by Allison Lane
But the joy had been short-lived, overwhelmed by fury at his words. How dare he dictate her choice of friends or imply that her behavior was improper, especially considering his own disreputable conduct. Then he’d had the gall to demand that she wed him, making it clear that offering was an unwanted obligation. And he’d exaggerated this supposed compromise, for they’d done nothing but talk. She knew his real purpose was to gain unfettered access to Redrock. When she’d refused, he’d turned to seduction to force compliance.
She tried to pull away, but her body would not cooperate. It was reveling in sensations she’d experienced only in dreams.
Light flared deep in his blue eyes as he trailed kisses across her cheeks, brightening the color and blurring the pupils. But it wasn’t the cold light of evil. Her breasts tightened, spilling heat into her womb that weakened her knees. Her hands had somehow become entangled in his hair, combing the unexpectedly soft waves with sensual delight.
“Damn you,” he growled as his lips returned to hers.
When his hand slid down to cup her backside, she pressed closer, moaning. He deepened the kiss until she remained on her feet only because he held her upright.
As suddenly as it had started, it stopped. He froze, thrusting her away, a look of horror on his face.
Reeling from his sensual assault, she said the first thing that popped into her mind. “What an odd way to protect my reputation.”
“That’s not—”
“But what else can one expect of a rake?” The heat in his eyes made her furious. He might want to be different, but under his charm he was just like her father, seducing anyone he met. And she’d nearly let him. Horror burst along nerves still aflame from his caresses.
“Forgive me. That was unconscionable.”
Her temper exploded. “Do you think that can make up for assaulting me?” she demanded. “How arrogant! You are no better than any other gentleman. You do whatever you please, then dismiss the mistakes with a laugh and an apology.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he snapped.
“Do you think me stupid? You care nothing about me or anyone else. Your only goal is to acquire Redrock and protect your own precious reputation from Uncle’s spite.”
“You can’t believe—”
“I believe my eyes, sir,” she said, determined that he would not cajole her. “You are just like my father, attacking women to prove your own prowess—”
“Then why would I stop?” he demanded furiously.
But she dared not listen. His seduction might have been protracted, but it was just as deliberate as other men’s – the flirting, the touches, the laughter and warm glances. “Leave, Lord Merimont. Move in with Watts, or stay at the White Heron, or go home and make peace with your father. Just take yourself away, and don’t return. If you have a shred of decency, you won’t come here again.”
Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, so she fled, slamming the door behind her.
Damn him for being just another conscienceless rakehell, claiming concern one minute, stealing kisses the next. And damn her for wishing he had not stopped. God help her, she was no more immune to a charming rogue than her mother had been.
* * * *
Max watched her go, still reeling from desire. Why the devil had he kissed her? That was not how he had intended to broach the subject of marriage. He had not played a hand so badly since … since his last confrontation with his father. Again he had started in the middle, rushing his fences and becoming so embroiled with side issues that he had lost sight of the facts that should have supported his argument.
Damn! Never had a kiss affected him so deeply – and never had he lost control so thoroughly, pressing her far beyond propriety.
But despite her obvious innocence, she had responded like no one he’d ever encountered, with more passion than he’d ever suspected she had. That was what had brought him to his senses. The last thing she needed was to be seduced like her mother.
Her response had terrified her, but she’d already taken her revenge. Her scorn had flayed the flesh from his bones, leaving him a quivering wreck. And she was right. He had bungled this in every way possible, digging himself into a pit so deep he could barely see daylight.
His only ray of hope was her response. Part of her would want to repeat the experience – not that she would listen any time soon. She would cling to the fiction that he was like every other man. Somehow he must convince her that he was different.
Leave … don’t return. What a pickle. Ignoring her demands would give her a new grievance. Yet obeying would eliminate any chance of changing her mind.
Become Uncle Edward’s mistress…
His hand shook. Had he driven her to desperation? Surely she hadn’t meant it. But the uncertainty was already eating at him. He couldn’t live with her rejection.
Because he loved her.
Staggering to a chair, he sat with his head in his hands, hurling every curse he’d ever heard at himself.
He’d made a worse hash of this than he’d thought. If only he’d considered his feelings earlier. But he hadn’t, constructing arguments as if this were a duty he must perform. Instead of offering the one thing that might have made a difference, he’d tried to force her into submission, using words that made his offer sound like the same punishment her father had faced.
He deserved worse than a tongue-lashing – like a long, lonely life without the woman he loved. And unless he could find a way to convince her he cared, he might face just that.
Chapter Fifteen
Max hardly noticed when Blake entered. His thoughts were chasing his feet as he paced circles around the library. He loved Hope but had no idea how to approach her. Her response to his kiss had seemed genuine, yet he had no experience with innocents. Was she truly interested or merely curious? And how was he to explain her warmth with Blake, when she alternated between spitting fury and cool disdain with him?
The irony was clear, taunting him whenever her words echoed in his mind. After years of dodging greedy misses eager to force him to the altar, he’d finally met one with a legitimate claim, and she didn’t want him.
