Remembering Vane’s offer to make her his mistress, she shuddered. The thought of accepting his carte blanche, allowing him to use her body until he tired of her and cast her aside seemed a terrible fate. Would he even want her now? She didn’t know.
As they drew up before Peter’s house, Faulkner finally spoke. “I might as well tell you, Lady Sarah, that now that we have the full picture of events, our investigation is closed. We will put it about that your husband’s death was an accident. He shot himself while loading your pistol.” He eyed her with a gleam of contempt. “If you are wise, you will support that story.”
Sickened at the relief that flooded her, Sarah nodded. Brinsley’s murder would go unsolved; his killer would walk free. Her reputation would now be in tatters unless Faulkner kept his mouth shut about her confession. Regardless, she would live with the guilt of that night for the rest of her life.
But at least, she had saved Vane.
“YOU did what?” Vane locked the door of Peter Cole’s library and took her elbow, hustling her toward the sofa. He looked like thunder.
Her heart beating wildly, Sarah snatched herself away. She swung to face him, refusing to be cowed. “I told Faulkner the truth. I had no choice.”
Vane gritted his teeth. “You had a choice. I told you yesterday I’d come up with a solution, and I have, but now it’s too late.” He stared at her. “What’s the matter with you? Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you know what this means?”
I did it to save you, you rotten swine! But she didn’t say it. She said nothing, but listened as he outlined the plan he’d made to provide her with a false alibi.
She frowned, incredulous. “My mother agreed to this?”
“Yes.”
“Good God!” Mama would have lied to the authorities to save her? She couldn’t credit it. Her father, perhaps, but Mama?
Hope flickered inside her, but ruthlessly, she tamped it down. “I suppose any scandal involving me was bound to reflect on the family.” Yes, that was a better explanation than the one that first leaped eagerly to her mind.
Vane breathed out through his nostrils, raked a hand through his hair. “You don’t seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation.”
“There is no need to explain the consequences to me, my lord. I am ruined.”
He paced about the room. After a few moments, he paused. “Not necessarily.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing.
Vane drummed his fingers on the back of the sofa, gazing at her steadily. “You have three choices, as I see it. You can return to your family and hope their influence will be enough to help you weather the storm.”
She almost shuddered at the thought. “And if my family casts me off?”
“I doubt they’ll do that. But if they do, you might retire to the country, or go abroad, perhaps.”
“And live off the fresh air? My lord, I am entirely destitute.” She gestured down at herself. “I don’t even own the clothes I stand up in. They’re borrowed from my sister-in-law. And I don’t doubt by now that my landlady has sold the rest of my possessions and pocketed the proceeds.”
He cleared his throat, not looking at her. “You are mistaken. I believe you’ll find your husband left you considerably well-to-pass.”
She blinked at that. Was it possible that Brinsley had secreted a nest egg somewhere? But how could Vane know anything about Brinsley’s finances?
Then the truth dawned on her. “No. Not the ten thousand pounds.”
He spoke with absolute indifference. “It need not be that sum. I can make it appear that the funds came from legitimate sources. An inheritance from a distant relative, perhaps.”
Shame threatened to stifle her. In a low voice, she said, “Are you determined to make a whore of me, after all? You’re no better than Brinsley, to say such a thing.”
“I meant it more as reparation than payment,” he said stiffly. “But if you think the distinction is too nice, then there is only one other way.” He watched her without a vestige of emotion showing on his face. “You must marry me.”
For one dizzying instant, she felt as if she were falling from a great height. She closed her eyes and gripped the chair back next to her. Faintly, she said, “What?”
“I think you heard what I said.”
She opened her eyes to stare at him. Was he made of stone, to utter that proposal so calmly? She’d never dreamed of this consequence emerging from that awful, awful night. After the cruel way she’d treated him, his generosity made her feel very small and low.
“You know I cannot do that,” she whispered.
“I know nothing of the sort.” He straightened his shoulders, as if to face an unpleasant task. “Sarah, I believe you’re aware that I have always . . .”
She cut her gaze away. It was impossible to bear the intensity of feeling she saw in his eyes. He shouldn’t look at her that way. What had she ever brought him but pain and sordid scandal?
His voice deepened. “I’d be honored if you’d be my wife.”
Honored? By an alliance with an adulterous, barren, weak-willed woman, whose name would be tainted forever-more with death and betrayal? Sharply, she said, “You are mad.”
He took a step toward her, and she retreated from him, hugging herself. If he touched her, she might burst into ugly sobs. And then he’d take her in his arms, and she might say yes, condemning them both to a lifetime of regret. He’d always feel she’d manipulated him into this declaration. He’d come to resent her, and she couldn’t bear that.
When finally she could speak, she said, “You are kind, Vane. But I don’t think anything, even marriage, could save me now. People will whisper. You cannot prevent it.”
His mouth tightened. “My reputation is hardly that of a complaisant man. No one would dare cast a slur on your name if you were my wife.”
