Two hours later, Dorothy and Cynthia were sitting in a coach across from Marcus. Her husband. Night had well and truly fallen, and the lamplighters were busy bringing a few rays of golden light to fight with the shadows on the teeming streets. Carriages rattled past, and snatches of laughter floated through the windows. It seemed incomprehensible that there should be so much raucous life filling London after everything that had happened. Dorothy stared out of the windows, her hands twisting in her lap.
The trip to Arundell House was brief—too brief—and before she had a chance to protest, a young maid took charge of Cynthia. She led the child away to a hot bath and a meal, chattering brightly the entire time.
“Would you join me in the library?” Marcus asked, his strong fingers gripping Dorothy’s elbow.
Without waiting for her reply, he guided her down the wide hallway to the library—an altogether grander affair than the stuffy one at the Polkinghorne residence. Along three walls, bookcases rose from floor to ceiling. Mahogany ladders with brass fittings could be moved along rails to reach the upper shelves, and a multitude of books, bound with brown, green, blue, and red leather, filled the shelves. Not a space was empty—in fact, the shelves were so well-filled that some books lay horizontally on the tops of other books in an effort to squeeze in more volumes.
No fire burned in the fireplace, but several lamps had been lit on a variety of small tables, giving the room a mellow, welcoming look. Columns framed the door and windows, thick rugs covered the floor, and a few fragile porcelain vases, holding fresh roses, had been strategically placed. The light rose fragrance mingled with the scent of leather and a lingering smokiness from past fires, to enrich the comforting atmosphere.
Despite the soothing appeal of the room, Dorothy could not relax. Her fingers twisted together. She could not read Marcus’s expression—his face was too well-shuttered. He released her and strode to the fireplace, to stare down into its black, cavernous depth.
“I must apologize,” he said at last. His voice was so carefully modulated that she could read no emotion in it at all. “It seems days ago, and yet it was just this morning that you were wed and then abandoned.”
Her hands knotted more tightly together. That I was wed? We were wed… “It was unavoidable,” she replied in a soft voice. Her eyes searched his face, but she could only see his profile, lit fitfully by the lamp on the mantle.
“Yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Nonetheless, you must be wishing me to the very devil.”
“No—not at all!” Hand outstretched, she took a step forward, but the tension stiffening his shoulders held her at bay.
“And I owe you and your sister a great deal for finding my niece and bringing her home safely.”
“You owe us nothing, my lord—Marcus.” She laughed lightly, though it cost her a great deal to do so. “Grace was only trying to do a good deed.”
“A good deed.” A bitter chuckle escaped him. “Well, I owe both of you a debt I cannot repay.”
“Nonsense. There is no debt. I am simply relieved we found Cynthia alive and well.”
He gazed at her for a moment, his eyes blazing before bleakness quenched the light. His jaw tightened. “Which brings me to the matter at hand. It is clear that you can not wish to be married to one such as myself, and I will not force my attentions on an unwilling woman.” He laughed harshly. “I suppose it is understandable. Even my niece would prefer to be elsewhere. Given the circumstances, I can hardly blame you if you wish to have this marriage annulled—no one would blame you. Therefore, you may consider yourself released from any and all debts and obligations. I will make the arrangements for the annulment tomorrow. It is simply a shame that your sister could not accompany us this evening. She could have provided you with a chaperone.”
Staring at him, a terrible chasm yawned at her feet. Dorothy crossed her arms and gripped her elbows. She could not—would not—accept such a terrible decision. Her pulse quickened. He had spoken no word of love to her. In fact, he appeared to have no feelings for her whatsoever, given his behavior.
And yet, she loved him. She took a deep breath.
For once, she would be the one with the courage. She would step forward and say what needed to be said. “That is all very fine and well, but I do not need a chaperone. I have no wish to be released.”
He turned and looked at her, deep emotion flaring in his eyes before his expression grew remote. Controlled. Again, his jaw tightened. The hand he had laid so casually on the marble mantle clenched. “So. Does the title mean that much to you, then?”
“Title? I care nothing for your title. It is obviously going to be nothing but a frightful nuisance. No. I refuse to release you from this marriage because I cannot let you go.” Her throat closed painfully. She swallowed and lifted her chin. “I love you, not the earldom. Though I don’t know how I am to prove such a thing if you are too stubborn to listen to me.”
Golden gleams lit his eyes as he strode across the floor to her. He gripped her arms and pulled her closer, searching her face hungrily. He gave her a gentle shake. “You love me? How can you?”
She laughed and placed her hands against his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath her palms. “I have been asking myself the very same question. There is no answer, I’m afraid, except that I do.”
“You scarcely know me—”
“And you scarcely know me. So I am perfectly well aware that you most likely do not return my affection—”
“Return your affection?!” An exasperated smile twisted his mouth. His eyes twinkled. “I have thought of little else—”
“Liar,” she said mildly.
“I—”
“You have thought of little else other than your missing niece and recent tragedy. Come, admit the truth!”
His grin turned rueful as he slid an arm around her waist. “I admit to some concerns. However, you were by far my greatest distraction.”
“Distraction?” She wrinkled her nose and pushed at his chest. “That is hardly flattering. The bite of a fly can be a distraction.”
