Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  But she’d known what she faced when she made her terms and agreed to marry him. She must set the rules from the beginning. If she could but hold on to her resolve tonight, if she could convince him never to try again to entice her to his bed, then she might have a chance of surviving this marriage with her heart and pride intact. Perhaps, in time, he would seek pleasure elsewhere and they could live separate, amicable lives.

  Many married couples lived that way. She ought not to feel a stab of pain at the prospect, nor the sharp tang of regret at the solitary existence that stretched before her. The life of perfect happiness she’d thought her due at sixteen existed only in a fairy tale.

  Sarah grimaced. She’d be a fool to hope Vane would agree to her plans with complacence. He’d scarcely be amenable to such an arrangement tonight, anyway. But in time, he might greet the suggestion that they pursue separate lives with relief. In time, he would find someone else.

  Men always did.

  Fourteen

  VANE’S impatience to have Sarah to himself was laced with anticipation. His finer self told him not to rush her, to accept she needed time to recover from Cole’s sudden death. But the beast inside him slavered to claim her without further ado.

  If she appreciated how very close to the surface the beast prowled, she might think better of leaving their wedding celebrations so early. But no sign of apprehension appeared in her clear green eyes as he handed her into the awaiting carriage. Those eyes swept him a glance through thick black lashes. If he hadn’t known better, he would have detected an invitation in that look. An invitation was the last thing she’d issue him now, not when she’d made it plain she wanted none of that sort of thing.

  But hadn’t he felt the quick rush of her breath as he’d kissed her cheek, the slight, involuntary pressure of her gloved fingers when he’d kissed her hand? Her gaze had been upon him often throughout the day. He’d caught her looking at him many times when she’d thought his attention engaged elsewhere. She ought to know he was aware of every move she made.

  He ducked his head and climbed into the carriage beside her. The door shut behind him and in a moment they moved off.

  He was a big man. Even if he’d wanted to—and he didn’t—he couldn’t have prevented his shoulder and thigh from touching hers as they sat side by side on the banquette seat. Of course, he could have sat opposite, he supposed, but then his legs might have tangled in her skirts. He’d always cursed the small dimensions of carriages and preferred to ride. Now, it seemed the vehicles did have something to recommend them, after all.

  Silently, Vane laughed to himself. A newly married man ought not to be thankful for such small mercies as the license to brush his person against his wife’s in a closed carriage. But as a first step in luring this difficult, contradictory, fascinating woman to his bed, he couldn’t afford to let any opportunity pass. She was aware of him. He saw it in the way she carefully regulated her breathing, the stiff manner in which she held herself, the hard swallow she gave when she thought his attention elsewhere.

  He let the silence stretch, let her feel him. The Devil of it was, she had quite as powerful an effect on him as he seemed to be having on her. By the time the carriage drew to a halt outside his house, he burned to haul her up to his bedchamber and begin where they’d left off a few days ago.

  When the carriage halted, her gaze flew to his face. “What do we stop for so soon?”

  Amused, he said, “My house is not so far from your parents’. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

  A flush bloomed in her cheeks. She cut her gaze away, muttering, “I thought we were going to Richmond.”

  He handed her out, wondering if she’d thought to escape him in the midst of his large family. Surely, there would have been little privacy for the newly married couple with that lot in attendance. The precise reason he’d brought her here. Let everyone who mattered think they were in Richmond. He did not intend to let her dilute his presence with others until they’d sorted out her problems with the marriage bed.

  Judging by her martyred demeanor as they stepped inside the Georgian mansion, they might still be there at Christmas.

  Despite whatever misgivings she harbored about staying in this house alone with him, he was pleased to see Sarah’s graciousness toward his staff. She behaved as if she’d never set foot in the place before, and Rivers most correctly greeted his new mistress with a reciprocal respect. Which was only what Vane expected, but he did acknowledge to himself a slight twinge of relief.

