He removed his jacket and tossed it in the vicinity of her bodice. His waistcoat soon followed. She wanted to smooth her hands over his chest, feel the powerful muscles she knew to be there, but instead she remained still, like a wooden doll . . . yearning for him to set her skin afire with his touch, while guarding her heart for the moment when he left her in disgust.
RAFFERTY GAZED AT HER THROUGH A VEIL OF LUST. HE wanted to taste her, he wanted her to cry out in decidedly unladylike moans of passion, he wanted her to experience the full extent of his desire. But she stood so calm, so aloof, as if the intimacy between a man and a woman were beneath her. Yet, she didn’t protest. As he suspected from the time he intruded on her bath, she wasn’t a shy, shrieking aristocratic innocent. She didn’t ask him to stop, and dear God in heaven, he wasn’t certain he could if she had.
He slipped his fingers under the lace of her pristine white satin corset. Then he unfastened the tiny hook between the swell of her breasts. He cupped the satin covering her breast and heard her first jagged intake of breath, but still she didn’t assist or deny him.
He wanted her, but he wanted her to want him as well. Remembering her interest in his undressing that first night, he felt inspired.
“Unfasten my shirt,” he said.
She did so with mechanical efficiency.
“Slide it off of my shoulders.” He hurriedly removed his cuff links. He had to admit, she was a much better student than he had been at her lessons. “Touch me, Arianne.”
Her hands moved to his chest.
“That’s good.” He returned to the fastenings on her corset. “It doesn’t matter where, but I want to feel your hands on me whenever we’re together. No matter what we do. Do you understand?”
She nodded. He unhooked the fastenings down the front of her corset, then added it to the collection on the mattress. Kneeling before her, he felt her fingers on his shoulders. He slid his hand down the length of her stocking on one leg and lifted her foot to remove her dainty blue shoe. Sliding his hands beneath her drawers, he unfastened her garter and removed the stocking before repeating for the other leg.
Standing before her, he gazed at her clad in her chemise and drawers. Still she neither encouraged nor resisted him. What had that bastard baron done to her? He swept his arm beneath her legs, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bed.
“I can’t leave you tonight,” he said, laying her on the mattress. Then he paused to unbutton his trousers and pull off his boots and socks. “Your brother suspects we’re not truly married. If he hears me leave the room, I’m not sure he’ll let me live till morning.” He smiled, but Arianne did not. She had fear in her eyes, and he hesitated, wondering if he was adding to whatever she had suffered.
He lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms. Surely, she had seen the bulge in his drawers, evidence of his desire, but he wouldn’t force himself on her. Her head resting on his chest, he rubbed the top of her head with his chin. “Now tell me what he did to you.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Summers wrote your brother that she was concerned a baron had taken advantage. I saw how you reacted when you saw him in London. You were obviously running away from something to agree to this adventure.” He trailed his fingertips along her upper arm. “But I want you to tell me. If that bastard baron hurt you, I need to understand how.”
“Why?”
“I don’t wish to repeat his mistakes,” Rafferty said. “Arianne, your brother knows that we are presenting ourselves as married. Lady Weston believes we’ve shared this room. Eva and Mrs. Summers both know of your intentions. The Baron knows what he did. Your hope that no one in England will know of our actions in America grows distant with each passing day.” He shifted, lifting her chin so she couldn’t turn away. “Now, I know you refused my offer of marriage. I know I haven’t a title or great sums of money or elegant manners . . .” She tried to interrupt him, but he continued on. “But I have a great desire for you. If we’re to share this room and purport to be man and wife, then I need to know what that bastard did to you.”
“He didn’t force himself on me.” He felt her swallow. “I allowed him to do what he wished. I thought it was proof of my affection.”
“Has he seen you much as you are now?” He tried to keep his jealous anger from his voice.
“Yes,” she answered. “But it was dark, and there were . . . blankets.”
