“How are you this evening, Stanwyck?” He glanced behind Magnus almost theatrically. “I hear you have a companion at your parents’ house this week.” The others lurking behind him chuckled.
Magnus had already had two brandies more than he was accustomed to drinking. That, plus numerous glasses of wine at dinner, had erased what little restraint he had left.
He tossed the unread paper aside. “Oh, and who told you that?”
He shrugged. “You know how servants are—they talk.”
Magnus knew the man spoke the truth. On their last visit there’d only been a few trusted retainers. This time, the servant quarters were full to bursting for the upcoming wedding.
Royce leaned toward him when Magnus did not speak. “Where’s your little companion now—I daresay you had to turf her out before the mater and pater showed up? You should have brought her round here.” He laughed in a way that made Magnus feel as though he’d been buried in burning coals. The men behind him were an ugly chorus that egged him on.
Magnus cocked his head and forced himself to smile. “Do you bring your little companions to a gentleman’s club, Royce?”
The viscount’s pudgy, red face darkened at Magnus’s sarcasm and tone of loathing. “I say, I’m not sure why you are taking that tone with me. I’d just come over to congratulate you on landing the elusive Ice Madam. No need to get in a twist about it. I daresay you’re not accustomed to such conversations—being a man of the cloth as you are. But you’d better accustom yourself damned quick because your name is already in the betting book.”
The muscles of Magnus’s face did not seem to be under his control. He stood, towering a good half-a-head over the smaller, but heavier, man. “The Ice Maiden? To whom are you referring, you puling worm?”
Royce’s face was genuinely amusing: shock, anger, and grave insult were just a few of the emotions. “Just what the devil are you getting so bent out of shape about? So, what if you brought your wh—”
Things became confused after that. Fists flew and Magnus’s next clear recollection was when three others pulled him off Royce—thankfully before his face looked like Barclay’s had. It occurred to Magnus—belatedly—that for a man who’d not engaged in physical violence all his life he’d certainly taken to it like a fish to water.
“Do you wish for satisfaction?” he asked Royce, horrified by how much he wanted the man to say yes. But Royce was not a Corinthian, neither did he know Magnus well enough to be aware that both his pistol and sword skills were laughable.
“Just leave me be,” Royce said through a split lip. “I’ll not challenge a man who is obviously cupshot.
Before he could argue, somebody put the flat of their hand on Magnus’s back and propelled him toward the door.
“Good God, Magnus! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” It was Taylor, the same friend of his brother’s he’d seen the last time he’d made the mistake of coming to the club. Did the man not have a bloody home?
Magnus ignored him, but Taylor fell into step beside him. “Where are you staying?”
“Darlington House.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. “You must be here for Michael’s leg-shackling, although that’s still a week off, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he answered rudely, wishing Taylor would leave him alone.
“Look, Magnus, it’s no odds to me, but if you’re seen consorting with a woman like Melissa Griffin and decide to come the ugly whenever a bloke comments on it, well—”
“She’s my wife.”
Taylor stumbled beside him. “Uh, come again? I thought you said—”
“She. Is. My. Wife.”
“Melissa Griffin? The Ice Ma—”
Magnus stopped and shoved Taylor up against a lamppost, the sound of his body making a dull clanging noise when it hit the cast iron. “Don’t say it.”
Taylor pushed him away, and Magnus let him—even though the man was a good two stones lighter. He shoved his hands into his greatcoat pockets and resumed his walk, the sound of Taylor’s boots behind him making him grimace.
“Look. Don’t thrash me, Magnus, but am I to believe that you—the son of one of the most well-respected peers in England—have married a—a—well, a woman who operated a brothel for almost a decade?”
“Yes, Taylor. That about sums it up.”
“Good God! Does your father know?”
“Why? Are you thinking you might like to tell him?”
“Give over, Magnus. Why are you treating me like I’m the bloody enemy? I’m just trying to figure out who knows about it.”
Magnus had no intention of answering questions about his wife.
Taylor trotted beside him, not turning to him again until they passed Hay Hill.
“Look,” he finally said, when it was clear Magnus was going to walk all the way home without saying another word “I shan’t say anything, all right? But you might want to avoid going out.” When Magnus didn’t respond, he sighed. “You might not know this—the fam doesn’t like to talk about it—but my second eldest brother ran off with a married woman. This was back in ’91, and they still live somewhere in Italy, apparently. Anyhow, I know how this—”
Magnus stopped and turned and Taylor flinched away. “I am not running off with some other man’s wife. She is my wife.”
Taylor raised both hands, palm out. “Yes, yes, old man. I got that bit. I just wanted you to know you can count on my discretion.”
“I never asked for your discretion. She’s my wife and I’m not ashamed of it nor am I planning to keep it a secret. Tell whomever you bloody well choose.”
Taylor was shocked into silence by the heat in Magnus’s tone. But not for long. “Well, I’m not telling anyone.”
Magnus grunted and turned onto Berkeley Square.
“I’ll see you when Michael gets to town, all right? I’m one of his groomsman.”
