The Lady Who Loved Him

by Christi Caldwell

  The lady stitched her golden eyebrows into a single line. “You don’t even know which gossip I speak of.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Because I am deserving of my black reputation, Chloe. I’m a cheat, liar, whoremonger, and bastard. What use is there in me contradicting that gossip?” Gossip that had only proven beneficial to him and his role.

  “Hmm.”

  He struggled to make sense of that noncommittal reply. He resumed his path around the bed, stopping when he reached her side.

  The lady wet her lips, and of its own volition, his gaze clung to that subtly seductive gesture that highlighted the plump, red flesh. Visions of the pleasures to be had with that mouth enticed him. Focus. You’ve worshiped many, many plump mouths, experienced ones that didn’t require tutelage.

  Drawing on his skills at seduction, he slid onto the mattress beside her.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she demanded, faintly breathless. The fragrant whisper of jasmine filled his senses, oddly tempting in its innocence.

  He swallowed hard as he, the predator, suddenly became prey. “I am trying to sway your opinion, Chloe,” he confessed, lowering his mouth close to hers. He saw the long, graceful column of her throat move. He heard her audible intake.

  She wanted him. The essence of her desire was wrapped in her every breath.

  And he had no intention of failing at securing her hand.

  He stroked his knuckles tenderly along her jaw. “I’m logical in terms of life and marriage. I don’t want love. I don’t want children.” Some unfathomable glitter sparkled in her eyes. What accounted for it? Was it a desire for a small babe? That was something he’d not give her… or any woman. He tightened his jaw. “I don’t even want your loyalty.” He simply needed… her. “You have one day.”

  And after that, there would be no need for marriage to her—his fate would be set by the Brethren.

  Leo jumped up and started for the doorway.

  “I already declined your offer,” she reminded.

  “Yes,” he agreed, not breaking his stride. He paused at the door and shot a glance over his shoulder. “But you are not one who is usually impulsive. You’re one who carefully thinks out everything and plans.” It was how he knew the moment he left, she’d be turning his offer and her answer over in her mind.

  “You cannot know that about me,” she called out quietly.

  He knew more than she could ever believe. “One day,” he warned.

  And with that, Leo left.

  Chapter 11

  “One day,” Chloe muttered. Lying on her bed, she made a face at the cherubs dancing merrily overhead in the frustratingly cheerful mural. “Giving me an ultimatum,” she railed in the quiet.

  Whether it was one day, one week, or one hundred years, she would never, ever bind herself to Leo Dunlop, the Marquess of Tennyson.

  How damned cocksure he’d been as he’d slipped silently from her rooms with an ease that only a rake accustomed to a late-evening rendezvous could manage.

  He’d gone three hours ago, and the audacity of the gentleman, her outrage and annoyance burned even stronger.

  It was useless. Sleep this night was futile. Just as it had been the previous night when her reputation had been destroyed in the arms of a rake.

  She contemplated the errant specks of dust floating overhead. How dare he invade her rooms, further risking her reputation, arrogantly presuming that marriage to him would salvage her future?

  It was preposterous. It was presumptuous. It was… “True,” she breathed.

  Heart hammering, Chloe surged upright. No, it couldn’t be true. There could never be any good in marriage to Leo Dunlop. Nay, there could be no good in marriage to any gentleman—but especially not him.

  Except—

  Chloe chewed at her nail.

  He hadn’t presented her with false words of affection or empty praise. As a desperate wastrel, eager to escape dun territory, he could have coaxed and cajoled. Nor would she expect or believe the Marquess of Tennyson beneath lies and deception. Instead, he’d spoken to her of a business arrangement with a bluntness that should have horrified her—and yet, did not.

  Nay, those cool, pragmatic terms enticed, seduced, in a way that no pretty words ever could.

  Freedom.

  It was what he’d largely promised. Freedom of movement, freedom to make her own decisions. Why, the gentleman didn’t even wish for an heir.

  She let her hands fall back to the bed.