“Perhaps. But flies do not make one love them. You do. Despite the fact that you can be just as irritating at times.” His head lowered, but he stopped with his mouth an inch away from hers. “Sadly, the opportunity I so recently offered you appears to be gone, and you have no one to blame but yourself. I love you too much to grant you an escape a second time.”
When he made no move to close the gap between them, Dorothy smiled and slipped a hand behind his neck. “Then the debt is paid, the contract is made, and will never be broken.”
“Done.” He pressed his lips against hers, his strong arms holding her tightly against him.
Something crinkled in her pocket.
Her hand drifted down to touch the annoyance, only to find the straight edge of folded paper. She pulled away a few inches. “The letter! I have a letter from my sister.” She winkled it out of her pocket to glance at it.
Marcus pulled her closer again with a smile and deep fire in his eyes. “Forget the letter.”
With an answering smile, she did.
The letter fluttered from her fingers and fell onto the thick carpeting, unheeded.
And in a room redolent of leather and roses, Dorothy discovered that when love comes, whether fast or slow, it cancels all debts, heals all hearts, and shines ever more brightly on a glorious future.
###
Seduction of a Widow
The Marriage Maker
Book Twenty-Three
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Tarah Scott and Laura Chandler
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Virgins are overrated. Women of experience. Women who know what they want. Women who don’t need a man—at least for nothing more than the pleasures only a man can provide. These are the women men desire.
It takes a man of worth, of steel determination, to capture one of these beauties…especially when she doesn’t want to be caught,
and I know from experience, they take great pains to avoid the marriage trap. Why give up her freedom, nights spent with lovers who worship her body as only a lover can? Nae. The man who sets his sights on one of these women must forgo conventional wisdom. Poetic words of love fall on deaf ears, for many men have confessed their devotion in brilliantly lit ballrooms and under moonlit skies. This female creature has no desire to be tamed beyond the pleasures of one night.
A man who loves this woman must be ready to give his soul to save hers.
Fate often watches in perverse glee when these women pass within a hair’s breadth of these men, blithely unaware of their hero’s existence.
But fate didn’t plan on me, The Marriage Maker.
Chapter One
Something in the way the woman dipped her head and smiled stopped Evan MacLaren in his tracks. The breeze from the ballroom’s open terrace doors caught one dark ringlet and ruffled the lock against her long, elegant neck. From her pure Grecian profile to her lithe, narrow waist to the softly rounded flare of her hips, she embodied perfection.
She turned in her chair to face the turbaned matron she addressed, and her eyes met his. He caught his breath. Clear pools of honey-brown fringed by gold lashes seared his very soul. She was a goddess. He grimaced inwardly at the turn of his thoughts and offered a rakish grin in hopes of hiding his attraction. The touch of a smile on her rose-hued lips betrayed only tolerant amusement in the instant before she returned her attention to the woman at her side.
Thank you, but no.
The swift dismissal heated his blood with challenge.
A low laugh arose from that graceful flower, then she and her matronly companion rose and strolled toward the refreshments table. The rich, olive-green velvet of her skirt swayed with the subtle shift of her hips. He quashed the desire to chase her. She was just another woman, in a chamber filled with luscious beauties.
Evan wound through the crowd to the quiet cardroom, where a man might find a better suited drink than the sweet lemonade served in the ballroom. A sideboard laden with decanters and bottles sat against the left wall. He crossed the room and filled a tumbler with whisky. Glass in hand, Evan wandered past the table of card players. Sir Stirling James looked up from his cards and nodded. Evan nodded back and took the final three paces to the hearth, where sat half a dozen other gentlemen. He leaned one shoulder against the mantle and savored the liquor, waiting for its mellowing effect to take hold.
“She is looking for a new interest, I hear,” Lord Smith said.
The Duke of Holmes’ eyes lit with devilry. “Her interests have always been wide and varied.” The portly gentleman leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers against his vest, embroidered in bright jewel tones and gold lace. The style echoed the flamboyance of his youthful days, yet still suited his shoulder length, faded red-gold locks.
Lord Smith nodded. “Aye, her interests have always been adventurous.”
Evan wondered which woman present was the object of their discussion. Did he know her? Was she someone who would make this trip to the country brighter?
“Ah.” Holmes gave an exaggerated sigh. “Were I only twenty years younger…”
The younger man leaned over and slapped the elder’s shoulder. “What’s the matter, Your Grace? Afraid you’re not up to the—ride?”
Holmes broke into loud guffaws. “Her first husband wasn’t up to the deed, and died in her bed.”
Had he heard correctly? The lady in question killed her first husband on their wedding night?
Lord Bumbleberry clapped a hand to his chest. “Oh, to be clasped by those firm, ivory thighs.”
Holmes shook his head. “Now, what would a scapegrace like you know about the lady’s thighs? I said she was adventurous, not lacking in taste.”
Lord Bumbleberry’s reddish brows drew together sharply. “Keep your opinions to yourself, thank you very much.”
The duke slapped the table. “Told you he had no idea of the lady’s secret charms.” His eyes sparkled with a wicked light. “Remember how she raced her phaeton?”
