He had always preferred the rolling hills of the countryside to the bustling streets of the city. It was but one of the many things they’d disagreed upon… and one of the reasons she’d doubted their future together. How could she run away with a man – although back then he’d been little more than a boy – who would deny her the social life she so desperately craved? If only she’d known how quickly she would grow weary of all the balls and the parties and the plays.
Oh, they were enjoyable for a time. And there was no denying how much she adored dressing up and going out and being seen. But she would have traded it all in a heartbeat if it meant she could see Owen again.
Maybe you can…
Her hand stilled on the page. Hyde Park was a short carriage ride from Grosvenor Square. If she went there tomorrow… but she was being silly. There was no reason Owen would still be there. No proof that he had ever been there at all. And on the exceptionally rare chance that he were, what on earth would she say to him?
‘Hello again, Owen. Terribly sorry I married someone else. Would you care for a walk around the pond?’
Her lips twitched. What a fine sight that would be. She did not even want to imagine his reaction. He wouldn’t yell – Owen never yelled – but he would give her that long, cool stare. The one that let her know he was furiously angry. Or maybe he wouldn’t look at her at all. Maybe he would simply walk away… and her heart would break all over again.
Better she stay away from the park for the foreseeable future. What good could come from dredging up the past? Especially when it would have no effect on her future. For even if she did see Owen again and by some miracle he actually forgave her, there was still the little matter of her being married to Rodger.
“There you are. I’ve been searching the entire house for you.”
As if magically summoned by the mere thought of his name, Rodger suddenly appeared in the doorway. He leaned his shoulder against it, firelight reflecting off the snifter of brandy he held in his right hand. He’d changed into a white nightshirt. The green silk banyan he wore over it gaped open at the chest to reveal a smattering of dusky gold hair. “What are you doing in here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said with a pointed glance down at her lap.
“I would have thought you’d be at the Havisham’s. Their ball is tonight, is it not?”
Her shoulders lifted and fell in an elegant shrug. Like Rodger she, too, had changed into her nighttime apparel and wore a sumptuous red velvet robe over a simple white nightdress. Her hair was pinned loosely back from her face and her cheeks were pink from sitting so close to the fire.
“I decided to spend the evening at home. Alone,” she emphasized. Unfortunately Rodger was either too dense to take the hint, or he simply did not care. She was willing to bet her favorite pair of sapphire earrings it was the latter. “What do you want?” she sighed when he remained standing in the doorway. He tipped the snifter to his mouth and took a swig of brandy.
“Can a man not talk to his wife?”
Scarlett eyed her own glass of liquor, wishing she had possessed the foresight to fill it all the way to the top. “It depends on what you wish to discuss.”
“I came to apologize,” he said simply.
She bit back a sigh. “What have you gambled away this time?”
“You cannot make anything easy, can you? I came to apologize for the affair.”
Scarlett merely lifted a brow. “Which one?”
He cursed under his breath, and then out loud. “Has anyone ever told you what a bitch you can be?”
“Only my dear, darling husband. Are you foxed?” she asked suspiciously. “Is that why you’re here? Lest you’ve forgotten, this is the library. Your study is down the hall and to the left.”
“I know where my bloody study is!” he snapped, a vein bulging in his temple. He took a deep breath and another swallow of brandy. “It struck me last night when I saw her again that I never apologized for the affair with your friend.”
Scarlett’s mouth opened. Closed. She was so shocked that she couldn’t speak. To the best of her knowledge Rodger had never apologized for anything. To do so now, and to do so with a sliver of sincerity… it was nothing short of astonishing.
“You – you mean Felicity?” she managed to stutter.
“Yes.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I know I am not a perfect man, but that… what I did… it was beneath me. And I apologize for it.”
“I… Thank you?” she ventured, not knowing what else to say. Not knowing what else there was to say. Six years was a bloody long time to wait for an apology, but she supposed it was better late than never at all.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered into his snifter.
“Is there anything else?” she asked when he remained in the doorway.
His head lifted. “Whatever you may think of me I am not a monster, Scarlett.”
“No,” she agreed, for it was true. Rodger was not a good man. That much was clear. But he also wasn’t a horrible one and truth be told she wasn’t exactly a saint herself. Even when they tried not to they managed to bring out the worst in one another. They always had and, she feared, they always would. “But let us not pretend your indiscretion with Felicity is the only wrong you have ever committed.”
“You’re right,” he said.
Carefully marking her page with a satin ribbon, Scarlett set the book of poems aside and leaned against the arm of the chair. “What are you doing here, Rodger?” she said earnestly. “What do you really want?”
He started to step towards her but changed his mind and remained in the doorway, one foot in the library and one foot out. It was a fitting analogy to how he was as a husband: sometimes committed, and sometimes not. Sometimes faithful, and sometimes not. Sometimes kind… and sometimes not.
This was not the first time he had shown a glimmer of decency, and Scarlett would not allow her hopes to rise. Rodger was who he was, just as she was who she was. They were two complete opposites who had allowed themselves to be fooled into thinking that if they did what they should then they would get what they wanted. For at the heart of it, wasn’t that why she had married him?