“Why the long face?” asked Blake.
“I’ve buried myself in a hole I may not be able to crawl out of,” he admitted, stopping at the window.
“Which particular hole are we discussing?”
“I love Hope.”
“Congratulations. You finally recognize what’s been staring the rest of us in the face for a week.”
He snorted. “Condolences would be more appropriate. She hates me.”
“That is not my impression.”
“Then how would you describe it? She considers me an arrogant degenerate. When I offered for her, she swore she’d rather become Ashburton’s mistress than wed me.”
His fury returned as he realized the significance of her words. It was another grievance that would need redressing if Ashburton returned.
“—you say?” asked Blake.
“What?”
“I asked what you said to elicit such a ridiculous vow.” Blake was grinning.
“Enjoy yourself,” he grumbled. “But I’ll remember this.”
“How badly did you blunder?”
“She stormed out of here, slamming the door hard enough to wake the dead.”
Blake shook his head. “What did you do, Max?”
“You mean after informing her in the midst of a tirade worthy of my father that she had no choice but to wed me?”
“You didn’t!”
“I did,” he admitted morosely.
“And then?”
“I kissed her.”
Blake laughed.
“It’s not funny.”
“Your face is hilarious. I never thought you capable of blushing.” He laughed again.
He wanted to punch something, but a moment of thought stopped him. Blake was right. He was blushing. Chuckling, he took a chair and relaxed. “That’s not the worst of it. I compounded th
e insult by apologizing.”
Blake was laughing too hard to remain on his feet. “Of all the cow-handed, idiotic things to do.”
“I’ll give you no argument on that.”
“So how will you dig your way back into her good graces?” asked Blake, stretching his legs toward the fire.
“Maybe you can put in a word for me. At least she likes you.”
“Are you still ranting over that? I told you we were merely friends.”
“Which means we are not. You saw her this afternoon – laughing and relaxed with you, then turning to stone the moment she saw me.”
“Why should that surprise you? Your face could have slain armies. But now that you’ve admitted you care, maybe you will finally move past this irrational jealousy.”
Max started to protest, but reined in his temper before he made a bigger fool of himself. Jealousy had started today’s argument. “So what do you talk about?” he demanded shortly.
“You, mostly.” Blake grinned at his surprise. “Today she asked about your reputation for debauchery. Missy mentioned your crusade to help unwilling girls escape brothels – she wants to go to America and start a dressmaking business, by the way, but her savings are hidden in her room in London.”
“I’ll take care of it. Was Hope surprised?”
“No. She had already concluded that much of your reputed wildness derives from frequenting disreputable neighborhoods for reasons beyond the obvious.”
“Yet she threw that very reputation in my face only minutes later.”
“Have you never lashed out to wound when in the throes of temper?”
“Maybe.”
“Relax. She is fighting against it, but I would stake my fortune that she harbors a serious tendre for you.”
“So she treats me like vermin and laughs with you,” he grumbled. “Yet you embody everything she hates about me.”
“You are hopeless, Max. You often speak with Lord Westbrook at White’s, don’t you?”
“What has that to do with anything?” he demanded. But Blake’s expression finally forced a reply. “You know I do.”
“He is very like your father, yet not once have I seen you lose your temper with Westbrook. Or contradict even his most inflammatory statements. Or rant in private over his stupidity.”
“Why bother? The old bore will never change.”
“Yet when Montcalm makes exactly the same claims, you explode in fury.”
“His remarks are always personal. Westbrook’s aren’t.”
“But they are,” said Blake softly. “You ignore Westbrook because he can’t hurt you. It is easy to brush aside his suggestions. That is not true of your father.”
Max pursed his lips, his heart lightening as he realized Blake’s point. “So Hope can relax with you because you pose no threat. But that means she sees me as threatening.”
“Aren’t you? Setting aside your more obvious crimes, she fears depending on others, especially men. Caring for you gives you the power to hurt her. Besides, she has no idea how to deal with attraction. She has little experience with people in general, and virtually none with men. Ashburton’s influence kept her out of society.”
“And her father was far worse than we thought,” Max admitted. “He seduced and abandoned her mother, was forced into marriage when his father discovered that she was increasing, then released his frustrations by beating her.”
“Good God!”
“I should have realized that only something that bad could produce such deep aversion. To Hope, marriage is a threat – which makes my introduction of the subject even more cow-handed. I’ve been trying to find a way to prove I care. At this point, she would distrust anything I say. I’ve never seen anyone so angry – not even me at my worst.”
“Don’t look to me for suggestions. I haven’t any. She is not the sort who welcomes gifts, she distrusts charm, and she is so concerned about her mother that her mind is usually elsewhere. How did she respond to your kiss?”
“I think she scared herself.”
“That’s hopeful.”