“Such a daring girl.” Lord Parker almost sighed the words.
The duke grinned. “Carr came up from London like a fury. Her papa was helpless to do aught but agree to Carr’s demand that the wedding take place immediately.” He sobered. “She quieted for a time after that. Perhaps, if he had been able to sire a child on her, she would have remained quiet.”
“She’s an excellent horsewoman,” said Lord Parker.
“A reckless hoyden of a horsewoman, if you ask me,” said Lord Smith. “Of course, her thighs would be long and lean from all that wild riding.”
“Wild riding, ho!” Holmes said.
“Tally-ho!” said Lord Parker.
The chamber erupted into raucous laughter and the men lifted their glasses in a toast and drank.
Lord Bumbleberry scowled. “I will win her over.”
“I don’t know about that.” The duke regarded him doubtfully.
“Oh, no?”
“You actually think you can best the competition?” Holmes said.
Lord Bumbleberry slammed his glass down on the table. “No man here can outride me—in bed or out.”
The duke turned to Evan. “What of young Mr. MacLaren?” The older man made a dramatic show of appraising Evan. “He’s certainly a handsome young swain and I think our Lady Hoyden will be most impressed by his horsemanship skills.”
Lord Bumbleberry’s scowl deepened. “I have never been impressed by the horsemanship skills of a common privateer. Much less one without two pence to rub together.”
A sudden fury seized Evan. What in hell’s name could this spoiled, soft bellied nobles know of the sacrifices he had made for his family’s honor?
He studied the amber liquid in his glass for two heartbeats, forced calm, then said, “You may have a point about the horsemanship of privateers, compared to the nobleman who rides in leisure with hounds.” He raised his gaze and held Lord Bumbleberry’s. “But marksmanship skills are another matter, entirely.”
The other man paled.
Evan offered a cold smile. “I would be pleased to make a demonstration at dawn.”
Lord Bumbleberry snapped his spineless form against the polished mahogany chair back, then sought quick refuge in his drink. Quiet settled over the group. The scrape of shifting boots and the clink of decanters against glasses wafted from other parts of the room. Someone began shuffling cards. Gradually, the gentlemen departed. Only the Duke of Holmes remained.
“Well, young Mr. MacLaren, the question remains,” he said.
Evan raised a hard stare to the older man. “What question?”
He bristled, ready to challenge even this powerful duke if he dared insult his situation or family. Yet, he had no idea why his pride was so easily pricked tonight. It was a shameful loss of self-control. He might have a taste for danger and risk, but he was no hot-headed fool.
Holmes stared back warmly, seemingly unaware of any contention. “Are you going to ask the adventurous lady to dance?”
“Who?”
“Lady Carr.”
“I do not know her,” Evan replied.
The duke snorted. “Surely you could not have missed that lithesome beauty gowned in green velvet? The one with the deep brown hair and the—” He made quick motions with his hands, approximating a woman’s lush form.
Ah, so it was the female who had given him the polite—but firm—rebuff. She was the lady whose husband had died in an effort to claim his husbandly rights? Like simmering rum on a cold Atlantic morn, his blood began to warm.
“I see you know her.” Holmes chuckled, then rose.
Holmes canted his head, then strolled away. Evan watched his retreat. This gathering had become too stale to bear. A spoiled, wealthy hellion, and the gentlemen who so lacked zest in their luxurious lives that they found her a novelty. Evan tossed back the last of his whisky, set the glass on the mantle and started toward the door.
“
She’s not really the wild adventuress that they have painted her.”
Evan stopped and turned. Sir Stirling James stood near the chair Holmes had vacated, his dark eyes alive with excitement. Or was it expectation? It rankled Evan’s growing sense of impending…what? Trap?
Evan kept his expression impassive. “Pardon me?”
Sir Stirling smiled with warmth. “Lady Carr is not some silly minded, wild girl. She is a sophisticated woman who lives life to the fullest. Though she still retains a sort of naivety…no, it is more a freshness.” Sadness flickered in his expressive eyes. “It is unfair that some malign her.”
In this, Evan agreed. His earlier disgust for those gentlemen returned—parlor tigers—who lacked backbone. They bolstered their flagging manhood by making a conquest of a woman they neither understood, nor fully appreciated.
“Would you care to meet the lady?” Sir Stirling asked.
The man’s expression was pleasant. The sense of a trap returned. Nevertheless, Evan found himself following Sir Stirling James back to the ballroom.
Chapter Two
Leslie sighed and shifted in her seat. “The party has grown dull.”
Alice Langley, her friend of fifteen years, gave a low laugh. “I imagine that means you haven’t found a suitable gentleman with whom to while away the night.”
Leslie cast Alice a sideways look. With not a single gray hair on her fair head, Alice was still magnificent at the mature age of forty-five. “You know full well I don’t live up to that ridiculous reputation,” Leslie said.
“I also know you often come closer than you let on.”
“Not so,” Leslie said with a laugh, though she knew it was true.
“I would say your evening is about to get much more interesting,” Alice said.
“What—” Leslie began, then caught sight of the two men who sidestepped a group of ladies. Sir Stirling James and—
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