Not because she loved him. She never did. Not really. Not in the ways that counted.
Oh, she had loved the way he flirted with her and the extravagant gifts he bought her and how wise and worldly he had seemed. But that wasn’t love.
Yet another lesson she’d learned after it was already too late to do anything about it.
Ultimately, she and Rodger had gotten married for one reason: because it was expected of them.
It was as simple – and complicated – as that.
If only she had been less selfish and more self-aware! But at only sixteen the threat of being cut off from her family and the hardship of leaving everything and everyone she’d ever known behind had just been too overwhelming.
So she had chosen Rodger. She had chosen Rodger in the vain hope that what she felt for Owen would fade in time and she would be happy with the grand houses and the fancy carriages and the exciting social life that being married to a peer would provide her. And for a time she was happy. Until the disillusionment set in and she realized that no money on earth could purchase the only thing that really mattered.
Love.
“Rodger, what do you want?” she repeated when he continued to hover silently in the doorway, his shadow flickering across the bookcase on the far wall.
“Not this.” His brows drew together to form a deep V and for the first time Scarlett noticed just how many lines he’d accumulated.
Lines from scowling. Lines from throwing tantrums when he didn’t get his way. Lines from not enough sleep. Lines from living a life of dissatisfaction. For no matter how much wealth he accumulated or how many beautiful mistresses he lured into his bed he wasn’t happy. Neither one of them were. And for all of the sins they’d committed neither one of them deserved to be.
“This hatred. This vitriol between us.
” He gestured towards her with his snifter before lifting it to his mouth and draining what little remained. “It serves no one.”
“You are right. It doesn’t.” Her fingers sank into the arm of her chair, nails making tiny crescent shaped indentations in the soft buttery leather. “But I see no other way. We made our bed a long time ago. There is nothing left to do but sleep in it.”
“We could always divorce.”
Scarlett smiled wryly. “And become social pariahs? I think not.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we? I suppose I could try not to lose my temper so often.”
It was a promise Rodger had made before. Sometimes he actually kept it for more than a day, sometimes not. Scarlett had learned a long time ago not to hold her breath. “That would be one place to start.” And because she was not completely blameless nor without a temper of her own she said, rather sheepishly, “I could try to do the same.”
“Are you going to bed soon?” For the first time he seemed to take note of her nightdress and satin robe. His gaze drifted to one slender calf she’d inadvertently exposed when she’d twisted in the chair. When he looked back up there was a dark gleam of lust in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in quite some time. It lifted the hairs on the nape of her neck, and not in a way that was pleasant. Fighting the urge to squirm she quickly pulled her nightdress down, tucking it beneath her heels to hold it in place.
“I am not certain,” she said evasively.
“We could go together,” he said with a suggestive lift of his brow.
Scarlett barely managed to contain her snort.
Did he truly think she was so easily manipulated? It would take more than apologizing for an old affair to make her forget about his current one. Scarlett knew she could not avoid her wifely duties forever, but she’d be damned if she would be relegated to the second act. A rather fitting analogy given his current mistress was a well-known actress with the Groenewald Theater Group.
“That depends,” she said with a coy tilt of her head.
“On what?” Rodger breathed.
“On if you are still a friend of Miss Deveraux’s.”
“And if I am?” he said, a note of belligerent challenge creeping into his tone.
Scarlett sat back in the leather chair and looked into the fireplace where the flames had died down to smoldering embers. A bit of soot had spilled out of the hearth and onto the rug, forming an ugly black stain not unlike the stain Scarlett felt on her heart. “Then I believe I will remain in the library a little longer.”
“Of course you will,” he sneered. “But a man cannot be faulted for his natural urges. If you do not meet them, then you force me to find someone who will.”
That was a quick truce, she thought bleakly. Bringing her knees up to her chest she continued to stare into the fire as a flicker of self-doubt crept into the back of her mind. Was Rodger right? Was his endless parade of mistresses somehow her fault?
Scarlett would be the first to admit that she’d never found the act of sleeping with her husband particularly pleasurable. The grunting and the sweat and the heavy weight of Rodger’s body pushing her down into the mattress while he panted into her ear had been something to endure rather than enjoy. But she had never complained. Never voiced her dissatisfaction. Never done much of anything, really, except lay there with her eyes closed and let him do what he wanted.
“Good night, Rodger.”
He left without replying, his angry footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Desperately craving the comfort of love from somewhere, even if it was trapped within the verses of a poem, Scarlett picked up her book, flipped to where she had placed the silk ribbon, and let herself imagine Tennyson’s beautiful words had been written just for her.
Chapter Five
Standing over the dead body sprawled in the middle of the street, Owen Steel cursed slowly and steadily under his breath. Ignoring the rain falling from a gray and restless sky, he yanked off his hat to run a hand through his hair, fingers sinking into the inky black curls as he continued to stare in aggravated disbelief at the puddle of blood running between the cracks and crevices in the cobblestones.
In all of London, why the devil did it have to be him?
