Smiling merrily, she laughed at some remark made by the man at her side.
Who is he?
Rafe clenched his teeth as he watched. Obviously the man was known to her, their demeanor speaking of long acquaintance and an intimacy he did not like.
No, he didn’t like it one jot.
Barely watching what he did, Rafe shoved the book he held back onto a shelf. He’d taken two steps forward before he stopped, remembering where he was and why he could not approach her. Here in this bookstore, he and Julianna were not supposed to have met. In public, he had promised her they would always behave as strangers. Fists tight at his sides, he swallowed a growl and fought the need to stride forward and whisk her away.
The other man wanted her, of that he had no doubt. Did Julianna realize it? Did she know she was the object of her companion’s desire, all the leather-bound tomes surrounding them nothing more than a convenient distraction?
The aristocrat extended his arm. A muscle twitched near Rafe’s eye as Julianna laughed again and set her hand on his sleeve.
Rafe must have made a noise, he realized, because just then she turned and looked straight at him. Her pretty eyes widened, an expression of surprise and, if he was not mistaken, undisguised pleasure warming her velvety gaze. In the next instant, though, the expression faded, replaced by clear concern.
Raising a single eyebrow, he gave her a nearly imperceptible nod.
From across the room, Julianna stared, awareness sizzling inside her.
Rafe is here, she thought. Oh my!
Her lips curved slightly at the corners before she dipped her chin and let her lashes fan downward to shield her gaze.
If they had been alone, she knew Rafe would have wrapped her in his arms and crushed his lips to hers in some remote corner of the store. With her heart threatening to jump out of her chest, she inhaled and strove for calm, astonishment rushing like quicksilver through her veins.
Looking as powerfully resplendent as any lord, Rafe stood tall and impressive in a form-fitting bottle-green coat that displayed the breadth of his shoulders and enhanced the color of his eyes, his irises gleaming like shards of pale green glass. Impeccable cravat, tan waistcoat, buff trousers, and polished Hessians completed his attire, together with a fine beaver top hat perched at a rakish angle atop his head.
She shivered, feeling his presence as strongly as if he were touching her. Perversely she was also aware, almost painfully so, of the social distance between them. More than the illicit nature of their affair, the yawning chasm of class distinctions rose between them, solid and unscalable as a brick wall.
Had she been alone in the shop, she might have ignored prudence and crossed the room to greet him. Heaven knows she longed to do so. But with Lord Summersfield looking on, as well as her sister nearby, Julianna felt compelled to maintain her place and her silence. To all outward appearances, Rafe must remain a stranger in her eyes. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she forced herself not to gaze in his direction again.
“I may be mistaken, but I think that is Rafe Pendragon,” Summersfield remarked in a low voice. “They say he’s giving Rothschild real competition in financial circles these days, and is very nearly as wealthy. I understand Pendragon recently brokered some loans on behalf of Wellington in order to help finance the continued push into Spain.”
Really? she thought. She knew Rafe was a rich, influential financier, but she hadn’t realized he was assisting in the war effort. Her heart warmed at the information, even as her guilt increased for her decision to ignore him.
“Curious,” Summersfield continued, “but he seems to be looking at you.”
Her gaze flashed upward again, dismayed to see that the earl was correct.
What does Rafe think he’s doing?
“Well, if he is looking my way, I cannot imagine why,” she dissembled.
Summersfield smiled. “I assume the man is smitten with your beauty.”
“Yes, well, he should know better than to stare.”
Dear God, Rafe, quit staring!
“Good day, my lord,” Maris chimed, approaching quite unexpectedly from behind them. “Whatever is it the two of you are discussing so hush-hush? Ooh, who is that? He is quite the handsomest man I have ever seen.”
Summersfield quirked a brow in mock offense. “I may be in error, but was I just insulted?”
Maris giggled, quite at her ease. “Oh, never fear Lord Summersfield. You are quite handsome too.”