“Her mother…” Max nodded as an idea unfurled in his mind. “Her mother is isolated, alone, and terrified of the future. Her family disowned her. I think the estrangement weighs heavily on her mind. It might even explain her deliriums.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Mrs. Ashburton’s father sounds like mine, only colder. There must be other family members, though Hope knows nothing about them. I cannot believe they are all vindictive. I want to heal this estrangement, and not just for her peace of mind. If Ashburton is as venal as I suspect, she needs more than me to protect her. Even the worst interpretation of the facts Hope knows cannot justify her uncle’s hatred, so more must lie behind his spite than they suspect. And that makes him dangerous.”
“Agreed, so what do you have in mind?”
“I want to visit Mrs. Ashburton’s family. If they will stand behind her, even Ashburton must think twice about attacking.”
Blake nodded. “It is worth a try. When do we leave?”
“We don’t. According to Ned, Ashburton is in Exeter, so he will likely return. You must protect Hope and her mother until I return. Wilkins will stay for the same reason. I will see if Mrs. Tweed knows who the family is. But I don’t want to mention my quest lest it raise hopes that will come to naught.”
“Very well, but leaving without an explanation could dig that hole deeper.”
He grinned. “I doubt it. She told me to go away. Obeying might actually work in my favor.”
* * * *
Max inhaled deeply before wielding the knocker. It was well before calling hours, and doubts were already assailing him. Perhaps he should have waited for a more conventional time. Or maybe he should forget the whole thing. In the week since he’d left Redrock, Hope could have hardened her heart beyond recall, or her mother could have sickened and died.
But he could only continue as planned and hope for the best.
Mrs. Tweed had never known Mrs. Ashburton’s family name, so it had taken him several days to discover her parentage. He’d gone to London, where luck had led him to the previous Ashburton’s solicitor.
Mrs. Ashburton had been born Catherine Anne Godfrey, daughter to Sir Quentin Godfrey, whose estate was fifty miles from Redrock.
Unsure of his welcome, he had taken a room at an inn when he arrived after dark. But that had yielded an unexpected benefit. The innkeeper recalled Sir Quentin’s daughter.
“Quiet little thing,” he’d said as he served dinner in the private parlor. “Seldom saw her except at church. Her pa don’t hold none with mixin’ classes.”
“I’ve heard him described as puritanical.” He relaxed with the first bites. The stew was flavorful, and the bread fresh.
“That’s the effect, but not the cause, if you take my meanin’.”
Max raised a questioning brow.
“The man’s worse than Lord Castleton for lovin’ power,” he said, naming a neighboring marquess Max knew to be a strict martinet. “He kept his children in seclusion and railed so often against the corruptin’ influence of libertines and the merchant classes that we were amazed he allowed the boy to attend school. The girl didn’t even have a decent governess. He never woulda taken her to London.”
“I’ve known men like that,” he said.
“Inheriting the title surprised him,” continued the innkeeper. “I heard he wanted to turn it down – he was vicar to a parish in Shropshire at the time.” He grinned. “I ’spect his parishioners were glad to lose him. He disapproves most everything.”
But the only additional fact that emerged from half an hour of gossip was that everyone believed the daughter was dead. The innkeeper knew no details, nor did he care. Sir Quentin’s arrogance meant he had few friends.
A footman opened the door. Max proffered his card. “May I see Sir Quentin?”
“He’s ill.”
“This is urgent. I will be as brief as possible.”
/> The footman frowned. “Perhaps Mr. Godfrey will speak with you.”
“And he is—?”
“Sir Quentin’s son.”
“Excellent.”
Luck was still with him, he reflected as he awaited the footman’s return. Sir Quentin would be difficult to convince, but his heir might be more amenable.
The hall was paneled in centuries-old linenfold. A portrait frowned down upon visitors, depicting a long-faced man whose face was creased into a permanent scowl. If this was Sir Quentin, he was in for a difficult day.
“This way, my lord,” said the footman.
They twisted through several passageways until they reached a study. The man behind the desk raised his head, then broke into a smile.
“Maxwell Longford. What the devil are you doing here?”
The smile clicked a name into place. “Richard Godfrey. We met at a house party—” He frowned. “Seven years ago.”
“At which you neglected to mention your title.”
“I was avoiding any ties to my father at the time,” he admitted. “But I appreciated your views on crop rotation and plan to implement some of them on an estate I recently acquired.”
They discussed agriculture for several minutes.
“But this is not why you called,” said Richard at last, refilling their glasses. “You will have to do business with me. Father is quite ill.”
“Unless he is unconscious, I must see him.” He paused. There was no easy way to introduce the topic. “It concerns your sister.”
“I have no sister, or haven’t for many years. Katy died when I was a child.” His eyes betrayed no anger, only faint regret and surprise at the subject.
“Do you recall her death?”
“I was away at school at the time. Father wrote that she had died, but gave no details. He despised answering questions – parents tell children what they need to know, thus questions betray an unacceptable curiosity – so I grieved in private.”
“Your father lied.” He met the shocked gaze with his own. “An unscrupulous libertine seduced and abandoned her. When Sir Quentin learned that she was with child, he threw her out and disowned her.”