So he came to her room in the middle of the night, sneaking about like a thieving cutpurse in a dark alley. “Then what happened? Did he kiss you?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But his kisses . . .”
“Yes?” he encouraged.
“They weren’t like yours. I like your kisses, Rafferty.”
“Ah, darlin’, thank you for that.” He kissed the top of her head and felt her relax against him.
“I let him put his hands on my breasts. I liked that as well.”
“I suppose he did too,” Rafferty said, feeling jealousy flare up again.
“Then he crawled on top of me. He asked if I was ready for him. I wasn’t certain what he meant, but he thrust into me.”
Rafferty felt his teeth on edge. The filthy blackguard was fortunate an ocean existed between them. “Did he hurt you, darlin’?”
She didn’t answer at first, telling him all he needed to know. “I think it was my fault,” she said in a tiny voice. “I didn’t do it right. The next day he announced his engagement to another.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “When did you tell that miserable scoundrel that you weren’t descended from a duke?”
“Earlier that day,” Arianne said. “Why?”
Either the bastard was punishing her for something that wasn’t her fault or he knew that would be his only opportunity to sample Lady Arianne. But she didn’t need to hear that. “You must have believed he loved you,” he said instead.
She nodded. The movement registered on his shoulder. “I trusted him. I wanted him to know about the bloodline before we were committed to each other.”
“And yet he still came to your bed that night, the son of a cur.”
“I thought it was proof that he loved me in spite of the broken bloodline.”
“Arianne . . . the man misused you.” He rolled on his side so he could see into her eyes. “There is nothing wrong with you. What happens between a man and a woman doesn’t have to be painful. It’s like kisses.” He grinned. “Some men know how to kiss a woman; others don’t.” She smiled, which encouraged him. “Let me show you.”
Arianne welcomed his kiss, gentle, healing. She returned the pressure and then slid her hand to the base of his neck, then to his shoulder. There was something thrilling about the touch of bare skin to bare skin. Something that sparked like the tip of a match. She wanted more of that sensation and pressed her chest to his. His hands slipped beneath her chemise and up her back. Soon he massaged her breasts, driving excitement lower. An ache throbbed from her core. She wanted more. She wanted to test Rafferty’s suggestion that intimacy didn’t need to hurt, but what if the problem had been her and not the Baron? What if Rafferty wanted her for this night only and then would abandon her just as the Baron had?
She pushed on his chest, until he stilled. “I can’t do this,” she gasped. “You said my brother suspects we’re not married.”
Rafferty’s eyes were open but unfocused. It took several moments for him to speak. “He suspects, but he doesn’t know. He’s watching for signs, but Arianne, if he discovers that we haven’t exchanged vows, he’ll just make that happen. We’ll be married either way.”
He tugged on her waist, but she shook her head. She wasn’t sure how to explain her confused emotions. She wasn’t married to the Baron and he abandoned her. She wasn’t married to Rafferty. Would he leave her in disgust as well? “This is too similar to before. I’m not ready, Rafferty. If you care for me, you won’t make me do this.”
HE HAD MEANT TO BE GENTLE, TO ALLEVIATE HER FEAR
S, but she had answered with an intensity that made him forget his original intentions. His hand slipped beneath her chemise to find her breasts. The fullness in his hand, enhanced by the tight nub, shot straight to his groin. Dear God, he wanted her, and he could show her what intimacy truly felt like. Not the painful education the Baron managed.
His hand slipped lower to the soft curve of her waist, then beneath the cotton of her drawers to her hip. She stilled, complaisant, guarded, just as she had been earlier. Damn it, he wasn’t the Baron, using her body with the full knowledge that he would abandon her to the vicious wolves of society. Or was he? After this was over, how could he repair her reputation?
He had to convince her to marry him, common dog that he was. For that, she needed to trust him.
Rafferty withdrew his hand from her drawers and soothed her chemise to cover the skin to her hip. “I want you, Arianne. Make no mistake. But I want you to desire me as well. Until then we’ll just share the bed, but not each other.”