He exchanged a smile. “My thanks, Lady Maris, for the reassurance to my poor deflated pride.”
“Oh my, is he coming over?” Maris exclaimed. “Do you think he means to speak to us?”
In dread, Julianna watched Rafe saunter forward, his gaze sweeping over her.
Surely, he doesn’t mean to speak to me.
She knew she wasn’t a good enough actress to pretend to make his acquaintance, scandalous as such a meeting would be. One word, a single look from her, and everyone would realize the truth. The whole world would know he was her lover.
Panic threatened as he walked closer, each step bringing him dangerously near. Then, only a few feet distant, he made an abrupt left turn and disappeared into the stacks as if books had been his intent all along.
She exhaled, only then realizing she had been holding her breath, leaving her mildly dizzy.
“What a shame,” Maris declared. “I was hoping for an introduction to find out if he sounds as wonderful as he looks.”
Better, Julianna thought silently, he sounds even better.
Instead, she steadied herself, then turned to her sister. “An introduction would have been quite improper, as well you know. Now if you are done perusing the shelves, I believe it is time we departed.”
Maris shot her a puzzled look. “I am sorry, Jules. I did not mean to upset you. You look a bit pale. Are you all right?”
Summersfield nodded. “Yes, Lady Hawthorne, you do appear peaked of a sudden.”
“A touch of the headache, that is all. It shall pass away soon enough, I expect.”
“I know just the cure.” Summersfield smiled and rubbed her gloved hand where it still rested on his arm. “Cakes and ices at Gunter’s. Why don’t you ladies allow me to escort you for a restorative repast? We’ll order a large pot of tea as well. That and a sweet will put everything to rights again.”
Julianna wanted to refuse. After her encounter, or rather her near encounter with Rafe, she would much rather have retreated to the safety of home. But she could tell by the expression on her sister’s face that Maris was excited by the thought of the outing.
“Yes, thank you, my lord. That would be most delightful.”
Pausing at the counter first to pay for Maris’s selection, they soon made their way outside. It was only as she was climbing into Summersfield’s carriage that she saw Rafe again, coming out of the shop.
Their gazes collided, a glower on his saturnine face. Turning on his heel, he strode away.
Oh dear, she thought.
Moments later the carriage moved forward.
The following day when she walked into the house on Queens Square, she didn’t quite know what to expect. Relief washed through her when Rafe greeted her as usual, then pressed a pair of hot, hungry kisses upon her lips.
Smiling and relaxed, she hurried up the staircase, taking the lead and leaving Rafe to follow. Inside the sitting room, she crossed to the sofa and sank down upon the cushions, while Rafe went to the sideboard to prepare drinks.
The tranquil scents of beeswax and lemon drifted on the air, the house as clean and tidy as ever. She’d asked him once about the servants, since she and Rafe were always utterly alone on their days together. A trio of charwomen came to dust and wash and polish on the days he and Julianna did not meet, he’d told her. And Hannibal—the huge man who had scared her so thoroughly that long-ago day when she’d boldly gone knocking on Rafe’s door in Bloomsbury—stopped by once a week to stock a few provisions in the larder and leave v
arious other necessities.
Glassware clinked, followed by the liquid sound of wine being poured, its color as bold and red as blood. Lifting a glass in each hand, he strode toward her.
She was just taking her first swallow when Rafe spoke.
“Who is he, then?”
Her gaze flew upward, the wine going down a second too fast. She coughed once. “What?”
His eyebrows furrowed. “In Hatchard’s bookstore. Who was the man?”
“Oh. Lord Summersfield, do you mean?”
“If that’s his name, then yes. How well do you know him?”
Although his words were issued in their usual silky, deep-throated cadence, she thought she detected an underlying edge, just the faintest note of challenge.
She stifled a sigh. So, she mused, we are going to talk about yesterday after all. And here she’d been hoping they could put the whole encounter behind them.
