Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  Vane listened and questioned as if the subject truly fascinated him. Even as something within her blossomed at his attentiveness, she knew she played for time, staving off that moment when the silence stretched taut between them and the battle began.

  Vane studied her intently. “Do you miss your work, Sarah? You make it sound like a cross between chemistry and art.”

  “Yes, I—” She stopped. She didn’t need to make perfume anymore. She was the Marchioness of Vane; she could buy all the fragrance in Grasse if she wished. She didn’t have to scramble for the best flowers at market anymore or toil in a hot, steamy room or make oceans of insipid rosewater.

  She shook her head, reaching for her wineglass. “As your wife, I have quite enough to occupy me now.”

  VANE watched Sarah sip her wine, staining her lips deep red at the center. His groin gave a painful twinge. He’d waited all this time to have her. And yet, still she evaded his grasp.

  He’d never been in this position before, he realized. He’d consorted with many women, but none who were unwilling to bed him. Not that he flattered himself that he was any great prize. Those females had been generously rewarded for their compliance, after all.

  Vane couldn’t recall that he’d ever seduced a lady, but women weren’t so very different beneath the skin, were they? There’d been signs that he affected Sarah. A faint flush, a small gasp. The betraying tremor in her hand as she reached for her glass.

  He spoke to her of perfume, watched enthusiasm for her art light her eyes, animate her in a way that almost pained him to witness. It was such a stark contrast to her usual cool remoteness.

  In turn, he answered her questions about his family, about his principal seat and his other holdings, but all the while his brain ticked over the question: Why? Why wouldn’t she bed him?

  He refused to believe there was no passion in her. She’d burned like a brand in his arms on that fateful night. He refused to believe she had a distaste for him. He was experienced enough to interpret the way her body responded. He’d always been adept at reading the telltale signals the body sent; it was one way you kept ahead of your opponent in a fight.

  But a contradictory message came out of her mouth. And damned if he wasn’t too much of a gentleman to force the issue.

  “Your brother Gregory has sons, I think you mentioned,” she was saying now. “How old are they?”

  He nearly growled with frustration at these inconsequential nothings when there were words of great moment that remained unspoken between them. However, he answered her, and a dozen questions like it.

  Finally, she seemed to run out of talk and could no longer maintain the pretense of toying with her meal. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin and made as if to stand.

  Vane was up before her and held out his hand.

  He’d only meant to assist her to rise, though the excuse to touch her had motivated the gesture, it was true. But her head jerked back to look at him, and the flare of her eyes spoke her wariness more clearly than words.

  Was she afraid of him?

  His heart sank as he turned to pull out her chair, accepting her tacit refusal to even touch his hand. Stubborn defiance was one thing. He could sweep that away with a kiss. But what did he do with her fear?

  I am not Brinsley. He wanted to shout it, to shake her. Hadn’t he shown her by now what kind of man he was? How dare she be afraid?

  He detested bullies. He’d never fought anyone who wasn’t up to his weight, always acutely aware of his superior strength. The notion that Sarah saw him as a man who’d use force to get what he wanted from her wrenched his guts.

  This was all wrong, and he didn’t know how to make it right. Or if he ever could.

  He must have moved toward her unconsciously. She put a hand up to her throat and stepped back, a defensive movement that struck him to the soul.

  A sick sadness welled deep within him, overwhelming his resolve to make her his tonight. Without a word, he left her. Walked out of that sitting room with aching loins and a raging heart.

  IT was late when Vane finally came to bed. The tension since he’d left her standing alone in the sitting room had wound tighter and tighter, until she was sick with it. It was almost a relief when the bedchamber door opened. Finally, they could get this confrontation over with.

  She’d deliberately doused the candles and let the fire die so that the only light in the room was a golden red glow from the coals in the grate.

  Enough light to discern his outline as he shrugged the banyan from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. She didn’t need to see to know he was naked beneath.

