No doubt the reason she was still a widow.
Submissive women made far better wives, in his opinion. Women who knew to bow their heads and be thankful for the rule of a superior male. His own wife had been obedient. At least she had been once he’d taught her how to obey, how to bend to his needs and serve his will. Before her death, she’d become rather like a trained poodle, quivering and fearful yet always subtly begging for his attention and praise.
Too bad she’d outlived her usefulness.
He’d almost felt sorry when he’d had to put her down. He could still remember the sound of her neck snapping against the railing when he’d pushed her down the staircase, the way her gray eyes had stared upward, body broken like a doll’s.
Alas, her money was nearly gone now as well.
He gave his order to the waiter at the refreshment table, three lemonades and a port for himself. Tapping his fingers, he waited impatiently as the man moved away to fill the glasses.
Burton sighed. He supposed it was time he looked for a new wife—a rich one, of course, a match that would help replenish his dwindling resources. He’d drained the profits dry on his estate, raised tenant rents until they couldn’t be raised any more. Marriage, it would seem, was his only recourse.
The Davies chit was a comely little thing, sweet and pleasingly shy. Likely she would be biddable as well. He could easily imagine himself bedding her.
The waiter appeared, brimming glasses arranged on a tray. Burton bade the man to follow as he led him up to Lady Hawthorne’s box.
Yes, Burton decided, he would have to make discreet inquiries about Lady Maris’s finances. If her dowry was temptingly large, he just might make the effort to have her. After all, why bother marrying a plain heiress when you could wed a pretty one instead?
“So, did Challoner take the bait?”
Rafe poured draughts of Scotch whisky into a pair of heavy cut glass tumblers. Picking up the stopper, he fit it into the crystal decanter with a faint clink, then returned the container to its place inside the liquor cabinet. Crossing his study, he stopped to hand one of the glasses to the room’s other occupant.
Ethan Andarton, Marquis of Vessey, accepted the drink with a nod of his golden, leonine head. Rafe watched as his friend settled back in his chair and stretched out his Hessian-clad feet, his long, lean frame completely at his ease.
He and Ethan went back many years, meeting first as boys during a brawl when the two of them were students at Harrow. As Rafe recalled, he had been defending himself against the vicious slurs and fists of five other boys when Ethan rushed to aid him. Despite being outnumbered, the pair of them fought like demons, emerging bruised and victorious, and most of all, friends. A short time later, they added a third member to their small circle—Anthony “Tony” Black, already the Duke of Wyvern at only ten years of age. Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Ethan, Tony, and he had formed an unlikely and unbreakable association.
Since those days, life had taken them in separate, and not always pleasant, directions, but they had never completely lost touch, their loyalty and liking for one another remaining strong and vital to this day. He even forgave them for being aristocrats, a breed for which Rafe generally had little tolerance. But Ethan and Tony were rare exceptions—proud men who stood on their own merit. Men who could be trusted to keep a secret, or even agree to assist a friend in his quest to seek justice and revenge.
Rafe thought of Challoner and how good it was going to feel after years of waiting to see the blackguard pay for his sins.
“Oh, he took the bait all right,” Ethan confirmed, his amber eyes twinkling wryly in answer to Rafe’s initial question. “Snapped up the information like a hungry trout after an angler’s worm.”
Taking a seat in his wide leather desk chair, Rafe leaned back to absorb the news. Tipping his glass to one side, he gently swirled the spirits. At length, he drank a swallow, the alcohol strong and smooth against his tongue. “And Challoner wasn’t suspicious?”
“Not a bit. He eavesdropped on Tony and me in the gaming room at Brooks’s Club, just like you said he would. You should have seen the greed gleaming in his eyes. Our little stock tip quite put the winnings on the card tables to shame. And well it should have done after he listened to the pair of us speculate about the quick profits to be made.” Ethan paused to take a drink. “After all, as I made sure to ask Tony in a voice just loud enough for Challoner’s ears alone, how often does a man come across an opportunity to make a fortune from rare Indian silks, ivory, and trunks full of gold bullion?”
