Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  Sarah listened to the tale with horror and a growing understanding of all that had made Vane the man he was. “He said to me that he detests bullies. That men who bully women are the lowest kind of vermin.”

  “Yes. And it was the determination to grow strong, never to find himself so helpless again that led him to train and fight like his very existence depends on it. Every day. He will never forget.”

  Sarah swallowed past the lump that swelled her throat. “He is a fine man,” she said.

  “Vane has been single-handedly running the family, his own estates, and various other concerns as well.” Christian jerked his head. “Yet he won’t unload any of his burdens onto us. He gave the rest of us the carefree, happy childhood he should have enjoyed.”

  And you resent him for it, thought Sarah. Yes, you would have helped him if you could. What a strange thing, to feel a sense of kinship with Christian.

  “A fine man,” Sarah repeated. And she did not deserve him. Not at all.

  IT was late afternoon when she saw Vane again. Enlivened by the social interaction she’d been denied for so long, Sarah unpinned her bonnet and went in search of her husband, eager to tell him how greatly she liked his neighbors and of the invitations they’d received.

  She found him on the terrace, giving directions to a footman. He looked up and smiled at her, a genuine, full-bodied smile, and her heart gave a heavy thump.

  She glowed at him, and when the footman bowed and left them, she placed her hand in his.

  “Are you at leisure?” he inquired. “I’ve scarcely seen you today.”

  “Yes, I’m entirely at your disposal,” she said. “Although, Vane, I must take care dressing for dinner tonight. Your brother seems to think I am a honey trap, so I’d like to show him exactly what I’m capable of in that direction.”

  Vane laughed ruefully. “No need to ask which brother.” He led her down the terrace steps, drawing her close to his side so that her skirts brushed his legs and their arms were comfortably entwined. “Thank you for enduring his barbs. Christian is . . .”

  “Very fond of you. And protective, too. I understand.”

  Vane’s stride broke. He glanced down at her. “Do you?”

  She nodded. “Brothers must look out for one another. You did a foolish thing, marrying me. If your father were alive, perhaps he’d have tried to forbid it, but your mother is wholly uncritical of anything you might choose to do. There is only Christian and your other brothers to look out for your interests. It would be wonderful indeed if he accepted me easily under the circumstances.”

  “I can look out for my own interests,” Vane growled. “I’ve been looking out for this family since our father died.”

  “Yes, Christian told me about that. About Horrigan,” she added gently.

  “He told you?” The dark eyes searched her face. “Then you’re quite wrong about him. He does like you.” He blew out a breath. “I am glad. Not that his opinion would sway me, but life will be simpler for you if he does not make himself your enemy.”

  “You think he’s accepted our marriage? He was rude and sarcastic to me.”

  “He is rude and sarcastic to everybody.” The corner of Vane’s mouth kicked up. “It’s when he’s coldly polite that one has reason for concern.”

  He went on to tell her about his brothers and their childhood exploits. She was aware that he’d subtly steered her away from the subject closest to the bone, but she didn’t object.

  In moments, she realized that what she’d thought was an aimless ramble had a destination. Vane led her toward a small stone cottagelike structure and paused before the door.

  “When your things were destroyed after Brinsley died, I was anxious to make up for the loss. I hope you won’t think me presumptuous in ordering everything without consulting you, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  He turned the handle and opened the door.

  It was a stillroom. One specifically designed for making perfume.

  Vane opened the shutters, and a stream of buttery sunlight illuminated the collection of cauldrons, stills, presses, glass flagons of every size and shape, skimmers and mortars, and a host of items that she’d never encountered before.

  Sarah felt her jaw drop. She must look like a simpleton but she was utterly speechless. There were casks of raw materials, all neatly labeled. Sarah’s sensitive nose detected and distinguished a myriad exotic fragrances she’d always longed to include in her palette. Blends of civet, amber, patchouli, and all the mysterious resins of Arabia. An impossible dream until now.

  She turned amazed eyes to Vane. A faint smile curled his lips. His dark gaze held a warm glow, as if he delighted in her pleasure.

  “How?” she whispered.

  “I had help.” He cleared his throat and made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the room. “You have a gift. You can allow it free rein here.”

  She couldn’t stop the brilliant smile that broke over her face. She hurried to him and threw her arms around him. Hugging him tightly, she buried her face in his chest. She’d barely spoken of her unusual passion to him but he’d sensed it was important to her.

  She didn’t have to make and scrape for a living anymore.

  In this room, she could create.

  As she beamed up at him something hot flared in his eyes. “I haven’t seen you like this in . . . years,” he said, running his hands up and down her back. “I thought I’d never see that girl again, the one so full of exuberance and joy.”

  Suddenly shy, Sarah lowered her gaze and slipped from his embrace. She wandered around the room, touching things, sniffing scents, wondering how she could bear to tear herself away from this enchanted place. Removing the stopper from a bottle of rose essence, she inhaled deeply.

  And the world tipped on its axis and shook around her. That smell. That ghastly smell that haunted her, mingled with the scent of blood. Sarah gasped for air as the ugly nightmare visions of Brinsley’s death flooded back. Memories assaulted her, so powerful and real, she gripped the side of a bench to steady herself.

