Her eyes blazed an answer, and Rathbourne patted her shoulder as if she had been a child. “That’s better. You had me worried for a moment.”
With his hand firm on her elbow, she walked stiffly but without protest until she saw that it was his coach that was drawn up at the entrance. Deirdre rounded on him. “What have you done with my brother?” she demanded in a voice vibrant with emotion.
“Don’t trouble yourself about him,” he replied with an offhandedness that did not endear him to Deirdre. “I’ve had him put to bed. When he wakes tomorrow, he won’t recall a thing. I haven’t hurt him, Deirdre, if that’s what is in your mind.”
The carriage door was opened by one of Rathbourne’s coachmen and Deirdre was hustled inside. As the Earl settled beside her, she shrank into the corner and deliberately lifted her skirts out of his way as if she feared contamination from any part of his person. It was only a small act of defiance, and Rathbourne affected not to notice. It was as if by tacit agreement there would be no scene until what they had to say to each other could be said in absolute privacy.
Their journey was short, and when the carriage drew up before a small, terraced house in a dimly lit street that formed one side of a square common, Deirdre looked to the Earl in some surprise.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Have you forgotten that we have yet to discuss terms?” His voice was mild and unthreatening. “Or do you perhaps have a draft for six thousand pounds in your reticule with which to discharge your debt?”
Deirdre said nothing. She allowed him to help her alight.
“Where are we?” she asked, forcing herself to speak calmly.
“In Richmond. I thought we should be private. This is a house I am in the process of letting.”
There was nothing of the lover in his clipped accents. She sensed that his anger was on a tight leash and the thought was oddly comforting. He might ruin her financially, but she doubted if she would suffer any serious injury at his hands. The Earl was, in spite of everything, an English gentleman. Her confidence was pinned on that hope. Having disposed, in her own mind, of her most pressing fear, she gave free rein to her righteous anger, at least in the silence of her personal reflections.
He pushed her ungently ahead of him through a dark vestibule and up a steep, narrow flight of stairs. He found the door he wanted and thrust her over the threshold. Deirdre took one look and shrank back against him.
A small card table set for two with white damask covers stood in the middle of the room. Two French gilt-edged chairs were placed by the table, and on a rosewood console against one wall were various covered silver serving dishes filled, so Deirdre guessed by the inviting aroma, with all manner of delicacies. The lighting was subdued. A brace of candles stood on the table, another on the white marble mantlepiece. Everything was in crimson from the velvet drapes, which were drawn tight, to the crimson satin hangings on the massive Queen Anne four-poster, which stood between two long windows. The atmosphere was one of decadence and Deirdre was outraged. She whirled on her captor.
There was so much she wanted to cast in his teeth; his treachery at placing her in such a shocking position; his high-handed removal of her brother’s protection; Mrs. Dewinters’s connivance in his unscrupulous plot; the smooth way everyone and everything had been manipulated to his base ends. But one thing infuriated her above all else.
“Cheat!” Her voice shook with anger. “Filthy, low, conniving, unscrupulous, abominable cheat! How dare you use me so? You took advantage of me. It was no coincidence that you met me at Winslow’s. Did you set your spies on me? How dared you play against me with marked cards! I shall never permit you to get away with this outrage! I’ll have you blackballed at White’s or wherever it is you disgrace with your vile presence. Snake! Did you cheat Armand too? I’ll ruin you if it’s the last thing I do! Don’t you dare touch me,” she cried as Rathbourne lunged for her.
He caught her by the arms and spun her round to face the mirror above the mantlepiece. “Take a good look at yourself, Miss Fenton.” He dragged the wig from her head and Deirdre winced with the pain as the pins pulled free. “Don’t talk about trying to ruin me. I have only to let slip the name of the doxy who partnered me at Winslow’s and you will be ruined for life.”
Deirdre was not best pleased at the unwelcome reminder of what her disguise was meant to portray. She had never seen so much naked bosom in her life. Her eyes shrank from her own reflection and sought his gaze in the mirror. “You are despicable,” she said through gritted teeth.
Rathbourne let her go and she put some distance between them.
“Sit down,” he said curtly, but with so much menace behind the words that Deirdre obeyed, albeit with some reluctance. “I knew that you would try something but this is beyond belief. What was St. Jean thinking of to allow you to expose yourself in this way? That boy needs his head examined!”
The question was rhetorical and Deirdre sat mute, regarding him stonily. She listened to his spate of invective with only half an ear. It had finally registered in her mind that she was alone with a man in his bedchamber—and such a chamber! No threat, no objection of hers could sway the man who stormed at her. She needed all her wits about her if she was to persuade him to let her go.
When his anger had run its course, she addressed him in more mollified accents. “Lord Rathbourne, come now, you can’t hold me here indefinitely. I don’t know what your game is, but I am willing to overlook this…practical joke, if you return me to my family forthwith. I admit that I was at fault, and I promise to mend my ways. But let us be done with this charade. If you care to call on me at Portman Square tomorrow, or at your convenience, I am certain that everything can be settled between us quite amicably.”