“Never, thankfully, in Challoner’s case.” Rafe said. “If only he knew those merchant ships and their precious cargo never made it into English waters, he’d be running the other way. But then, he doesn’t have the contacts to have heard that all four merchantmen were seized by the French near Gibraltar four days ago, the goods taken and the ships scuttled.”
“I doubt even the Foreign Office has that information yet,” Ethan quipped. “You know, you really must tell me one of these days how it is you’re privy to such timely and confidential information. Do you have access to a network of smugglers, or is it spies?”
Rafe smiled and said nothing as he opened a carved satinwood box on his desk to offer the other man a cigar. Then he asked, “You’re certain he bought shares this morning? Once word gets out of the loss, Kratcher and Sons Shipping will be in ruins.”
Ethan leaned forward and selected a cheroot. Using a silver cutter, he trimmed off one end. “I’m sure. Saw him purchase shares worth seventy-five thousand pounds. He was rubbing his hands when he came out of the Exchange, chuckling about what he was going to buy for himself first—a team of matched grays and a new carriage, or a hunting box in Scotland—since to quote him, he’ll soon be ‘richer than Prinny.’”
“The irony is, he would be if those ships had a chance of arriving in port. When they don’t, he’s going to find himself bankrupt and at the mercy of his creditors. And when he can’t pay his shot, he’ll be tossed in the gaol to enjoy Fleet’s less-than-fine accommodations.”
“Considering the man’s real crimes, it doesn’t seem right that he’ll only be going to debtor’s prison. Blighter ought to be swinging from a hangman’s noose as he deserves. And he might be, had you let Tony and me speak to a few influential members of the Lords.”
Rafe shook his head and clipped the end off his own cigar with a savage snip. “Even had they believed you—long after the fact, I might add, since you were both on the Continent at the time—the courts would never have taken my word against his, nor against any of the others. No, as much as I appreciate your and Tony’s recent efforts on my behalf, the actions of those four were done against me and mine, and I shall be the one to see that each of them receives his just rewards. At least those that may be granted on this earth. Their ultimate punishments will be meted out by the devil himself, since all of them will assuredly go to hell.”
And who will decree my own fate? Rafe wondered. Would he join them there to burn inside the inferno? Not for sins committed, he thought, but for ones he had not been able to prevent. Even now, guilt and sorrow tormented him over what had been done to Pamela. Poor, sweet, beautiful Pamela, who had become an unwitting pawn and senseless victim in another man’s twisted game.
Tossing back the last of his whisky, Rafe let the drink numb a bit of his misery. Rising, he crossed to pour himself another.
“Will you go after Middleton next?” Ethan inquired.
Rafe’s fists tightened at mention of the man’s name. Burton St. George, the worst villain of them all.
“No. I’m saving him for last. When I take that bastard down, I want to make sure he knows exactly who’s responsible for his ruination. I’ve been patient for a long time. I can be patient a while more. Underhill has already met his fate, and now Challoner will as well. Hurst is the next target, then finally…Middleton.”
He spat out the last name, barely able to stand having the fiend’s name
on his tongue. Old hatred swirled inside him black as a cancer. Rafe fought against it as he poured another large splash of whisky into his glass.
“Best be careful with that,” Ethan said, levering himself out of his chair to cross to the fireplace. Drawing one of the slender reeds from a jasperware jar kept on the mantel for just such a purpose, he stuck it in the fire, then used the kindling to light his cigar. He inhaled, the cheroot’s tip glowing red hot. Discarding the reed in the fireplace, he tilted back his head and blew out a thin stream of smoke.
“And there’s no point glaring at me,” Ethan remarked. “You know I’m right, and if you drink the rest of that bottle, you’ll only be angry with yourself when you wake up with a sore head come the morrow.”
“It’s my head. I’ll do with it as I please.”