  It was possible, of course, that Rivers hadn’t made the connection between the new Lady Vane and the heavily veiled female who’d invaded Vane’s house that night. Whatever the case, Vane was glad. He wouldn’t like to dismiss his butler after so many years of faithful service.

  Mrs. Brodie beamed, clearly delighted to have a mistress at last. “Come and I’ll show you to your bedchamber, ma’am.”

  Vane watched them go, suppressing his impatience to get his wife alone. He headed to his library for a drink.

  He’d barely poured himself a glass of wine when Rivers entered with a discreet cough. Vane looked up. “Yes?”

  “My lord, Lady Vane wishes you to join her, if you please.”

  Blood surging, Vane set down his glass and obeyed the summons. He shrugged off a brief fantasy that Sarah had at last come to her senses and awaited him reclining nude on his bed. That would be altogether too much to hope for.

  The door to the bedchamber was open. Another bad sign. He walked in, to find his wife fully dressed and furious.

  He raised his brows. “Is something wrong?”

  Her lips curled into a snarl. “Wrong? Of course something’s wrong! Your housekeeper informs me that we are both to sleep in this chamber.”

  Ah. The battle had begun.

  VANE leaned lazily against the bedpost. “Yes?”

  The self-satisfied look on his face made her want to claw his eyes out. How dare he put her in this position? She hadn’t even thought to insist on separate bedchambers when they’d come to an understanding about how their marriage would proceed. She’d never dreamed she’d be obliged to spend every night lying next to him. Separate bedchambers, then separate residences, and eventually, separate lives was the progression she’d planned in her head.

  But sleeping in the same bed, in the selfsame room where all this began? When she’d wrung that agreement not to force her to have intimate relations with him, she’d never expected to have to fight to put even this small a distance between them.

  “Well, it won’t do,” she said. “I require my own bedchamber and dressing room.”

  He inspected his fingernails. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  She glanced around. “Surely this house is large enough to accommodate me.”

  “Of course it is. But I want you in my bed.” He allowed his dark gaze to flicker over her, clearly picturing her there.

  Her face flamed. “You said you wouldn’t coerce me. You gave me your word.”

  He smiled, and she wished that rare sight didn’t make her body quicken and heat. “Requiring you to sleep in my bed is not forcing you to do anything more.” One eyebrow flew upward. “But if you think you won’t be able to keep your hands off me . . .” At her infuriated snort, he shrugged and moved to the door, as if there was no more to be said.

  Her gaze dropped to the bed and a fluttering panic rose to her throat. She couldn’t bear him so close, touching her, testing her response, night after night. She’d go mad.

  When she lifted her gaze, she saw that he watched her from the doorway. The amusement had vanished from his face, leaving an intent look that pinned her to the spot. Softly, he said, “I trust you will make yourself comfortable. I’ll be up shortly.”

  He left her suffering the most turbulent emotions she’d ever experienced, and that was saying a lot, given the events of the past week. She’d thought he’d be gentleman enough to allow her to hold him at arm’s length. How could she have been so mistaken
about his character? Only now did she see the ruthlessness beneath the compassion, the steel behind that elegant exterior.

  She’d outmaneuvered herself neatly by making him promise not to insist on his rights as a husband. It was no concession on his part, she realized. He would never have forced her anyway. All she’d done was register her unwillingness, and by that, she’d set herself up as a challenge.

  Men loved challenges. Any woman knew that. How could she have been so stupid! Perhaps that was all she’d ever been to him: a challenge, a worthy foe to be conquered. The thought struck a hollow note inside her.

  What to do now, though?

  “Oh, my lady!” Barker, the maid her mother had engaged for her, hurried in. “May I wish you happy, ma’am?”

  Happy? She was furious. “Thank you, Barker,” Sarah forced a smile.

  She eyed the white silk peignoir the maid laid on the bed. “Where did that come from?”

  “A gift from his lordship, ma’am,” said Barker briskly, without embarrassment.

  Sarah tried not to stare, but the lace! She’d never seen anything so fine. However, her feminine appreciation for a truly exquisite piece of bed-wear didn’t cloud her thinking for more than a moment.