  Everything inside her clenched with alarm as he slid under the covers next to her, his heavy weight depressing the mattress so that she nearly rolled toward him. She clung to her edge of the bed as hot awareness pulsed through her, throbbed in her ears and pounded in her throat.

  She could have pretended to be asleep, but that wasn’t her way. “Good night, my lord,” she forced out.

  The words were stiff and strained, but pride gave them a tone of command. She wondered if he noticed the faintest hint of desperation. She eased farther away from him, until she was in danger of falling out the other side if she moved an inch more.

  “What, my lady? No dutiful good night kiss?” His words sliced through her.

  She swallowed. The note of sarcasm hadn’t entered his voice since that awful dawn. “No.”

  “Do you think you’re in danger from one small kiss? Flattering.”

  Coldly, she replied, “Kisses might lead to expectations I can’t fulfill. I wouldn’t want you to suffer the disappointment.”

  “My dear, I’m hard as a pikestaff just lying here next to you. There’s not much you can do that will make it worse than it is already.”

  She sucked in a breath and fought the images his crude words brought to mind. Her body thrummed with tension and fear and something melting and hot, which she knew was pure desire.

  Sarah squeezed her eyes shut and tried to regulate her breathing. The big, strong, aroused male lying next to her was the greatest temptation she’d ever faced. But this time, this one time in her life, she would be strong. If she could get through this night without succumbing to the insistent clamor in her body and heart, the next night would be easier, the next easier still, until they were both set firmly on divergent paths. Paths that would never intersect in any meaningful or troubling way again.

  She gripped her hands together and remained silent.

  He rolled away. “Never mind.”

  Vane seemed to think that was the end of it. He lay with his back to her and settled his head into the pillow and exhaled a long, relaxed breath as if he’d have no trouble falling into slumber. She knew that couldn’t be so. He’d just confessed to his state of arousal, hadn’t he?

  Uncomfortable, she shifted a little, anxious not to attract his attention. But she couldn’t escape the sheer force of his presence, lying there beside her. She felt prickly and hot and distressingly alert.

  Ah, she’d never get to sleep all cramped like this. Frustrated, thwarted, ready to scream with vexation, she turned onto her back and stared at the canopy above as helpless tears leaked from her eyes.

  A rustle of the sheets told her he’d rolled toward her again. She held her breath, half longing for him, half terrified. He raised himself on one elbow, then bent his head toward her and brushed her lips with his, gossamer light, then whispered against them: “If you’re not going to make me a happy groom, stop flouncing and sighing and go to sleep.” The faintest hint of amusement colored his voice.

  That soft touch of his lips flooded her with a liquid heat that pooled in the place between her legs and flowed down to her toes. She nearly arched up to him, and clenched her hands into fists in an effort to contain the wildness he provoked with just that one soft kiss. She ached to feel him inside her, filling the empty space in her body and heart.

  But he’d already turned away.

  She ought to be
glad that he’d accepted her refusal.

  In the morning, she would be glad.

  Fifteen

  WHEN Sarah woke, Vane wasn’t there. It was difficult to believe she’d fallen asleep after hours of wakeful anticipation, worrying that she’d remain unconscious, unguarded beside him for any part of the night.

  He must have left her alone. If he’d put his hands on her at all during the night, she’d have known it.

  The skies were overcast and a slight chill pervaded the air. Suddenly, it hit her. There was not an earthly thing she must get out of bed for today.

  She was the Marchioness of Vane. She did not have to dress in the darkness and hurry to the market to ensure she made her purchases before all the best flowers and produce were gone. She didn’t have to haggle over prices or turn away importunate tradesmen or climb to the attics to make more perfume. There would be household duties and obligations on the estate, of course, and all manner of social niceties to take care of. But for the moment, just for today, she might laze abed until noon if she liked.

  Sarah rang for her maid and snuggled under the covers. On being informed that Vane was from home, she could relax.