  “A lie,” she whispered. “It has to be.”

  All gentlemen desired those tiny souls to carry on familial names and titles, and to whom fortunes would pass.

  You are useless. What use do I have for a daughter? You should pay for simply being born…

  That hated voice echoed around her mind, melding with her own screams as a child, bringing her eyes shut. Her back throbbed with the remembered agony of the lash. She clenched her eyes tight, willing her demons gone.

  But when he slipped in, he retained a grip only the devil could break.

  Not this night. Not any night. “Leave,” she rasped, forcing her eyes open.

  Chloe’s breath came loudly in her ears. Sweat dampened her skin. He is dead. He cannot harm you ever again. She hugged herself tightly, finding solace in that reminder. But if she married, another person could.

  She shivered as a cold stole through her, freezing her from the inside out.

  “I cannot do i-it.” Chloe’s teeth chattered. Not Lord Leo and not any man.

  The day her father had cocked up his toes and gone on to join Satan’s army in the fires of hell, she had been freed. At that moment, she’d vowed to never become her mother and never subject herself or any child to the cruel whims of a mercurial man. With the hell she’d endured, and the liberation she’d known with her father’s death, she could never marry.

  The rub of it was, she’d so determinedly committed herself to avoiding marriage that she’d not given thought to the fate that awaited her as an unmarried woman.

  Until now.

  She slowly lowered herself back down.

  Now, she was forced to confront how little power and control an unwed young lady truly had. And there was even less for one who’d been discovered in a compromising position.

  Chloe pressed her palms over her face. Lord Tennyson had come here offering her freedom—through shackles. He’d allow her to live her life without interference on his part.

  Surely it was exhaustion that made her pause on the offer he’d made.

  Or mayhap it was simply madness.

  For there was a dangerous allure to the offer from Leo Dunlop, the Marquess of Tennyson. Oh, it would be foolish to ever trust a word that dripped from his hard, cynical lips. But what if he’d spoken in truth? What if he truly would provide her a formal arrangement where they were business partners, joined for their own self-interests?

  She’d feared a marriage that would have her under a husband’s thumb. But this, this was altogether different. The arrangement put forward by the marquess would allow her invisibility.

  Yes, there was something so very appealing in such a marriage.

  But what would happen when he drank? Or changed his mind on the matter of an heir? Chloe firmed her jaw. She could not, would not ever subject a child to the same fate she and her siblings had known. That was one element of her life she could control as an unmarried woman. No doubt, everything he’d presented had, in fact, been a lie.

  Which left her future uncertain.

  For in moving on from the marquess’ cold proposal, she was forced to confront her precarious circumstances and the limited opportunities available to her.

  I’m logical in terms of life and marriage. I don’t want love. I don’t want children. I don’t even want your loyalty…

  Rather, he’d stated his need for… respectability. To what end?

  All he’d require of her was her brief discretion in carrying on affairs.

  Had he been any othe
r man, she’d have clobbered him in the temple for daring to impugn her honor with the belief that she’d break any vow she took. But with him having gone and her having run through their meeting over and over, her mind latched on to one single sentence he’d uttered: I would, however, require a short period of monogamy—at least discretion.

  Those words were significant for what they conveyed, and yet, oddly still a mystery.

  She puzzled her brow as new questions surfaced.

  He had his own reasons for offering her marriage, ones that his words suggested moved beyond the need for her dowry.

  Why…

  “He needs to marry me,” she whispered. But why?

  If it were solely for her dowry, then her decision was simple. Control of her funds was not part of the bargain. But if it was not about her monies, then his offer was, at the very least, something to be understood and then, mayhap, accepted.

  Her stomach churned rapidly, sending bile surging to her throat.

  Surely she was not truly considering marriage to him—the Marquess of Tennyson?

  But if you can turn Society’s most heartless cad into one who’s polite, respectable, and… a proper gentleman, any post would be open to you…

  “Mrs. Munroe’s,” she whispered. For not only would she have achieved the seemingly impossible task of reforming a rake, she would be a marchioness who—fair or not—would be acceptable.