He thought he saw her lips twist in a slight smile before he turned her so her back pressed against his chest. She burrowed against him while he pulled her tight and linked his hand with hers. He kissed the side of her head before he rested his head on the pillow with thoughts of how he was going to survive this outer ring of hell.
Twenty
SHE COULDN’T STOP SMILING. FEELING RENEWED, lightened of a heavy burden, Arianne lay in bed remembering how Rafferty had held her all night, planting soft kisses on her shoulder, tucking her tight against the wall of his chest. Such an intimate feeling to wake in the middle of the night, in the dark, in a borrowed space, and find another protecting you, even in his sleep. The Baron had not stayed with her, even after he had finished his prodding. Poor Miss Sharpe, to be stuck with a man like the Baron when there were men like Rafferty about. Even when he left in the morning to meet Phineas, he assured her he’d be back. In hindsight, perhaps ruining her reputation was the best thing that could have happened to her. Otherwise she would never have rushed to escape London, she most likely would have never met Rafferty, she certainly wouldn’t have agreed to a pretend marriage, and . . . her brother wouldn’t be watching her like a hawk. Christopher!
She hopped out of bed and rang for Kathleen. There was much to be done, invitations to send, workers to hire, canopies to order, weeding to begin. Perhaps it was a blessing her brother was here. She could put him to work as well. Then Rafferty would return. Something bloomed inside of her at the thought. You can trust him with your heart. She was beginning to suspect that was true. He hadn’t abandoned her when he learned she was used goods, and he hadn’t tried to take advantage of her admission. She had thought he was only interested in her due to her relationship to the Duke. But now that William was here, she could see that Rafferty didn’t cater to him in the manner that others did. Which meant Rafferty cared for her . . . for her. A ridiculous grin refused to leave her face.
“ARIANNE. MIGHT I REMIND YOU THAT I’M NOT ANOTHER household servant; I’m a duke,” William boomed. He sat at Rafferty’s desk in the study, a stack of stationery to his left and a listing of names to the right.
“Well, I have no need for a duke at the moment, but another servant would be deeply appreciated.” After having waited at the printers for a rush order of invitations to be printed, her patience was wearing thin—especially for helpless dukes with a sense of entitlement. She decided to take a different approach and softened her tone. “William, you have the loveliest handwriting. This is little different from addressing letters.” He appeared unmoved. “Would you prefer I arm you with a shovel to join me in the garden?” He scowled, indicating his displeasure with that assignment as well. Frustration kicked in. She put her hands on her hips. “Is there something more important to occupy your time?”
He pulled an envelope in front of him and picked up a pen. “I should have gone to Baltimore with Rafferty. At least then I’d be able to confront this Phineas Connor fellow,” he grumbled.
She stopped at the door, then turned. “Phineas? Why ever would you wish to confront Phineas?”
“If he’s the ruffian that Mrs. Summers wrote of, then I’ve a mind to accost him about putting your safety at risk.”
She laughed. “Phineas is not to blame. You can rest easy on that score.”
“So it was Rafferty . . . I suspected as much,” he mused. Arianne felt her cheeks warm. She had blundered into that one. “Anne, tell me the truth. Are you and Rafferty truly married?”
Her fingers found the gold wedding band. “Why do you ask?”
“You never wrote to me about him. I received all manner of letters about things you were doing with some baron, and then nothing. I’ve come all this way only to discover you’ve married a complete stranger at sea?” His eyes widened a moment, then narrowed. “Are you pregnant? It’s that baron’s byblow, isn’t it? I bet Rafferty married you for your allowance. You are the sister of a duke.”
Her face heated. “No, William. I’m not with child, and I don’t believe Rafferty even knows that you send money every month. I don’t believe he was at all impressed that I am your sister. At the moment, he’s probably regretting it.” She knew she was. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have other responsibilities. Please let me know when the invitations are complete. I’d like to have them delivered today.”