He looked grim, and the image of him throttling Brinsley in a noisome alley sprang to mind. She narrowed her eyes. “You need not think I should let you go around killing people on my account, Vane.”
“That is none of your concern.” Impatiently, he said, “I know how to protect what’s mine.” His heated gaze caught and held hers, and a yearning to be possessed by him in truth swelled in her breast.
Yes, she wanted him, had always wanted him in some secret corner of her heart. To have such a man as Vane to husband . . . she repressed a shiver at the thought.
But she could give him nothing in return. Her capacity for throwing her whole heart into love had died within a year of her marriage. Since then, she’d grown hard, so hard. Sometimes, she did not recognize herself, or understand where the biting things she said came from. Married to Brinsley, she’d soon learned the best form of defense was attack. And he was, in all, a weak man. Not like Vane, whose strength of character seemed a thing almost palpable.
No, Vane wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d conquered her defenses, mastered her in every way a man can master a woman. Even in the short hours she’d been with him that night, she’d felt her control slipping, felt herself yield to him in a way that terrified her to contemplate.
This man was dangerous. She couldn’t allow him dominion over her. And she certainly wouldn’t accept an offer of marriage made from charity or an entirely misplaced consideration of honor.
She gripped her hands together and took a deep breath. “Lord Vane, I am deeply grateful for your chivalrous offer. There are so many reasons why I must refuse, but let me name one: I cannot have children.”
His black brows snapped together. Despite her resolution to refuse him, her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. It mattered to him. Of course it did.
“Forgive me, but are you certain? Perhaps your husband—”
She shook her head, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “No. I assure you. Brinsley is—was—well able to father children.”
He searched her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to say more, to tell Vane about Brinsley’s bastard. That
would be the final humiliation. Of course, he would guess, but it need not be laid open between them.
“I don’t see that it makes any difference,” he said at last. “I have four brothers, one of whom has fathered sons. I wouldn’t begrudge the title to any of them.”
Shocked, she gripped her hands together. “Every man wants his own son to succeed him. It is only natural.” Even Brinsley, who had nothing but debt and bad blood to pass on to future generations, had often lamented their childless state. Her fault, of course. And she had borne the blame in silence.
She was a wicked woman, she knew. Upon their marriage, she and Brinsley had derived exuberant enjoyment from each other’s bodies. Even after she realized what sort of man he was, she had still craved the act of making love. She’d given in many times to Brinsley’s carnal demands, despite the fact that her love for him had withered and died. And the reason? Like a man, she’d had an itch; unlike most men, her morals prevented her turning elsewhere to scratch it. She’d used her husband as most men use their whores. Without affection, without even a glimmer of respect. Deep down, she’d believed that her barrenness was punishment for this lusty nature she couldn’t deny.
For all his low cunning, Brinsley had not detected that particular weakness. No doubt, in his conceit, he’d thought himself irresistible.
But Vane was another matter. Despite her insistence that she’d been compelled to lie with him that night, she knew the truth. Her response to him had been passionate and free. He’d made her feel things that neither her heart nor her body had ever experienced before.
But how soon would he use her weakness against her? Succumb to him, and she’d lose her will and her independence. She’d almost lost them, irretrievably, to Brinsley. She couldn’t afford to make the mistake of giving a man that power a second time.
“Think of your father,” pressed Vane. “You’re not the only one who’ll be tainted by this scandal.”
Sarah’s throat closed over at the reminder of the damage her wanton stupidity was about to wreak. She acknowledged the force of this argument, saw the way he dismantled her defenses, one by one.
“Perhaps Faulkner will keep our . . . circumstances confidential,” she said desperately. “Out of respect for my father—”
Vane’s frown deepened. “We can’t afford to take the risk. We can’t afford to have a man like Faulkner holding this over our heads for the rest of our lives, either. I wouldn’t put it past him to resort to blackmail in the right circumstances. And he’s not the only one who knows, is he? Peter Cole suspects the truth. Rockfort was in your husband’s confidence to some extent and he has no motive to keep his mouth shut.” Vane shook his head. “Too many people are privy to this secret. It’s going to leak out sooner or later, and then where will your father be?”
“My father is a brilliant politician,” she said, aware how specious her argument sounded. “If anyone knows how to brush through something like this unscathed, he does.”
Vane’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You would put that to the test when the perfect solution stares you in the face?”
Good God, what an impossible choice! How could she accept such a sacrifice from Vane? Yet, how could she refuse him when the resulting scandal would ruin her family? Marry him and she’d rob him of the future he deserved: his freedom, his chance at fatherhood, the prospect of a happy marriage with a lady of unblemished heart.
But he’d chosen her. He wanted this, however misguided his desire might be. And for the sake of the family, for her own reputation, for Vane’s good name, she would have to agree to this marriage.
“You are right,” she said dully. “There is no other way.”
His dark eyes blazed—whether in anger or satisfaction, she wasn’t certain. Perhaps she sounded ungracious, but she couldn’t evince any delight at accepting such a glittering prize, one she didn’t remotely deserve. She pressed her fist to her breastbone, as if to dislodge the great block of guilt and shame that wedged there. Vane thought he knew her. He had no idea what she was.