  A dull, throbbing ache settled at her temples. Chloe dug her fingertips into them and massaged in small, slow circles.

  No, she was not contemplating marriage to him. Not truly.

  She’d never been one of those wilting misses content to hide away in her rooms and pray for the scandal to fade, all the while bemoaning her fate. She’d not become one because of a misunderstanding stumbled upon by her family and a handful of strangers. She would, however, hear him out, present her terms as she would have them in a hypothetical arrangement, and from there…

  Her mind shied away from traveling any further down that path. Wiggling out of her wrapper, she tossed the garment aside.

  It sailed to the floor in a sad, fluttery heap.

  Grabbing her cane, Chloe leveraged herself to a stand. Placing all her weight on her uninjured limb, she limped over to her armoire. With painstakingly slow movements, she tugged out her undergarments. She shoved aside gown after gown—white ones, ivory ones, pink ones. Now she wished she’d instructed the modiste, Madame Claremont, to construct one of those dark, scandalous ones.

  Lord Leo had looked upon her white night wrapper with disdain.

  She smirked. Which was precisely the reason that when most debutantes and young ladies lamented white garments, Chloe had quite happily donned those dresses. Rakes, rogues, scoundrels, and in truth… most respectable gentlemen barely spared a notice for a woman outfitted as a proper miss.

  Her smug grin slipped.

  Of course, leave it to Lord Leo to prove wholly contrary. For despite his lamentations about her largely white-adorned room, he’d studied her night wrapper with a lascivious gaze better suited for an outrageously clad widow. His stare had burned through those modest garments and scorched her skin.

  Her skin heated at the mere memory.

  She’d heard tales of rakes and rogues, but never had those attentions been turned on her. And in her bedchamber, no less.

  Chloe reached the back of the armoire and continued digging around. A curl fell over her eyes, and she pushed it back. “Where is it? Where is it?” she mumbled, squinting. “Ah.” Her fingers collided with the high-waisted, puff-sleeved dress buried away there. She yanked out the gingham monstrosity, briefly eyeing the tiny brown and ivory squares. The enormous bow.

  This was, unfortunately, the closest to dark her gowns came. Why, oh why, had she never prepared for clandestine meetings?

  She sighed. This would have to do.

  Balancing her garments in her opposite arm, she carried them over to her bed. Chloe perched herself on the edge of her mattress and proceeded to dress.

  While she squiggled out of her night shift, she stole a glance at the clock.

  One o’clock.

  Setting her jaw, Chloe forced herself up and, this time, made one more journey—to her desk.

  Sitting down, she dragged out a sheet of parchment and a pen and then dipped the tip into the crystal inkwell.

  She proceeded to write.

  *

  Leo was in desperate need of a drink.

  More specifically, he was in need of a whole damned bottle. And then some.

  He gave his uncle’s well-stocked sideboard serious consideration. His mouth went dry from the need to tip a bottle back and let the slight burn of liquor blaze a path down his throat and dull the sharp edge of panic that had dogged him these last two days.

  A sound of frustration escaping him, he continued to pace before his uncle’s desk.

  Drinking wouldn’t do him any good now. Spirits served specific purposes: for celebrating raucous times, for lapping off a wanton beauty’s lush, naked frame, for wallowing in one’s miseries, or for dulling any hint of feeling.

  As such, no bottle of fine French brandy could help him now.

  He scraped a hand through his tousled hair. Nothing could help him now. Nothing, and no one.

  It did not mean Leo was above trying and begging once more. Or praying for a miracle to a God he’d long ago learned was false.

  Where in the blazes was his uncle? He yanked out his watch fob, consulting the timepiece. As a rule, his uncle despised balls and soirees almost as much as Leo did. “Everlasting bloody hell.” Every moment that passed stuck a nail in the coffin of Leo’s life and career.

  “Miss me, dear boy?” a voice drawled from the doorway.