  Vane took her elbow. “Sarah! Sarah, are you unwell?” His voice seemed far away.

  She didn’t know what to do. She had to get out of there. The suffocating smell, the cloying scent of roses, the blood.

  “Oh, God, Brinsley,” she whispered. With a hoarse sob, she burst from the room at a stumbling run. Falling to her knees on the grass, she retched so hard she thought her body might turn inside out.

  “Sarah!”

  Vane was by her side, supporting her as she heaved, deftly removing her hat and stroking her hair back from her face over and over. He murmured to her, trying to soothe her with gentle nothings, but all she could see and smell was blood.

  When the retching finally abated, he wiped her mouth with his handkerchief. Urging her to sit on the grass beneath the shade of an old oak, he drew her against him. She was trembling and cold and the sour taste of bile coated her mouth. She must smell awful, but he didn’t seem to care.

  Vane’s broad chest and the strong arms that wrapped around her were a safe haven in this storm of painful emotions. She subsided into his embrace, drew comfort from the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear while she drew fresh country air into her lungs.

  His lips brushed her hair in a fleeting gesture of tenderness that brought a painful lump to her throat.

  She continued to breathe deeply and felt a little better. “I’m sorry. That was such a lovely thing to do. I’m so sorry I spoiled it.” He deserved an explanation. Gently, she drew away from him and sat up so she could look into his face.

  It was difficult to find the right words. “I don’t know why, but the rose essence brought back images of the night Brinsley died. So strongly, so vividly. I made rosewater that evening. The scent and his death seem all tangled up together in a way I can’t explain.”

  “Madame Vissier told me that scent is the most evocative of the senses,” said Vane. “Perhaps she is right.”

  Her brows knit
ted. “Madame Vissier? My parents’ old housekeeper?”

  “Yes, you mentioned her once. I needed an expert to tell me what to order for your stillroom. I wanted the best.”

  With an effort, she smiled. “Thank you. It is truly magnificent. I shall spend many happy hours there. I just need to become accustomed, I think.”

  Vane stroked a gentle finger down her cheek. “You loved him, Sarah. You loved Brinsley.”

  How absurd! Of course she didn’t love—but when she would have argued, he held up a hand to stop her. “Ah, don’t answer. I know you think you detested him, and perhaps that is true also. I loathe the necessity, but I’m broaching this painful subject because we cannot go on as we are, Sarah. Unless you admit to yourself that you cared for him, you will never move past this grief, this block to your own happiness.”

  “That—that scoundrel?” Sarah gaped at him. How could he believe she loved Brinsley after the way he’d treated her all those years? How could he hold such a poor opinion of her judgment?

  “Think about it, Sarah. Think hard. You must have loved him at first. You married him, didn’t you? And don’t tell me you did so with your parents’ blessing. Don’t tell me you didn’t have to fight hard to get what you wanted, because no parents with an ounce of gumption would have wished for Brinsley Cole as a son-in-law.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I was prepared to fight hard. I was seventeen, for goodness’ sake! Too young to see through his lies. Too caught up in the romance of it all. And my mother did counsel me against marrying so young, before I’d been presented and done the Season. But I didn’t listen because, well, we were at outs at the time about other things. My father . . .” She shook her head. “No. He never said a word against Brinsley that I recall.” Doubtfully, she added, “Perhaps I was not so stupid, after all, if my father was deceived in Brinsley’s character, too.”

  Vane started to say something, then he stopped and sighed. “You think you recovered from that immature love, don’t you? You truly believe you stopped loving Brinsley on the day he told you about his natural son.” He shook his head, his lips twisting a little. “It doesn’t work like that, Sarah. You don’t stop loving someone just because you discover they have flaws. If you truly love in the first place, that is.”

  She swallowed, her gaze darting here and there. “No, that cannot be so. I was infatuated, blind. If I’d known what Brinsley was, do you think I’d have married him?” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Is this jealousy at work? Do you believe I still loved him when he died, is that it?”

  He had no cause to be jealous of Brinsley. The two were poles apart in character, surely he knew she could see that? But what else could have motivated him to make such an outlandish accusation?

  Vane stared at her for so long, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Finally, he said, “Yes, I do believe that you loved him when he died, at least after a fashion. Or you wouldn’t carry this infernal, corrosive guilt with you now.” He leaned toward her, and in a low, vehement voice, he added, “I would as soon be jealous of pond scum. But I do resent the barrier between us, the anger and hurt you’ve caged inside you.”

  “I stopped concerning myself with Brinsley’s peccadilloes years ago! Do you think I have so little pride—”

  “Oh, you’ve pride to spare, ma’am. You took your hurt and anger and pride and built a fortress with them. And they protected you from Brinsley, didn’t they? But now he’s gone and you’re still trapped inside. You’re too busy shoring up your defenses to even think what freedom might taste like. You don’t know how to be happy. And if you can’t be happy, neither can I.” He took her face between his hands and his voice grated with pain. “Because no matter how much you keep hurting me, it’s as I said. I can’t stop loving you.”