“My lord.” She flattened her hand and slid it to her midriff as nausea rose inside her. How difficult it was to say this! “Vane. I think you harbor hopes of me that I can never fulfill.”
He started to answer but she held up her hand. “Please. Listen to me. I can’t be the woman you want. I’m not in a position to make any man happy, least of all you. I ask you—I beg you—to believe that.”
Seeing the anxious strain about Sarah’s mouth, Vane almost told her the truth. That he would take her to wife on any terms. But it was far too soon for an admission like that. He doubted she’d believe him. He didn’t want to believe it himself.
He’d intended to return her to her family untarnished by scandal. He’d planned to court her in form, marry her after she’d observed a decent mourning period for Cole.
Now, by telling Faulkner the truth, she’d forced both their hands. It wasn’t what he’d wanted for her sake, but for his own, he could only be glad. It would have been torture to wait all those months to claim her.
He didn’t fool himself that she cared for him. She’d made it plain that the prospect of marrying him didn’t entice her, despite the fact that his rank and fortune made him one of the greatest catches on the matrimonial mart. Despite facing a choice between him and social and financial ruin. Could she humble him any further?
But for all that, he couldn’t shake the belief that the immense animal attraction between them must stem from a deeper source. Even if she had been coerced into bedding him that night—and how that idea clawed at his pride!—she wasn’t a talented enough actress to feign her own pleasure, or the spasms that had clutched him when she came.
His loins tightened at the memory, and he moved instinctively toward her. By God, he would have her, whether she wanted him or not.
She stood quite still, her gaze never wavering from his, as if she dared him to come closer. He smiled grimly, advancing until they stood inches apart.
He brought up one hand and tilted her chin with his finger. She didn’t resist, but continued to stare at him, implacable. He let the moment lengthen, saw the slide of her throat as she swallowed, the slight widening of her deep green eyes. Heard the soft huff of breath as he slid an arm around her waist, drew her against him and lowered his mouth to hers.
Hot blood surged through his veins the instant their lips met, rousing the wildness inside him, making him hunger for more. It was a few seconds before he realized she didn’t react. Her mouth remained stubbornly closed under his assault.
Despite the flaring need to take her, he made himself slow. Cradling her head in his hands, he ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips again and again, nibbling at them, coaxing them open, then plunging in to tangle his tongue with hers.
Her whole body jerked in response. She gave a muted cry of protest and wrenched her head to the side, her pulse fluttering beneath his fingers, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Undeterred, he skimmed his lips to her earlobe, down her throat. “You are mine,” he whispered against the dark tendrils of her hair. “You were always mine.”
“No!” She choked out the word. Her elegant form stood rigid, unyielding. Though she didn’t raise a hand against him or struggle in the slightest, she fought him with all of her will. He loosed his hold on her and she turned away from him, gripping the back of the sofa with both hands until her knuckles turned white.
He didn’t understand her. He offered her everything: his name, his loyalty, himself, and yet she spurned him as if he held a poisoned chalice to her lips.
Blinded by hurt and need, he covered her hands with his, trapping her between his body and the sofa back. “You want me,” he said roughly. “Say it!”
“No.”
Her shoulders were set, her head proudly erect, but he heard the tremor in her voice. He slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders and felt tremors in her body, too.
Still, she didn’t surrender. He stepped closer. Gently, he traced her
shape with his hands, brushing the sides of her breasts with his fingertips. Heard her breath catch.
There was no question of money or threats or coercion now. Just the insistent, powerful pull of attraction between them. He knew she felt it. Sensed she wouldn’t withstand him if only he could be patient, not an easy thing when his body recalled hers so vividly, raged to plunge into her soft, dark heat.
He would marry her, regardless, because he was a man of honor who had compromised her. But now, at this moment, he needed to know where he stood. That he wasn’t merely serving his own desires by laying siege to her body and heart. That this marriage of theirs was not going to be bloodless and cold, whatever she claimed.
With both hands at her waist, he bent his head and kissed the graceful junction between her neck and collarbone. A shiver ran through her, not one of revulsion, he thought. He took the sensitive skin gently between his teeth, and was rewarded with a gasp.
She must feel him by now; his cock was hard against her. But he used all his experience and training to control his body, played with her gently, caressing her with his mouth and his hands.
He sensed her softening, growing malleable, though she didn’t betray herself by more than those few, quiet gasps. When he finally gave in to desire and filled his hands with her breasts, she flung her head back against his chest.
She was full and lush and weighty in his hands. Even restrained by stays and covered with layers of clothing, he felt her nipples harden. She shuddered as he played with them, rubbing and tweaking, teasing them as he teased her. As he tortured himself. He ached to taste them, to take them in his mouth and pleasure them slowly, one by one. But there wasn’t time.
“You want this,” he said, his voice harsh and low. “Don’t deny it.”
Wicked Little Game Page 12