  Leo cursed. The gold chain slipped through his fingers, leaving the timepiece twirling at his waist. “At last,” he muttered, stopping midpace.

  His uncle shrugged out of his jacket and entered the room. “Didn’t hear me coming?” He made a tsking sound as he closed the door. “You’re becoming lax,” he said with a light twinkle in his eyes.

  Yes, he was. The past two days were testament enough to that. As it was, Leo would wager his uncle’s stealth and years of service to the Brethren had more to do with his silent footsteps than Leo’s distraction. “Bloody hell, where have you been?” he demanded as his uncle flung his jacket aside with an infuriating casualness. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “You were due here this afternoon, Leo,” Uncle William noted dryly, taking up his usual post behind his desk. He motioned for Leo to sit.

  Leo slid into the folds of the leather chair opposite the desk. “I was otherwise detained,” he said brusquely.

  “I told you…”

  “I came as soon as I was able.” To admit anything more than that about his meeting with Chloe would mark him as a failure—once more.

  His uncle steepled his fingers. “Did you come to an agreement with the lady?”

  Leo let his silence serve as his answer.

  Abandoning his casual pose, Uncle William gave his head a sad shake. “I can promise you that Rowley will not back away from the ultimatum he set forth.”

  Leo surged forward in his chair. “I need more time.”

  “I cannot get that for you. You had today. You know better than anyone the essentiality of—”

  Leo jumped up. “I’m not here for a bloody fucking lecture on punctuality,” he snapped, slamming a fist on the edge of his uncle’s desk.

  The other man fixed a ducal stare on him, and in an instant, he was the same man who’d first trained Leo within the organization.

  Forcing himself to draw in a calming breath, Leo reclaimed his seat. He tried again. “Did you speak with them?”

  His uncle folded his hands and rested them on the immaculate mahogany desk. “Regarding your scandal? Of course I did, Leo.”

  “And?” Leo tugged the chair closer to the desk as anxiety roiled in his chest.

  “And how do you believe
they responded? Rowley called for your immediate expulsion.”

  He’d been braced for it. He’d expected it. Even so, all the air exploded from his lungs. “Of course he did. The bloody sod.” He raked an unsteady hand through his hair. It was all coming apart. His future. His life. The Cato case. Some pompous peers would continue to subvert the government from within, all to advance their own agendas. And Leo would be on the fringe, unable to stop it as he had so many past crimes. His pulse raced, deafening as a drumbeat in his ears. “He is trying to silence me.” And he had been since Leo’s suspicions on the Cato Street Conspiracy.

  “He’s trying to punish you for seducing his wife,” his uncle corrected.

  Leo’s ears went hot. “If you believe that is all that motivates Rowley, you’ve been out of practice too long, Uncle.”

  His godfather flared his nostrils, but did not rise to the bait.

  Leo continued to press him. “Every last rake and rogue in London has made a cuckold of the viscount. The viscountess has bedded anybody that is warm. Yet, my actions should be met with such outrage?”

  “You’ve always gone toe-to-toe with the man, Leo,” his uncle accurately pointed out. “It was only a matter of time before you crossed some until now invisible line with him.”

  He squared his jaw. He’d not make apologies for any of his actions within the Brethren and with his superiors. Leo had lived a ruthless existence, taking down countless men and women in need of taking down and leaving broken hearts and shattered people in his wake. And he’d certainly not drum up even false remorse for his disdain for the man in the organization he answered to. “If it’s as you say, and Rowley is making this about a supposed slight, he’s putting his own petty resentments ahead of the Brethren.”

  His uncle sighed. “Leo, you made the man a cuckold.”

  His patience snapped. “I’ve made cuckolds of lots of men.” Even as there was truth to what his uncle said, something in hearing it from the one person who’d believed in him and given him purpose grated.

  His uncle lifted a finger. “This is different, Leo.” He grimaced. God, how he despised that name. The man Leo truly was bore no hint of the great saint his mother had named him after. His godfather let his arm fall to the desktop.