But after one last defiant swallow, Rafe set down the glass on a nearby tray, leaving most of the whisky untouched.
Ethan strolled back and dropped down into his chair. “Besides, from what I hear you have an assignation tomorrow with a very tempting widow. I should imagine you’ll want to be at your best.”
This time Rafe really did glare. “I thought Hannibal had learned to keep his mouth closed by now. I see he and I will have to have another talk.”
“Don’t worry. He barely mentioned her and refused to give a name.” Ethan took another slow draw on his cigar. “You wouldn’t care to enlighten me as to her identity, would you?”
Rafe met the teasing amusement in his friend’s eyes and relaxed, knowing his and Julianna’s secret was safe and would go no farther than this room.
“No, I most certainly would not. And I’ll thank you to forget all about the lady.”
Vessey raised a golden brow. “My, she must be special for you to be so protective.”
Special? Yes, Julianna Hawthorne was that and so much more. Rafe’s body tightened at the thought of seeing her again, imagining how it would be to have her moving beneath him, her intoxicating scent a heady drug inside his brain, her taste warm and delicious as honey on his tongue.
Realizing where his musings were leading him, he stopped and forcibly shook off the fantasy. More than enough had been said about Julianna Hawthorne, for today and the future.
“So,” Rafe remarked, crossing to the fireplace to light his own cigar. “Tony has gone back to the country. Some difficulty at his estate, you said. How long will he be gone?”
Chapter Seven
RAFE WAS WAITING for her when she came through the door of the Queens Square house, greeting her with a kiss so devastating it sent her pulse skipping like a pebble across a placid lake.
Slowly, lingeringly, he eased away.
“Let’s get you out of that cloak and bonnet,” he murmured in a deep, silvery tone.
Without waiting for her agreement, he unfastened her mantle and swept it from her shoulders. Crossing, he draped the garment over the banister, obviously too impatient to bother hanging her cloak inside the closet this time. Next, he slid her hat free of her head, then set the velvet confection atop the carved newel-post finial, the headgear’s pretty emerald-hued ribbons dangling downward like streamers. She removed her gloves and passed them to him. Setting them aside, he enfolded her hand inside his own and led her forward.
Julianna shivered as she followed in his wake.
How similar everything seems today, and yet how vastly different, she mused.
On her first visit to this house, she’d been so afraid, convinced she would take no pleasure in an act she had always considered a duty, intrusive and rather demeaning by its very nature. Her stomach had churned then with anxiety, her devotion to her family the only thing that had held her to her pledge.
But today there was no fear and no thought of having to worry about promises, excitement the only sensation trembling inside her stomach, tingly as a hundred tiny butterfly wings. There was anticipation, too, jigging in her bloodstream like a lively hornpipe as her and Rafe’s shoes tapped out a duel rhythm against the wooden stairs before whispering across the thick wool of the Turkey carpet hall runners. Together they entered the sitting room, fragrant spice and earthy sweetness drifting on the air.
She inhaled, then smiled. Hot mulled wine.
Apparently Rafe had been busy, she thought, noticing a small copper pitcher that rested on the fireplace hearth so its contents would stay warm. A pair of delicate, engraved silver cups sat nearby, waiting to be filled. Darting a glance toward the bedroom, she saw he had made preparations there as well: a fire burning in cozy contentment, the bed’s counterpane and sheets turned back, pillows plumped in silent invitation.
The butterfly wings in her stomach fluttered anew, a thousand strong this time. Laying a hand against her middle, she considered what it meant.
Dear heavens, I want him. For the first time in her life she was looking forward to sleeping with a man, genuinely craving all the intimate things he would do to her, what they would do to each other, this afternoon in that bed.
She grew a little dizzy at the thought.
“So how was your morning?” he asked in polite inquiry as he released her hand.
My morning? Why was he asking about such mundane topics when he could be hurrying her into the bedroom and tumbling her down onto the mattress? Perhaps he thought to set her at her ease again. After all, this was only their second time together. A real gentleman would never rush a lady, and Rafe Pendragon, as she was coming to realize, had manners as refined as those of the best peers of the realm.