  The luxury of breakfast in bed almost made her forget her irritation with Vane’s high-handed behavior the previous evening. Steaming, fragrant hot chocolate and a freshly baked roll with butter and preserves appeared on a tray that the maid set on Sarah’s knees. The silver gleamed; the china was so delicate it was almost transparent. Lost in enjoyment of this everyday extravagance, Sarah reflected that in a material sense, this marriage was everything she could wish.

  And did not remotely deserve.

  Guilt settled in a great weight over her chest once more. A bare week after Brinsley’s death and here she was in another man’s bed, enjoying this windfall of wealth and privilege.

  Her newly filled stomach almost revolted. It was obscene. No one should profit so excessively from lies and adultery, wickedness and murder. All of this ought to have come at a grave cost, yet she’d suffered no retribution. The universe required no penance from her, it seemed. If she wanted, she might take Vane and all that he offered. She might live the life of a wealthy, highborn lady and never remember the soul-destroying pain and degradation of her previous existence.

  She’d accepted that life as punishment for her folly in marrying Brinsley despite her mother’s objections. She’d thought she was in love with him. It was only later that she recognized her devotion for infatuation, the base passion it was.

  Well, she’d made that bed, and she’d lain in it for ten years. That was justice.

  But then her passion had led her astray once more. This time, Fate offered her all she had ever wished in return. How could she accept it, after what she’d done?

  Suddenly, Sarah remembered and cursed herself for forgetting, even for an instant. She did have a pressing task to take care of today. She rang the bell and launched out of bed, pacing until Barker arrived to help her dress.

  She’d missed her appointment with Maggie and Tom on Wednesday. There was no way she could have made the journey to Billingsgate without having to explain where she was going. And besides, her mother kept her so busy with the plans for a funeral and a wedding in one week, she couldn’t slip away. She hadn’t trusted anyone in her mother’s household with the task of taking a message. Could Maggie read? It seemed unlikely.

  She wondered if Maggie knew Brinsley was dead.

  From the look of her, Sarah doubted the woman was still Brinsley’s mistress at the time of his death. He was much too fastidious, if what she’d heard about his other lovers was true.

  But he’d kept her address. What did that mean? Sarah frowned as Barker laced her into her stays. He’d scoffed at the idea of sending Maggie money for the boy’s keep, so why had he jotted down her direction?

  “My lady, which gown will you wear today?”

  Sarah passed her uninspiring wardrobe through her mind. “I suppose the forest green cambric will do.”

  She pretended not to see her maid’s moue of disapproval. When she was ready, she said, “Barker, will you send one of the footmen to see me in the drawing room, please? And then I’ll see Mrs. Brodie.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The footman appeared promptly, just as Sarah finished a short note. Will was a strapping, handsome lad with a gleam of intelligence in his eyes. She hoped he was discreet. But after all, there was nothing improper about having him take a message to another woman. If he carried tales to Vane, she’d tell Vane the truth.

  She sealed the letter and handed it to the footman and gave him the direction. In case Maggie couldn’t read, she added, “Will, take the carriage and tell Miss Day that I couldn’t keep our appointment but if she and the boy will consent to return here in the carriage with you, I will see them.”

  He agreed and she nodded dismissal.

  With a sense of impatience, Sarah requested the housekeeper to take her on a tour of the house. As the minutes passed, the longing to see Tom grew. She didn’t know how she managed to make sense as she spoke with Mrs. Brodie about household matters.

  She was so distracted, it wasn’t until they reached the private apartments that she recalled her argument with Vane the previous evening.

  Introducing the subject as naturally as she could, she mentioned her requirement for a bedchamber separate from her husband’s, as was the prevailing fashion. “Lord Vane was planning to redecorate before he installed me in my own chamber but I assured him I don’t mind taking one as it is. Perhaps when we remove to Bewley I shall leave instructions for any changes to be carried out in my absence.”