“I know him well enough, I suppose,” she said. “His lordship and I are acquaintances.”
Rafe quaffed some wine. “The pair of you looked a great deal friendlier than mere acquaintances. Do you always laugh like that with virtual strangers?”
“I didn’t say he was a stranger. We are friends of a sort and acknowledge each other when in company.”
“What else do the two of you do together? In company, of course.”
“We dance and converse and have been known to share the occasional midnight supper. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
He sank down beside her and negligently stretched an arm along the top of the sofa. His new position made him seem larger somehow, more intimidating, like a big, sleek cat who’d found an interesting bit of prey with which to entertain himself.
Reaching out, he slid a pin from her coiffure, then a second, letting a long tress of hair tumble free. With a leisurely touch, he twined the loose strand around the tip of one finger. “He wants you, you know.”
A quiver rippled over her skin at Rafe’s touch. “Well, he can’t have me, as I have told him on more than one occasion.”
A sharp emerald glint flashed in Rafe’s eyes. “So he’s open about his desire for you, is he?”
“Yes, assuming it’s really genuine. Summersfield loves women and he enjoys flirting at every possible opportunity. I am but one of many.”
Rafe’s fingers stilled for a second before he continued stroking her hair, absently twining and untwining the strand. “Believe me, his interest is real.”
“Maybe so, since he asks me to marry him nearly every time we meet.”
“He’s proposed, has he?” Pausing, he raised his glass and took a slow drink before setting the beverage aside. “And what have you answered, pray tell?”
“I’ve answered no, of course,” she said, aware once again of the hard, barely perceptible edge to his tone. “There’s no need for you to be jealous.”
His dark brows lowered into a scowl. “I am not jealous.”
Noting the expression on his face, she decided to hold her tongue. Nonetheless, he must have read the retort in her eyes.
Leaning forward, he cupped her cheek in his hand. “I just don’t like sharing what is mine, that’s all.”
Her pulse fluttered as he captured her mouth, his kiss possessive and demanding, rich and warm with the flavor of the wine, and of Rafe himself. Closing her eyes, she kissed him back.
After a minute, he drew his lips across her cheek to her ear. “Nor do I like being forced to stand idly by and watch another man seduce you under my very nose.” Gently, he nipped her earlobe, then kissed her cheek.
“Hmm? Oh yes, the bookstore. He was not seducing me.” She caught his look and rephrased her reply. “I wasn’t letting him seduce me. And I’m sorry about yesterday, but I couldn’t acknowledge you, not openly. You understand, do you not?”
She waited, nerves tensing suddenly.
“I understand how it would have looked, even if I can’t say I enjoy kowtowing to Society’s rigid dictates and blatant inequities.”
“If not for Maris…”
“Shh, don’t worry. I saw your sister and know you couldn’t introduce me to her. It’s all right.”
In silent consolation, she laid a hand against his clean-shaven cheek.
“The two of you share a marked resemblance,” he observed.
“So we are often told. Maris thought you were very handsome, by the way.”
His lips curved. “Is that so? You aren’t trying to turn me sweet now, are you?”
Using the manicured edge of her fingernail, she skimmed it teasingly across his lower lip. “If I am, is it working?”
He laughed. “Very nearly. But first, I want to make my original point.”
“About what?”
“You know what.” Playfully, he nipped at her finger, then pulled away. “About this lord of yours.”
“He’s not my lord; I’ve already told you that.”
“Good. Then you will have no difficulty severing ties with him.”
Her eyebrows drew inward. “Severing ties…oh, I don’t see how I can do that.”
“Why not? Simply tell him you do not wish to see him anymore.”
She released a half-exasperated breath. “I don’t see him now, not the way you are implying. And it’s not so easy. He and I travel in the same social circles. It would be extremely awkward if I attempted to ignore him. Cutting him is out of the question. Doing so would cause talk, when there is no need for talk.”
His jaw firmed. “So you refuse to stop associating with him?”