  Vane expected her to wear that for him, did he? He was certainly turning out with all guns blazing. Grimly, she ordered Barker to unearth one of her more practical night-gowns from her trunks and to put the silk and lace confection away.

  As the maid undressed her, Sarah glanced at the clock.

  It was too late to order a separate bedchamber prepared without making a fuss and creating talk amongst the servants. Particularly on their wedding night, such behavior would appear exceedingly odd. Despite her anger at his high-handed tactics, Sarah didn’t for one moment forget how much she owed Vane. She refused to make him look foolish in front of his servants. There would be no scenes in this household if she could avoid it.

  She washed her face and hands in a china basin and dried them on the towel. Unbidden, memories emerged of this room and another towel, wrapped around male hips, dropping to the floor. . . .

  Abruptly, she sat in the chair at the dressing table. Sleeping in that bed . . . Sarah squeezed her eyes shut as Barker brushed out her hair.

  Barker paused. “Am I hurting you, ma’am?”

  “No, no. I just have a slight headache, that’s all. And how do you go on, Barker? Is the place to your liking?”

  “Everything is most satisfactory, ma’am. A well-run household if I may say so.”

  “I’m glad,” said Sarah. The housekeeper did appear to know what she was about. Yet, appearances could be deceiving. Sarah would make a thorough inspection in the morning.

  Now, she just needed to get through the night.

  Barker put down the brush and brought a rich silk dressing gown, a loan from the countess.

  Sarah couldn’t resist running her fingertips over the slippery blue silk before she put it on. It covered her night rail completely and flowed to the floor.

  Dismissing the maid, she sat at the dressing table and took up her hairbrush, running it slowly through her long tresses. Had this dressing table been here on her last visit? She didn’t think so.

  Vane must have ordered its installation. Considerate of him. He was a considerate man.

  Shame burned in her chest. Vane deserved a woman who would come to him gladly and give him joy and light and . . . children. She swallowed hard.

  When he looked at her, Vane saw an object of desire, a beautiful thing that he dearly wished to possess. He didn’t know she was like a ripe, red apple with flawless skin but riddled and worm-eaten inside.

  Rotten. All but a thin core of pride that the recent past hadn’t quite obliterated. From there, she would rebuild, layer by layer, until she had made something of herself. She couldn’t let Vane take what he wanted from her and toss her away.

  His interest in her was so intense, so baseless, so unreasonable in light of all she’d done that it could only be infatuation. An ephemeral emotion, one that wouldn’t last much longer now that he had her, as he’d wanted for so long.

  Sounds in Vane’s dressing room caught her attention. She heard his voice. There must be another entrance, because he hadn’t walked through the bedchamber to get there.

  She waited, heart pounding, for the murmurs to cease. Finally, the connecting door opened and he stood there, a huge figure in a patterned silk dressing gown, crowding the doorway and then stepping into the room.

  It took all of her will to sit where she was and not shrink away and cower from him like some milk-and-water miss. He couldn’t force her to carnal relations; he’d given his word. All she needed to do was remain cold and aloof and not let him touch her, and she would retire the victor this night.

  His gaze took in her voluminous dressing gown but he made no comment about her refusal to wear the garment he’d sent. “Are you hungry?” His deep voice had a husky timbre tonight. “You ate very little today.” He gestured toward the adjacent sitting room. “I ordered a light supper for us if you’d care to have some.”

  She would rather walk on a bed of nails than force one morsel down her throat, but she grasped the opportunity to stave off bedtime and stepped into the sitting room.

  It was furnished comfortably in a masculine style, decorated with sporting prints and memorabilia. There were even a few cartoons of Vane pictured with various pugilists. One of him posed in a fighting stance, shirtless and tousled and gleaming with sweat, recalled a vivid memory of him fighting in the ballroom downstairs. Heat raced through her bloodstream. She turned away.