He had moved to the console table as she spoke and seemed to give her words due consideration, but his answer brought a flutter of alarm to the pit of her stomach.
“You will be returned to your family in due course. However, I think it imperative that we conclude our business tonight, but not before we have eaten. I thought it better to forgo the pleasure of dining in Winslow’s. You might have let slip something to reveal your identity and I had no wish to expose you to further risk.” He removed the covers and heaped a platter with a sample of each serving dish. More than anything she wanted to spurn his hospitality, but she was afraid to try his temper to the limit.
She made a show of eating, but she scarcely swallowed a morsel and she drank sparingly of the wine he pressed on her. That Rathbourne placed no such restraints upon himself but drank down three glasses of Burgundy in quick succession disturbed her more than she cared to admit. She wished that she had had the foresight to conceal a weapon on her person. She absently twisted the emerald ring on her finger, but immediately desisted when she observed the Earl’s knowing smile.
As the meal progressed, his looks became darker and every nerve in her body screamed for her to make the attempt to escape, although outwardly she was careful to appear poised and in command of the situation. She mentally reviewed the options open to her and decided that her best course would be to follow his direction until she discovered what he intended. She put her knife and fork together on her plate to signify that she had finished and pushed her chair slightly back from the table.
“Drink your wine, Deirdre, you’ll feel the better for it,” he said in a voice that was not unkindly. Somehow, she found this unlooked-for solicitude more distrustful than his habitual temper.
She kept her voice pleasantly modulated. “I’m sure this elaborate abduction has some point to it, my lord. May I know what it is?”
“Did you forget that we have yet to discuss terms?” he asked softly, regarding her over the rim of his fourth glass of Burgundy with an impenetrable expression.
“I have not forgotten. By all means, let us discuss terms.”
“Six thousands pounds is no mean sum. How do you propose to raise it?”
“Does it matter? You, I am persuaded, have it in mind to
dispose of every suggestion I put forward until I hit upon the one you are determined upon. What do you propose, my lord?”
He raised his glass as if in salute. “You cannot raise such a sum unless you sell that farm of yours, and since it is mortgaged to the hilt, that won’t answer.”
“You seem to be remarkably well informed about my affairs,” she said coldly.
“Remarkably,” he concurred. “But then, that was to be expected since I have of late invested a tidy sum in your horse breeding venture.”
He let the words sink in, waiting, perhaps even hoping, he was willing to admit, that her unshakable composure would develop a crack. But she only stared at him, and nothing betrayed how his words had affected her.
“Five thousand pounds, to be exact,” he added gratuitously.
Her eyelashes flickered down, and he went on with cruel deliberation, “You are destitute, Dee. I’ve made sure of that. There are no alternatives. Marry me and I shall undertake to meet all your obligations, both present and future. You will find me a generous husband, even although you are in no position to dictate terms.”
“I see.” The fingers on the stem of her wineglass shook slightly, the only sign that she was not in full control of her emotions.
“You may remember that I told you I would renew my offer when the odds were more in my favor. Don’t be frightened, Deirdre,” he added gently as he noted the unnatural pallor of her complexion. “You should be flattered to think I would go to such lengths for you. I would not have done as much for any other woman.”
Deirdre knew that she was in shock. Her thought processes seemed to have ground to a halt. She wanted to shout her outrage, but the words would not form on her lips. She saw that he was watching her with those habitually indolent eyes, and pride goaded her to speak with an icy hauteur.
“But I am not flattered. You want me only because I have refused you, a unique experience for you, no doubt.”
“True.”
“Your consequence, your vanity has been wounded by my refusal, nothing more.”
“That too.”
“Once I surrender myself, you will soon lose interest and regret that you ever thought of marriage.”
“You do yourself an injustice,” he returned dryly.
“I am a realist,” she shot back.
“A cynic, more like,” he countered. After a strained interval, he went on more gently, “Deirdre, I know my own mind, and I know yours also, whatever you might say to the contrary.”
She was silent, and Rathbourne seemed to come to the end of his patience. He cursed softly and began to gather together the remains of their supper on a tray. He moved to the door, pushed it open, and deposited the tray on the floor outside. He then shut the door with a snap.
So the servants were not to be given even a glimpse of her, Deirdre reflected. In a night of unmitigated disaster, that Rathbourne should try to protect the remnants of her reputation was a very small consolation.
He turned back to face her, putting himself deliberately between Deirdre and the door. “Well? What is your answer, Miss Fenton?”
“If I refuse?” The question was pointless and she knew it. There was no arguing with a man who had proved that he would stoop to the tactics of a felon.
“That would not be acceptable.”
To quarrel with him when he had been drinking and in such an unpredictable temper was unthinkable. Not that she would ever consider marrying such a domineering man. She hated him with a passion. But now was not the time to tell him so. She was in this position only because he had deceived her. She had no qualms about returning the compliment. Once she was out of his clutches and on safer ground, she would raise the money to repay him somehow. She determined to play her cards with a cool head.
She became conscious of a subtle change in him. His eyes, behind an assumed languor, were watchful; his posture, tense. Her eyes were drawn to the faint scar on his cheek and she remembered Vauxhall.
