, it seems only fair that you should have wasted one evening hoping I might come home. I recall several times kicking my heels in this very room waiting for you, even though we'd a prior engagement.'

Rachel swallowed, tentatively rotated her wrist in his grip, hoping to free it.

So, his sympathy was as transient as her sophistication this morning. But then she should have known his memory was not so short.

'Why did you do it so often, Rachel?'

'Why did you put up with it so often, Major Flinte?' ' she hissed back, goaded to ungovernable recklessness by his mild words. She threw back her golden head to clash an icy glare with eyes of cerulean blue. A glint of satisfaction made his eyelids heavy, and was endorsed by a slight tilt to his ruthless lips.

So he wanted her to acknowledge the reasons for his revenge. As if she ever would forget! Well, she had a long memory, too! She wasn't about to play this out on his terms. She was calling the tune. And he would dance to it...as he always had!

'I imagine your servants were suspicious of admitting me to your house because of my bedraggled appearance,' she remarked with admirable fairness as, with an abrupt manipulation, she forcibly liberated her wrist. She went to attend to the vase of full-blown yellow roses in the centre of the table, straightening the stems and collecting loose petals from the polished mahogany.

There was no response to her gracious blame-taking, but she was aware of the blue flame of his regard on her face as she roved the carpet, idly searching for somewhere to dispose of the perfumed debris cupped in her palm. 'I expect you noticed I had mud on my clothes...my hair was everywhere...' she added with a self-deprecating little moue, and a wave of her free hand illustrating how today's sleek coiffure had yesterday escaped its pins to drape her shoulders.

As silence reigned unabated, she realised he was deliberately withholding his participation from a tentative rapprochement, and that by doing so he was successfully eroding her confidence. She needed to quickly bring matters to a head, for she meant what she'd said about not giving any inquisitive individuals cause to tattle over spying the Earl of Devane's carriage outside her address. Once it was known she had been in residence alone, the town tabbies would soon put two and two together and make a salacious scandal. And no whiff of anything untoward must be allowed, by association, to spoil June's good name with her wedding imminent. She tried again. T'm sorry to disturb you this morning. I realise that, having kindly escorted me home, there was little of the night left for you to properly rest. I would not have roused you so early had it not been pressing that I speak to you urgently. I know you'd rather be abed...'

She got her response, and a hard laugh that chilled her. 'I don't object to you rousing me, Rachel...but you're right...I'd rather be in bed...'

Connor's smile was sardonic as he watched her cease her perambulating.

The fistful of bruised petals were abruptly tossed on to the table. Their powdery scent permeated the room as she clattered a spoon into a saucer.

Nervously she poured more tea, and immediately sipped at it.

He walked back to the hearth and propped an arm against it, hoping to God the full extent of just how well she roused him wasn't obvious. Hoping, too, the full extent of his coarse vulgarity wasn't obvious either. But he knew it was. He'd disgusted her and he wasn't surprised. What did he think he was doing, talking to her like that? As though she were some auditioning courtesan? His fingers drummed in irritation against the white-painted wood beneath them. He was talking to her like that because a paramour was what he wanted her to be, and God knew he could be forgiven for confusing the issue. Gently born and still chaste maybe, but she'd given him every reason to treat her with contempt. He wouldn't, of course; it was as far from his mind to despise her now as it had been six years ago when she'd jilted him.

Yet she'd acted like the veriest trollop yesterday. It was hardly surprising his manservant had imagined she might be a cast-off mistress brazenly determined to air a grievance.

He knew exactly what she wanted with him and had been expecting her. But he'd underestimated her urgency and her audacity, which made him ponder again that her father must have played his cards close to his chest on certain aspects of this ridiculous pantomime. She obviously wasn't aware of all that had passed between himself and Meredith. First he was handed a fine estate on a plate and now the same man served him up his daughter. It was all too obvious...too easy; but he was intrigued to find out just how far shd would go to get back what she wanted. And how far he would let her go... before he let her go... ,

His jaw ground in self-loathing. He had a mistress who lavished on him a repertoire of patient, ingenious sensuality; to little proper appreciation, at times. He watched his knuckles rapping out a barely audible tattoo against the wall. In a way he felt sorry that Maria had to work so hard to earn her position in his life.