“Looks like the poor bastard took a bad fall and broke his neck, eh Captain?” Rubbing his chin where something vaguely resembling a beard was attempting to grow, Felix Spencer peered down at the body and shook his head. “Shame. Bad accident, that. Wonder what he was doing around this part of town? Look at the buttons on his coat.” Crouching down, Felix used his knife to cut one free and promptly stuck it between his teeth. “Damn me, but that’s real gold. And those boots are fine Italian leather. Do ye think he’s a nabob?”
“Yes,” Owen bit out between clenched teeth. “I do.”
Lord Rodger Sherwood may have looked fatter and bloodier and, well, deader than the last time their paths had crossed, but Owen was certain it was him. Almost as certain as he was that this ‘accident’ stank of foul play.
“Has his horse been recovered?” he asked.
Felix scratched the back of his neck. “The boys are still out looking. Although in this part of town there’s no telling where the damn thing will show up.”
The East End of London, with its flats stacked on top of flats and weary looking store fronts and drunks sprawled on every corner, was certainly no Grosvenor Square. Which made Sherwood’s presence here all the more questionable.
When Owen first received word that a fancy nabob had been discovered in the East End with his head cracked open his first instinct was the poor bloke had been killed elsewhere and the guilty party had dumped his body where they’d thought no one would ever find it. He’d reversed his assumption as soon as he arrived on the scene. One look and it was clear Sherwood had taken a bad fall off his horse. Which should have made the case a simple one. But Owen knew what his fellow runners did not: in addition to being the world’s biggest bastard, Sherwood was also a damn fine horseman. Which meant unless he had been foxed to the gills – which was always a possibility – it was highly unlikely he would have taken such a serious fall without a little help.
Sweeping his greatcoat to the side, Owen knelt down beside Sherwood and, though it turned his stomach to be so close to the man who had taken everything from him, smelled his breath. When he detected nothing but the faintest whiff of brandy he started to stand up… until a flash of green caught his eye.
Grimacing, he fished his hand beneath Sherwood’s body and slowly pulled out a long, thin piece of velvet covered in dirt and blood.
“What’s that?” Felix asked curiously as Owen gave it a good shake.
“A hair ribbon.” His brow furrowed. “A woman’s green velvet hair ribbon.”
Felix snorted. “Now I’ve seen everythin’. What the dickens is a velvet hair ribbon doing out here?”
Hair ribbons, especially ones made out of such an expensive fabric, were almost exclusively worn by women who would rather cut off their own leg than be seen within twenty blocks of the East End. But that wasn’t what made it so peculiar.
“I think a better question would be why this hair ribbon was stuck under our victim.”
“Ye think it was his?”
“Or his killer’s. See that Sherwood’s horse is found,” Owen said tersely, coiling the ribbon up and tucking it inside his pocket. “Have it brought directly to my office. Do not touch anything on it. Not a single strap or buckle. Do you understand?”
Felix was clearly baffled at what the horse had to do with anything, but he’d learned a long time ago not to question his captain’s motives. Steel may have had a strange way about him but he was nearly always right. It was one of the reasons he’d been promoted to Chief Magistrate so early in his career. Well, that and the magistrate before him had keeled over dead in his bread porridge without having named his successor, leaving the runners in complete disarray.
They might have disbanded entirely had it not been for Steel. He had a qui
et way about him, but Felix had seen firsthand how ruthless he could be. When it came time to select a new leader of the Bow Street Runners he’d been the obvious choice. The only choice, when it came right down to it.
“And what are ye going to do? Sir,” he added belatedly when Owen’s eyes narrowed.
“Go inform the widow of her husband’s untimely death.”
Felix blinked in surprise. “Ye know who he is, then? The nabob that is.”
“I do.” But I bloody well wish I didn’t. Owen scowled as he stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his coat and turned his back on Sherwood’s body.
There was a part of him that always knew he would have to face his past sooner or later. London was a big city – one of the biggest in all of Europe – but fate had a fickle way of always playing her hand at the worst conceivable moment.
He knew he could have easily relegated the duty to another one of his runners. But he wanted to see the look on Scarlett’s face when he told her Sherwood was dead. Absently he wondered if she would cry, and decided she most likely would. It was to be expected that a grieving widow would shed tears over the death of her husband, and though he doubted Scarlett would mourn Sherwood’s passing, she was nothing if not a consummate actress.
To finally see her again after all of these years…
He still remembered the first time he’d seen her. How could he forget? She had been standing in line to buy crumpets. No, not crumpets, he recalled. Scones. Blueberry scones. She’d ordered so many he’d had to make a special trip out to her parent’s estate. Which of course was exactly what she’d wanted.
Scarlett had always been a manipulative bitch. She’d just hidden it well behind innocent gray eyes and a charming smile and a voice so sweet it could have belonged to an angel.
He still remembered the day he’d brought her the scones. He’d walked to her estate from the village. It had been another unseasonably warm day and by the time he reached the end of the long, winding drive he’d been sweating like a stuck pig in the middle of summer.
A Dangerous Seduction Page 5