“I refuse to be less than polite to him in a public setting, and he does not call at my townhouse, if that is your concern. Do you imagine there is more going on? Surely you do not think I am sharing my bed with him as well as you?”
“Of course not, I know you would never do such a thing.”
“Then do not be concerned.”
He really is jealous, she realized. How extraordinary that a man like Rafe Pendragon could work himself into such a passion—over her. Was his outburst a case of simple male possessiveness, a dog with a toy he didn’t want any other dog to have, even if he might eventually grow tired of it? Or could Rafe’s reaction mean more? And did she want it to?
“But what of these marriage proposals of his?” he challenged.
“What of them? I do not want to wed Russell Summersfield, nor any man for that matter.”
“How can you be so sure? What if you change your mind? One day, you might be tempted to say yes.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been married, remember? I do not want to say yes, not ever again.”
Compassion eased some of the fierceness from his expression. “Not all men are like your husband. A few of us aren’t selfish brutes.”
“I know. But in my widowhood, I have come to appreciate my independence, you might say.”
“What of companionship? Do you never fear you might be lonely?”
“I would rather risk an occasional bout of loneliness than shackle myself inside another unhappy union. I am content to remain just as I am.”
Am I, though? she wondered. If it was Rafe who loved her, would her answer be the same? If Rafe fell to his knees and proposed marriage and asked her to share his life, would she so easily refuse him as she had every other man who had asked?
But thinking such thoughts was ridiculous. Even if they wished it, there could never be anything permanent between her and Rafe.
Nor do I want there to be. Do I?
Enjoy the moment, she told herself. Be glad for these days and want nothing more.
With that in mind, she smiled and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck. Slowly, she joined their mouths for a long, languorous kiss. At length, she drew back a few inches. “If I promise to in no way encourage Lord Summersfield, will that satisfy you?”
“No flirting?”
“Not by so much as an eyelash.”
“No laughing?”
She steadied her expression. “I will be as severe as
a parish vicar.”
“No more midnight suppers?”
“I will refuse to sup with him even at the risk of passing out from hunger.”
His lips curved into a grudging smile. “You need not go that far. Eat a large dinner first before you arrive at the ball.”
She laughed.
“Very well,” he agreed. “But I expect strict compliance.”
“My word of honor.”
Her tresses fell in a wave across her shoulders as he plucked the rest of the pins free.
She returned the gesture by tunneling her fingers into his hair to pull his head closer. “Now, will you do something for me?”
He raised a brow. “What?”
“Quit talking and take me to bed.”
Crushing her mouth to his, he kissed her with an unrestrained need that left her breathless. Moments later, he stood and swept her off her feet.
“Your wish, my lady, is my command.”
Chapter Eleven
RAFE SURVEYED THE shadowed interior of the gaming hell, tobacco smoke and the pungent scent of burning tallow curling together to create an almost suffocating blue haze. Commoners and gentlemen alike were packed into the house, their voices loud, their actions boisterous as they crowded close around the various baize-covered tables.
In the main salon, players tried their luck at hazard and faro. Alternating choruses of cheers and groans rang out as bets were placed, die cast, cards drawn, and money won and lost. For those who preferred skilled card playing at a quieter, more relaxed pace, games of piquet, whist, and vingt-et-un were arranged in several of the side rooms. It was into one of these chambers that Rafe wandered, having failed to locate his quarry in the more populated areas.
A waiter approached and offered him a beverage. Rafe refused with a shake of his head, wanting to keep his wits sharp. After all, he wasn’t here for his own entertainment, and he had no intention of remaining a minute longer than his mission required.
As he knew, gambling was an extremely popular pastime, one that was nearly like a religion for some. But he’d seen too many lives destroyed by an addiction to betting and the heady rush it could bring. He was no prude, no puritan. A man, in his estimation, possessed free will and had every right to destroy his life if he so desired. But did that same man have the right to drag his family down with him?
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