Magnus didn’t turn or say anything when the man stopped following. He was angry. And ashamed at how he’d treated Taylor, who’d just wanted to help. But he couldn’t help it. He suspected all the drink he’d poured down his throat wasn’t entirely responsible for his vile humor, either.
He let himself in as there was no footman in the chair in the foyer. Magnus guessed the man was off kipping somewhere and he could hardly blame him. At least the he’d left a candle waiting on the table.
He found Peel—the young footman Dawks had assigned to valet him—waiting in his chambers.
“You don’t need to wait up, Peel. I ‘spose I should have told you that before I left.” He started to shed clothing and Peel came to the rescue—at least of his garments.
“Er, you’re bleeding, my lord,” he said while removing the stickpin from Magnus’s cravat—something he must have put there earlier without him even realizing it. Magnus didn’t even know that he owned a stickpin.
“Hmm?”
“Your lip, sir. And your eye—it’s a bit swollen. As if you may have struck it on, er, somebody.”
Magnus gave a bark of laughter. “Yes, I think I struck it on somebody’s fist.”
“I see, sir. I could go and get a beefsteak.”
Magnus blinked. “What the devil would I want a beefsteak for at this time of night?”
“It’s the customary remedy to stop an eye from blackening. Or swelling.”
“Oh.” Magnus supposed he would learn information of this type if he continued to brawl at the drop of a hat. He turned to the waiting servant. “Thank you for the offer, Peel, but it sounds revolting. Just give me my robe and take yourself off to bed.”
Peel was gone within moments and Magnus saw there was a decanter on the writing desk in his sitting room. He opened it and sniffed: brandy. He poured himself a generous portion even though he didn’t need it and went to lie on his bed.
He must have nodded off because he woke up when something cold slithered down his chest. He sat bolt upright and realized the brandy had spilled. He fumbled with the glass to put it on the
nightstand but it tumbled with a soft thud to the carpet.
He stank, and he was wet. When he tried to squirm out of the sodden robe, he only managed to knock the nightstand itself over. That made an almighty crashing noise and dislodged a half-dozen items that went skittering across the floor.
“Damn and blast.”
“Magnus?”
His head whipped up so fast it left him dizzy.
“Melissa?” he said rather stupidly. She was standing in the dressing room doorway, her brow creased as she surveyed the room and then looked at his face.
Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. “What happened?” She came toward him before he could answer, her eyes gazing down into his.
Which is when Magnus realized he was still lolling on his back while a lady—his lady—was in the room.
“I’m sorry, Mel,” he slurred, and then bit his lip. When the hell had that happened? He lurched to his feet and tugged on both ends of the sash to tighten it around his naked, bruised body. But the silken cord seemed to have become knotted.
“Oh, bother,” he muttered with an irritated huff.
Her hand was cool and gentle on his jaw and he jerked away. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Before he could answer she sniffed the air. “You’ve been drinking.”
Magnus grunted.
“And you’ve been fighting.” It was not a question. “About me.” Neither was that, but he answered it, anyhow.
“Yes, I have.”
“Why?”
He gave an ugly laugh. “Why the devil do you think?” He looked away from her stunned expression down at the sash, which he’d worried into such a tight knot it might never come loose.
He shrugged the wet robe off his shoulders and then shoved it down his body, where it puddled on the floor. When he looked up, it was to find her eyes on his naked body. Predictably, he hardened.
He watched her throat move as she swallowed, her eyes roaming over him without shame or embarrassment.
“You’re so beautiful.” There was wonder in her voice, as though she’d never seen him before. But she had, hadn’t she? She’d seen a whole bloody lot of men. His vision went red at the thought.
“Well, I guess you’re the expert.”
The slap was more a surprise than anything else—to both of them. She stared at her hand and then his cheek. Magnus raised his eyebrows and then moved his jaw side to side, as if to check if it still worked. It hadn’t been hard—but it appeared to have cleared the fog from his head. And a lot of his anger, with it. He also felt completely sober.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still staring at her hand. “I have never struck another person.”
“It seems to be in the air,” he muttered. He took a step toward her but didn’t touch her. “I deserved it. It is I who should apologize. I am sorry. Deeply.” His face twisted. “I don’t want to be angry with you, but I can’t seem to stop it. I haven’t yet worked out a way to manage this tumult of emotions. It is not your fault—not even a little. Even so, you should probably leave because I cannot promise you that I will not say more hateful things.” He turned away but she caught his arm.
“I don’t want to leave, Magnus. I want to talk—I know you fought with Barclay but I don’t know what you said. I want to know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about him threatening you? Why must we have so many lies between us?” His tongue felt thick and wooly and it was hard to force out the words he wanted to say. He desperately wished he was not so bosky, but he could hardly do anything about that now. All he could do now was not insult her again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But you must know I never would have gone to meet him, Magnus. And I’ve never had anything to do with him before—at least not personally. He was a customer at The White House at one time but he was banned for life after hurting one of the women. That’s part of why he hates me so much—I thwarted his will and he is not a man to forgive or forget.”
“What about what he said to me—was he lying?”