She leaned against the wall in the passageway for a breath. Thank heavens she wasn’t as stubborn and obstinate as her brother. Acting as if he were too high and mighty to be addressing envelopes, please. “I’m a duke,” she repeated in a mock singsong voice. Then it occurred to her that she’d been the very same way at times when dealing with Rafferty. The poor man. She owed him an apology. A smile bubbled to her face. This time she might concede the negotiations.
A murmur of voices and the stomp of feet reached her ear from the back of the legation. She walked outside. Six young boys moved about the garden. They looked like a passel of thieves in their shabby attire, except these thieves were vaguely familiar.
“Your Grace,” one boy exclaimed, pulling a cap from his head. “It’s me, Your Ladyship, Ben.”
As he approached, she recognized Ben from the Irish Rose. She glanced about the others, realizing they too must have come from the Rose. Rafferty’s boys.
“Mr. Rafferty sent us. He said you could use help and that we could use a good meal.” His lips turned in a crooked smile. “I’d never been on a train before. The engine was smaller than the one on the Rose, but the cars moved so fast, I didn’t think I could breathe.”
Rafferty. She should have guessed. Thinking of her and sending the boys in the midst of everything else.
“How did you arrive from the station?” she asked. That was an uphill climb.
“We walked. It felt good after being on the Irish Rose for so long. Mrs. Trembull fed us. Now we’re ready to work.” He beamed. “It’s been an adventure.” She was about to direct them on the finer points of weeding when Ben remembered something else. “Mr. Rafferty told me to give you this.” He pulled a folded paper from his grubby shirt. “And that.” He pointed to a box on a garden bench.
While he fetched the box, she read the note. Rafferty said he wouldn’t be home tonight after all. He and Phineas needed to check on something after dark. Disappointment dimmed her earlier enthusiasm. She hadn’t realized how much she missed Rafferty until she knew he wouldn’t be home. Ben returned with the box. Inside she found one of her missing pots of lavender and a wrapped flower bouquet, slightly wilted. Another note from Rafferty was tucked in the flowers. I don’t know what these mean, but they made me think of you. Her heart sighed.
“Let me put these in water,” she said. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Watson about finding you boys some new clothes and a place to sleep. There’s plenty of work for you to do out here.”
She sniffed her bouquet, wishing Rafferty were here so she could thank him properly. She and her brother would have a quiet dinner this evening. Maybe he could help her with designs for some new garde
ns. She and Rafferty wouldn’t be here long enough to merit changes to the household structure, but leaving a nice garden behind would be a gift to the new British minister. Leaving the legation in an improved state from its condition when assumed would be the proper thing to do.
“MY LADY, I’M SORRY. YOU NEED TO WAKE UP!”
“Kathleen?” Arianne fought to get her eyes open. She’d had entirely too much wine at dinner last night. “What is it?”
“The coppers have Mr. Rafferty. They’ve got him in jail.”
“What?” She sat up in bed. “What are you talking about?”
“The police downstairs want to talk to you.”
Arianne slipped on a concealing robe and tied it securely around her. Her hair was loose, but it would have to do. She hurried down the stairs to where a policeman waited in the front salon.
He introduced himself as a sergeant with the Washington Metropolitan Police.
“Yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“We received a telegram from the Baltimore Police Department. They have a Mr. Michael Rafferty and a Mr. Phineas Connor in custody. Mr. Rafferty claims to be a diplomat residing at this residence?”
“Yes. He’s the British minister in charge of this legation.”
The policeman raised a brow. Clearly that wasn’t the answer he anticipated. “If that’s the case, the Baltimore Police can’t keep him. He’ll have diplomatic immunity. Someone will need to identify him. I believe he asked for you.”
“Identify him?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll telegraph that you’re coming. An officer will meet you at the harbor station for escort. The Baltimore and Potomac runs a ten o’clock train.”
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