  Seeing her interest, he said, “I’m the patron of a number of prominent sportsmen, mainly pugilists.” He smiled faintly. “The wags like to jibe at my apparent taste for low company.”

  “And do you?” she said. “Have a taste for low company?”

  “I don’t ask a man’s pedigree before I agree to train him, if that’s what you mean. But it’s true that sporting circles admit men from all classes.” His eyes warmed with enthusiasm, and it seemed he was about to say more, but in a moment his gaze caught on one of the pictures. Grimacing, he reached up to remove the cartoon of him, stripped and fighting, from the wall.

  “My apologies, some of these are not in good taste. I’ll have them taken down.” Glancing around, he added, “In fact, all of this can go. Have the room re-papered and furnish it however you wish. It’s yours now.”

  She’d be pleased at his thoughtfulness if he hadn’t also constrained her to share the adjoining bedchamber. And strangely, she liked this outrageously masculine room, which seemed so much a part of him.

  Briskly, she said, “Thank you, but I have no intention of displacing you. I’m sure there’s another parlor that will be suitable for my use.” She hesitated. “I shall order a separate chamber made up for me in the morning, Vane. It’s a common enough arrangement, and I trust you won’t make things difficult. We don’t wish to provide fodder for gossip belowstairs.”

  He watched her for a long moment, seeming to debate with himself. Finally, he shrugged. “I suppose it makes little difference where you’re based. Do as you wish.” He held out his hand. “Come and eat.”

  Little difference? Did that mean he would come to her room instead?

  Stiffly, she moved to the small table and sat down, disconcerted by her easy victory, distrusting his motives. She suspected that his sudden agreement had nothing to do with her demand. He’d decided to let her alone quite independently. Or perhaps he was merely acquiescing now to lull her into a false sense of security. Perhaps he thought it would only take one night to change her mind.

  He served her small portions of cheese and fruit and a slice of ham. Far too much for her uneasy stomach, but she made an effort to nibble at some apple while maintaining a flow of polite conversation.

  He ate none of the supper, she noticed, but poured them both wine, a heavy, dark Burgundy, and sat back with his glass in hand, watching her as she battled on.

>   “The stillroom you had in the attic at Bloomsbury,” he said abruptly. “You made perfume there, the landlady said.”

  Too late, Sarah remembered her scarred palms. Thoughtlessly, she’d removed her gloves to eat. She fought the urge to hide her hands beneath the table.

  Well, he’d seen them anyway, hadn’t he? Kissed them passionately, reverently, that night, as if they’d been the hands of an angel, not an adulteress.

  Hoping the heat in her face didn’t show, she lifted her chin. “I made perfume and sold it, yes.” Her voice hardened a little. “I needed the money.”

  “What sort of perfume? That scent you wear . . .” He looked an inquiry, his eyes burning into hers. His familiarity with her scent seemed an intensely intimate thing.

  She lowered her gaze, certain now that she blushed. “Lilies. And a few other things—tuberose, jasmine, lemon, a touch of musk. I like to experiment with different fragrances for my clients, but for myself, I only use that one scent.”

  “It’s an unusual accomplishment for the daughter of an earl. How did you learn to make perfume?”

  Sarah smiled as she remembered. “The housekeeper at Penrose Hall made me her apprentice. Her family owned a perfume manufactory in Montpellier before the Terror. They supplied scent to the French queen, among others, but of course, their fortunes fell along with their clients’. Madame Vissier took charge of our stillroom and taught me all she knew.”

  Thank God for Madame. Where would Sarah have been all these years without the means to earn a little extra income? “I didn’t have the right equipment, or all the raw materials I’d have liked, but I did well enough. I survived.”

  He asked more questions, and seeing his genuine interest, she went on to describe the various techniques of extracting floral essences, of the processes of maceration and the far more time-consuming practice of enfleurage. Then the mixing, the blending of scents to create a subtle symphony, with a base note that lingers in the nasal receptors like a fine wine lingers on an appreciative palate.