  To her relief, Mrs. Brodie reacted without surprise. “I’m sorry, my lady. I did venture to suggest . . . But there’s not been much time, what with the wedding so quick. If you will choose a chamber that is to your liking, I’ll have it ready for you in a trice.”

  Thankful to have leaped that hurdle without trouble, Sarah settled on the blue chamber, a light, elegantly furnished room overlooking the square. As she thanked the housekeeper and dismissed her, they heard voices in the entrance hall and Mrs. Brodie said, “Ah, that’ll be his lordship, back from training.” She bobbed a curtsey and left.

  Training? Sarah wondered about that as she returned to Vane’s bedchamber to oversee the removal of her personal belongings.

  A step sounded in the corridor and he was there before her, looking well turned out, as usual, only his damp hair bearing witness to his exercise. No wonder he was such a fine figure of a man if he exercised so diligently every day. Awareness flashed over her body as she remembered the fight she’d witnessed in Vane’s ballroom, the muscles gleaming with sweat, the intense, controlled aggression in his eyes.

  Apprehension spiked within her but she managed a smile. “Good morning, my lord.”

  He bowed with an ironic lift of an eyebrow. “I’m glad you think so.” He glanced at Barker, who was collecting Sarah’s toiletries from the dressing table. He didn’t comment, however, which made Sarah thankful for the maid’s presence.

  His dark gaze ran over Sarah, considering. “It occurred to me this morning that you might wish to buy some new gowns and such. I’m at your disposal if you’d like to go today.”

  Sarah couldn’t mistake the implication. She flushed, heat prickling in her throat and cheeks. He thought her a dowd. Well, he was right, wasn’t he?

  “Thank you. That is most considerate of you. But you needn’t trouble yourself to come with me.”

  Vane choosing gowns for her would promote exactly the kind of intimacy she wished to avoid. She was woman enough, however, to want to look her best, and she owed it to Vane to do credit to him as his wife.

  New gowns. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d purchased anything new for herself. The few garments she owned had been made over several times. She realized she hovered close to tears, as if she might sob her gratitude down his waistcoat at any moment. Only over a few pieces of clothing.

  Her voi
ce trembling a little, she repeated her thanks. “I’ll try not to be too extravagant, but I’m afraid I’ll need a complete new wardrobe.” Gloves. Lots of gloves. She pressed her scarred palms together.

  He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Do your best to beggar me and I’ll call it money well spent.” His gaze softened. “I want to spoil you utterly, Sarah. I want to make up for all those lost, miserable years.”

  The understanding in his eyes struck her to the soul. She cursed herself for the warm, melting sensation in her belly, the flutter in her chest. Her heart was a shallow thing indeed to perform somersaults at the notion of him showering her in riches.

  The overwhelming rush of tenderness she felt for him terrified her. She was walking a knife’s edge, so close to throwing away caution, so close to opening herself to him. But once she did that, there would be no retreat.

  “You have given me so much,” she whispered, conscious that her maid had left the room for only a moment. “And now, new gowns.” She made a helpless gesture. “I can give you nothing in return.”

  Vane’s face closed like a slammed door. He dropped his hand and stepped back, saying coolly, “The pleasure of seeing you in them is all that I require.” He turned to go. “Have the carriage brought around now. I don’t want to see you in those rags a moment longer.”

  Suddenly, Sarah remembered. She couldn’t go out. She must be home to see Maggie and Tom, if and when they came. “I cannot go today,” she said, searching for an excuse. “Surely, it’s indecent to be buying gowns so soon after Brinsley’s death.”

  Vane swung back, his jaw tightening. “What’s indecent is the style of penury he kept you in while he lavished money on his own vices.” Angrily, he shook his head. “Why must everything be a battle, Sarah?”

  She was saved from answering by Barker bustling back into the room. The maid crossed to the clothespress and began taking out gowns and throwing them over her crooked arm.