“Then I accept your offer,” she said with a grace she was far from feeling.
She pushed herself from the table and looked about for her cloak. It was on the quilted crimson bed. Keeping a wary eye on her abductor, she moved to retrieve it, but held it in her arms in front of her, fearful that if she put it on, he might regard the action as some sort of provocation. “May I go now?” she asked, despising the break in her voice.
He laughed without mirth. “You accept? Without argument? And I am free, I suppose, to send the notice of our betrothal to The Times and approach your guardian and make all the necessary arrangements and so on?”
“Of course.” The thought that she might have made at least some show of resistance came to her belatedly. Her compliance was not in character. But then, what did this arrogant man know of her? No doubt it was no less than he expected.
He came to tower over her and Deirdre forced herself not to drop her eyes from his unnerving stare.
“Just like that?”
“You give me no choice.”
“And you will honor our bargain?”
“Naturally.”
“Deirdre, you will run to earth as soon as you are shot of my hateful presence. You would like nothing better than to make a laughingstock of me. In short, I don’t trust you!”
She looked at him coolly. “What do you suggest, then? That I put my promise in writing and sign it in the presence of witnesses? Would that satisfy you?”
One careless finger tipped up her chin, and she felt his hand warm and firm on her shoulder. “What I suggest, Deirdre, is a pledge of your good faith, a down payment, if you like, of what you promise for the future.”
“A pledge?” she echoed foolishly.
“Something that will bind you to me forever. A week from now our vows will confirm the consummation of your promise.”
For a long moment they stood unmoving, and Deirdre half believed that she had mistaken his meaning until his hand slid lightly to her fingers and, before she knew what he was about, he had removed the emerald ring. She heard it clatter as he threw it on the nearest table.
“Merely a precautionary measure,” he said with a challenge in his eyes as he bent to take her lips.
Chapter Thirteen
Her hands splayed out and she pressed them hard and urgently against his chest to fend off the embrace. The heat of his skin through the fine fabric of his shirt sent a tremor of shock through the tips of her fingers, impelling her senses to a vivid awareness of the jeopardy this man presented. “Don’t! You can’t!” There was a catch in her voice and in her eyes was the sheen of helpless rage.
Rathbourne felt a small pang of conscience, but it was easily stifled. She was in his arms, where she belonged. To be swayed by her scruples now would be to lose the advantage. Deirdre would never permit him to get close to her again, and that wall of reserve which held him at bay would become impenetrable. Dammit, he had not wanted it this way, but she had left him no choice. She saw the uncompromising set of his mouth and tensed for flight.
“I can and I will,” he stated flatly. She surged against him, catching him off guard and he staggered sideways. One lunge took her to the door. She twisted the knob and dragged hard upon it. Nothing happened. She sobbed, a sound of pain and fury, and she strained every muscle to open the door. It would not budge. She wheeled to face him, pressing herself back as far from him as possible.
“I locked it,” he said gently, as if he regretted the deception. He calmly removed his jacket and neckcloth and draped them over the back of a chair. His eyes never left Deirdre’s.
Involuntarily, her hands fisted and unfisted in the folds of her gown. She felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her body. “My brother will kill you,” she finally managed, her voice dry and rasping.
“We both know that you will never tell him. Oh, not for my sake, but for his.”
His hands moved to the collar of his shirt, and Deirdre’s breathing became more labored as he undid the buttons, one by one, slowly, agonizingly,
easing the shirtfront open to reveal the mat of dark hair that curled against his chest. He shrugged out of it, and Deirdre closed her eyes against the persuasive virility of his sleek torso with its powerful shoulders and arms. She knew then why she had always felt Rathbourne’s presence as a threat. If she had known what he concealed under his fine-tailored clothes, she would never have come within a mile of him—no, nor ever would again. When she opened her eyes, he was kicking out of his shoes.
“If you do this, I shall never marry you—never! I swear it.” Her voice wavered and the threat sounded weak and empty.
“I am of the opposite persuasion. You will never marry me if I don’t.”
His hands moved to the waistband of his breeches and a small animal cry of fear was wrung from her. “Gareth, no!”
He laughed softly and shook his head. “You deign to give me my name at the oddest moments! Do you think that will persuade me? Before this night is over, I promise you, my name will come very naturally to your lips.”
It was his calm purpose that unnerved her. He was beyond reason, beyond tears. Nothing could sway him now. His fingers undid the top button of his breeches and she stood, frozen, staring at him for a long moment, then she took a quick sideways step toward the window. He moved with catlike speed and caught her easily, his hands warm and compelling on her shoulders. “Deirdre.” His voice was gentle and almost pleading. She jerked away from him with such violence that she would have fallen had he not been there to catch her.
She was lifted in his arms and held high against his chest. “Our first bedding needn’t be a battle,” he said softly against her temples. “Don’t force me to be cruel. You won’t admit it, but you want this as much as I do.”
Her answer was to beat wildly at his chest and head. In two strides he was at the bed and he flung her roughly down, throwing himself beside her. He rolled on top of her and held her wrists easily with one hand. And then the slow assault on her senses began.
The Passionate Prude Page 16