This icy blonde made his blood boil without even trying. Why was he surprised...annoyed? She'd had that effect on him before. Then she'd been confident of handling him like a pet dog, keeping him tame. And he'd let her have her way because he'd known it was a temporary imbalance of power.

At nineteen, Rachel Meredith had been flighty, petulant and infuriating.

She'd also been beautiful, vivacious and steeped in nascent sexuality. And he'd recognised the signs...recognised the erotic prize he'd won. And at twenty-four he had had his masculine priorities: he could be dunned by every merchant in town, his household could disintegrate about his ears while she shopped for stockings, so long as he had Rachel, hot, permissive, in his bed. Then, in moments of lust- free rationality, he recognised that despite her failings, he actually loved her, too. And it wasn't all to do with her alluring body or her alluring dowry. It was just her. Rachel! God, he'd been some kind of besotted fool! But not now. Not ever again.

He could have had his pick of debutantes that year, but he'd chosen her on condition the engagement was short. He had his military commitments to back his stipulation that a wedding be soon arranged. He'd recently increased rank from a captain in the Life Guards to a, major in the Hussars.

And he was keen to promote his career because, as his wife, her social life, which had seemed so central to her existence, would be controlled by his status. So, in the few months of their betrothal, he'd decided to let her have her head. He'd had every expectation of her soon being his wife...and he could be tolerant of her capricious, childish ways; he'd enough experience with women to feel confident she'd grow up on their wedding night...

Obviously he'd never really known her at all. He'd certainly misjudged her housekeeping skill; by all accounts she ran the Meredith menage very efficiently. And the sensual heat she'd been fired with at nineteen was nowhere in evidence. Now she stuttered a few awkward phrases because she was determined to be civil, shrank from his touch because she loathed him, and in response he frightened her by acting like a priapic adolescent six years too late. He should have taken her when he had more right and more chance...

Yesterday she'd let him comfort her, but then she'd not had her wits about her. Now she had and he could tell from her rigorous self-discipline that she'd vowed never again to be so defenceless in his presence. He'd witnessed her raw distress and he knew that had simply given her another reason to hate him. Grieving for her sister was private. He'd no business knowing of it.

Yet he was glad he did. Not that he relished her pain, but oddly he'd liked being able to salve it. He'd brought her relief... Which brought him full circle, and to wondering, acidly, if she'd like to return the favour... especially as he knew she was hovering on the brink of asking for something.

'I should tell you at once why I arrived at your house and was discourteously persistent in my desire to speak to you yesterday...' Rachel rattled off, Clattering her cup and saucer down on the polished mahogany.

'Why bother?' Connor bit over her words, frustration making him sound boorish. 'Are we going to pretend that I've no idea why you would come back to London and urgently want me, less than two weeks after leaving and having been quite indifferent to my existence? Something perhaps to do with the fact I took your inheritance from your father in a gambling hell?'

Rachel felt stone-cold beneath the toneless blast. But there it was—the subject was out in the open, at his instigation, and she must keep it there. 'I wasn't indifferent to your existence. And if I seemed so...well, acquit me, sir, of blame. It was your idea we should appear*so...careless of the other's presence.' She gave him a small smile. 'And you were right. It was a clever, sensible idea; there was no malicious gossip. I thought we dealt tolerably well together. Aren't you pleased?'

He smiled at his fingers drumming against wood. 'Aren't you pleased?' he mimicked in his soft Irish accent. 'Now where do I remember that from?

You need to be a little closer when you say it, sweet, and looking up at me as though you really cared what I might answer.'

Rachel felt tears of anger burn her eyes. He was determined to be as obnoxious as possible. 'Actually, I am back in town, too, to be of service to my friend, Lucinda Saunders, as she is increasing. Please don't think my father's misfortunes are all that bring me here.

But now the matter is aired... Yes, I should like to speak about that. I should like to negotiate a short lease on my property so that June might still hold her wedding at Windrush.'

'It's mine.'

'Yes. I should like a short lease, please, to cover the period next month when my sister is to be married.'

He turned slowly, looking at her from beneath his long black lashes. She forced herself to calmly return his stare. She managed a wavering smile, too.

'Why would you need it then? You have your Mayfair town- house. It is the height of the Season. Few of the aristocracy will be in the country. Your friends and associates will be in London, I'm sure...'

'How do you know who my friends and associates are?'

'I'm sorry...I didn't mean to be presumptuous. I was just pleading my cause.'