  Her breath caught in her chest. He loved her. She’d always known it in some remote corner of her heart, yet to hear him say it was like waking from a dream.

  But he shouldn’t love her. How could he love her if he thought her the poor sort of creature who would pine for a worthless scoundrel like Brinsley?

  She pulled away. “You’re wrong about Brinsley.” She struggled to rise, and he was on his feet immediately to assist her. She snatched her hand away and fought the sudden dizziness that threatened to send her reeling.

  “I have a headache. I’m going back to the house.” She flicked a hand when he moved with her. “No, don’t come with me. Don’t.”

  He gripped her elbow and pulled her to him. “You can’t shut me out forever, Sarah. I won’t let you. What we share is no common passion, no common love. You know that’s true. Stop fighting it. We all make mistakes. But the biggest one of all is to let those mistakes rule our lives.”

  His gaze lowered to her mouth and his lips parted and she thought he might kiss her. She stared at him stonily, fighting the way her body always responded to him whether her mind gave it permission or not.

  But even as her mind said no, no, no, her face tilted toward his, her lips tingling faintly with anticipation.

  “I’m not going to kiss you,” he said roughly. “I’m not going to do that anymore. If you can’t come to my bed with a free heart, I don’t want you there at all.”

  She stared at him in silence, absorbing the sharp sting of those words. He wanted her to admit to something that simply wasn’t true. She’d never loved Brinsley. She couldn’t have!

  Burning with fury and shame, she wrenched from his hold and left him without a backward glance.

  IF he hadn’t issued that foolish ultimatum, he could be with her now, Vane thought, as he pinched out the candle by his bed. For the first time in weeks, he prepared to sleep alone.

  True, he could breach the physical distance that separated them. It was only a wall punctuated by a connecting door, after all. But the vast chasm of guilt and wounded pride that lay between them, that was not so easy to cross.

  The bed was cold without her. Empty. He’d stayed up talking with Nick and Christian into the small hours but once they’d retired, he’d felt rather pathetic drinking on his own like the lovelorn fool he undoubtedly was. Pride wasn’t solely Sarah’s domain. He’d hauled himself up to bed, grimly sober despite the fearsome number of brandies he’d downed in his idiotic attempt to wipe out the pain.

  Vane rolled on his back and clasped his hands behind his head. Staring at the elaborate silk canopy above, he breathed deeply, trying to calm his thoughts enough for sleep. He itched for activity, some dire punishment to which he might subject his body, physical pain to detract from the ache in his heart.

  Had he been wrong to demand so much of Sarah? Yet, loving her, could he accept anything less? At least if he lost he would know that he’d fought hard for her love, that he hadn’t acquiesced in that smooth, pleasant existence where the passion of the night became a thing quite apart from the everyday.

  He pondered that. She gave herself to him with such sensual abandon he could have convinced himself it was enough. He could have told himself she loved him, regardless of what she might say.

  Perhaps she did. But until she acknowledged it to herself and said it to him, he wouldn’t know for certain. And he’d discovered that having coerced her into a liaison, persuaded her into marriage, and bullied her into embracing their passion, he didn’t have it in him to force her final step. She would have to take it on her own.

  In the meantime, his body burned for her like the fire from a thousand hells. But when she finally gave herself to him without that shadow of guilt in her eyes, the present torment would be worth it.

  It had to be.

  SARAH was alone in the carriage. Vane had decided to ride back to town and ordered their servants to follow later with their baggage. Tactful of him, since she longed to be alone with her thoughts awhile. Despite the sick churning in her stomach, she even dozed a little as the carriage rumbled along.

  She hadn’t slept at all last night. Her conversation with Vane kept turning over in her mind. Did she really continue to harbor some shred
of that love she’d felt for Brinsley at seventeen?

  She didn’t want to believe it. She hated the very idea that she could be so weak, so lacking in pride.

  But . . .

  No. It was as she’d said that first time her mother questioned her. She didn’t mourn Brinsley. She was very sorry he’d had to die such a sordid and painful death, but she didn’t miss him. She was glad to be free.

  What, then, had made her rebuff Vane’s offer to make her his mistress that fateful night? What else but self-respect? What else but pride? But she remembered her dread of seeing Brinsley’s face when he realized what she’d done. She remembered lying to him as he died. Would another wife who’d been sold by her husband like that have sought to spare his feelings? Certainly, if she’d been truly as hard as she’d tried to appear all those years, she would have thrown that affair in his face and damned him to hell while she did it.

  Sitting in the carriage, staring out at nothing, cold fear gripped her anew. Had she constructed that hard, contemptuous woman so that she wouldn’t have to face the truth of how much he’d hurt her with that careless betrayal? Those many careless betrayals, she corrected herself.

  If she hadn’t cared, she would have ignored it all, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t have stayed with him, wouldn’t have devised many and various means of making Brinsley pay.

  For the first time in years, she searched her memory for the girl she’d been before the cruel world intruded on her sheltered existence. The days were sunnier then, she knew, filled with promise, not disappointment. She’d been secure in the love of her family.

  And then she’d seen the evidence of her mother’s infidelity and nothing had been quite the same. She’d discovered that people—even people one loved—didn’t always show you their true faces.