He crossed to the hearth.
“My morning was fine,” she said, watching as he poured out a cup of wine. “I kept to my usual schedule.”
“And of what, precisely, does that entail?”
“Oh, nothing special. Breakfast and my morning ablutions. Today, a meeting with my housekeeper to review the week’s menus and any staff concerns. A few minutes of sewing.”
He offered her the wine.
“Embroidery, I assume.”
“Yes. I’m stitching handkerchiefs at present.” She accepted the cup, the metal’s gentle warmth radiating pleasurably against fingers she only now realized were chilled. Raising the drink to her mouth, she sipped, enjoying the contrast of flavors, sweet but tart, robust yet mellow.
When she was finished, he took the cup from her.
“I thought we’d share.” With their gazes locked, Rafe turned the cup so he could place his lips where hers had just been.
A quiver ran down her spine as she watched him drink, his strong throat working as he swallowed. Moisture glistened on his mouth when he was finished. He licked it away.
Turning, he walked to one of the wide wing chairs and sank down. He patted his knee.
“Come here.”
Breath hitched in her lungs. Does he really want me to sit on his lap? she wondered.
He gave her his answer by beckoning again, holding out a hand for her to take. For a long moment, she stared, tracing the shape of that hand—the strong, masculine palm and long, elegant fingers that were capable of giving so much exquisite pleasure.
With her knees on the verge of buckling, she hastened forward and let him tug her down onto his lap. His arms tightened around her hips to pull her close.
“Hmm, even better than I imagined,” he murmured low.
So he’s thought about holding me like this before? she mused. Her nipples peaked beneath the material of her bodice at the idea, finding herself liking it. She liked as well the unmistakable evidence of his arousal thrusting against her thigh with a boldness that didn’t seem to discompose Rafe in the slightest.
He stroked a palm over her back, the caress evoking a shivery kind of lassitude.
“So, what’s on these handkerchiefs of yours?” he inquired.
“What?”
“Are there flowers, mayhap? Something light and feminine for you to tuck into your reticule?”
She blinked. Is he really talking to me about handkerchiefs? Inhaling deeply, she tried to clear her brain enough to re
spond.
“They’re…um…they’re not for me. I’m embroidering monograms actually, for my brother. His birthday isn’t too far distant. A man can always use handkerchiefs, I thought.”
“Very true. A most considerate gift, especially since you are making them with your own hands.” Rafe bent forward and pressed his mouth to her throat, his fingers gliding upward from behind to unfasten the first of the buttons that ran along the back of her gown.
Her eyelids fell to half-staff.
“What color did you choose?” He popped another button loose from its mooring. “You know, for the thread?”
Thread? Mercy, how can he think about thread?
“Hmm, it’s blue,” she sighed. “Dark blue on white silk squares.”
He caressed the skin at her nape, then dusted a line of kisses over her jaw to her ear. Taking the fleshy lobe between his teeth, he gave it a little nip.
Fire shot along her nerve endings, flashing from her ear all the way down to her toes. She arched in his lap, his erection swelling thicker against her in response.
“And what color do you prefer?” he asked. “What’s your favorite?”
“My favorite color?” Her bodice sagged, full-length velveteen sleeves gathering around her elbows.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I…oh…p-purple. It’s purple.”
“A regal and passionate color. I approve. You’ll have to wear a purple frock for me one of these days. You would look radiant in that shade.”
His fingers moved with an easy dexterity against the laces of her stays. “And your favorite food? What’s the one victual you simply cannot resist?”
Her head buzzed, trying to keep hold of the conversation when her body was awash with urges of the most elemental kind.
“Oh, I…I’m not sure. I like many things.”
“Pick one.”
Stay laces slid free, her corset growing looser by the instant. Desperately she searched her mind. “Chocolate. I love chocolate.”
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