“I don’t know exactly what he said to you, but I am going to take a guess he was not lying.”
He closed his eyes and sat down on the side of his bed, covering his face with his hands. He felt the mattress move beside him, and then her arm slide around him, the silk of her dressing gown cool against the bare skin of his back.
He sat up and looked at her, and her arm slid away. “I thought you told me everything that night, Melissa. I asked you and you said you had.”
“I know. I know I did. I thought I was protecting you, Magnus.”
“But I’m not a child, Melissa—I am your husband. It is my job to protect you.” He cringed at his drunken, whiney tone. Good Lord. Why couldn’t he just shut up?
“You cannot protect me from my past, Magnus.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like I can protect you from the present or future. I’m terribly sorry about my parents. I was dead wrong. So very, very wrong. And I’m a fool. I suppose I can’t blame you from keeping things from me.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, looking away. “I wanted to tell you everything—
He grabbed her and turned her to face him. “Please,” he said, all the misery he felt in that one word. “Please trust me enough to share your past.” She hesitated and he said. “I want there to be no secrets between us. I love you and do not want to live this way—angry and distant from you.”
She shook her head, her beautiful auburn hair, which glowed a rich red in the low light, dancing around her pale, pained face. “Are you certain? Because once you’ve heard it you cannot unhear it.”
“I love you, Melissa. I need to know the entirety of what I’m facing.”
She stared at him, suddenly intent. “You regret marrying me, don’t you?”
Magnus opened his mouth to deny it and then remembered he’d just asked for the truth from her, no matter how painful.
“I won’t lie to you, Melissa, I’ve had my doubts since the incident with Barclay. I don’t doubt that I love you, but I do wonder if we can ever deal honestly with each other. If we cannot, we will be picked apart by all those people trying to drive a wedge between us.”
Rather than look offended, as he’d feared, he would have sworn she looked relieved. Perhaps she, too, simply wanted there to only be truth between them.
He squeezed her body against his and tilted her chin up with his free hand. Her beautiful green eyes were glistening and he leaned down and kissed the corner of one. “I’m sorry, my love, I never meant to make you cry.”
“You didn’t, Magnus, I’m crying for my own stupidity. And also for what I have to tell you.”
“Is it so bad?”
A tear slid down her cheek. “It is bad. Very bad.”
Magnus looked into her eyes and felt a chill.
“Will you take me to bed, Magnus? Perhaps if we love each other first—”
“You don’t need to give me your body to make me love you. Nor do you need to bribe me with—”
“I know that. I just want to be close to you before I have to say what I need to say.”
He leaned down to kiss her and his cock, which had begun to harden at the word “bed,” stiffened the rest of the way. Oh, men were such sad creatures. And he was as sad as all the rest. Sadder, maybe, because he’d believed—
“Magnus?”
He realized he’d been self-flagellating while she’d been waiting.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her soft, wicked lips.
“Not as much as I’ve missed you.”
He chuckled, his hands going to the fastenings of her dressing gown. “It is not a contest, Melissa.”
“I want you a different way tonight,” she whispered against his throat, licking and biting and sucking as their hands clumsily shoved off her gown, until they were both naked.
“Any way you want me,” he said, claiming one of her breasts and sucking her to instant hardness.
Melissa pulled away and he mad
e a noise of frustration. She turned and crawled onto the bed on her hands and knees, positioning herself in the middle before spreading her knees and looking over her shoulder, slowly inching her way down until her forearms rested on the bed and her bottom was canted up at an angle that left her wide open.
∞∞∞
Magnus looked at her for what felt like forever—until she was soaking and quivering for him.
His blue eyes were black with desire, his lips parted as he stared at her sex, the heat in his gaze making her clench and swell. His mouth curved into a smile that was all the more appealing for being so rare—a hungry, lustful expression tinged with possession.
“Perhaps we should have disagreements more often—just to make it up to each other.” He chuckled at her scandalized expression. “I’m toying with you, love.” His jaw hardened as his eyes slid from her face back to her sex. “But not as hard as I will be toying with you shortly.”
She was about to beg him to come to her when his gaze shifted, and his lips began to curve ever so slowly.
“I think I will like this; it is very primal—earthy—and there is an element of physical domination that is—perhaps—unseemly, but also exquisitely . . . carnal.”
Melissa gave a breathy laugh at his obvious excitement and very Magnus-like observations. But he also needed to get on with it before she exploded. She shifted her weight from knee to knee, opening herself a wider. “Please, Magnus.”
His eyes narrowed until his expression was almost cruel, as if he were enjoying tormenting her. He moved toward her without haste, not getting up on his knees to mount her, but leaning on his elbows and bringing his face close enough that she could feel his hot rapid breaths against her sensitive skin.
“You are so wet and pink. I could look at you for hours. Perhaps I might.”
“Please.”
But he just laughed, the puffs of air making her shudder.
“I find that I enjoy hearing you beg, darling.”
She growled.
“Hush, my love. Let me remind you it is your wifely duty to obey your lord and master in all things. Now would be a good time to begin.”
Who was this man? Surely not her proper, godly husband? How was it—
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 29
