by Cheryl Holt
“Yes, but she has to be safe from Mr. Roxbury, and my aunt can’t be evicted. If you accept those two terms”—she glanced down at her feet—“I will be your mistress.”
He studied her, his mind awhirl with replies. His first thought was anger at Kit, disgusted that he’d sniff after Sophia without Damian being aware. They’d have to have a discussion about Kit’s behavior—and likely a quarrel—he’d rather not have.
As to Miss Fogarty, she appeared so glum and forlorn. She stirred his better nature and ignited his masculine instincts. He was once again suffering from the worst impulses: to shelter, to protect, to support.
He was irked by the guilt she stirred, irked that he was feeling sorry for her. She was willing to sacrifice herself for her aunt and cousin who didn’t deserve it and would never be grateful. She was so loyal! So brave and faithful but they took advantage of her. They worked her to the bone while criticizing and chastising her for her efforts on their behalf.
And still—still!—she would surrender her virtue to help them. It truly had him despairing for humanity. Why were people so stupid? Why were they so gullible?
She didn’t actually comprehend what she was requesting. A virginal spinster couldn’t know the consequences of an affair. Plus he had no scruples. He could spew all kinds of promises, but she couldn’t force him to follow through on any vow.
He could ruin her, then eject all of them anyway. He could ruin her, then tell Kit to go ahead and ruin Miss Marshall too. Then where would Miss Fogarty be?
His temper was on a slow boil. He shouldn’t have to teach her life lessons, but he’d threatened her the last time and she hadn’t listened.
She was shaking like a leaf so it would be easy to scare her, to have her run out like a frightened rabbit. And in the process, he’d enjoy a bit of titillation.
He’d kissed her once, and he’d liked it very much. He’d like to try it again too, and if he pushed farther than he should, whose fault was that? She was the one who’d offered. He was just giving her what she assumed she wanted, and it wouldn’t bother him at all if she ended up feeling tricked or deceived.
“Fine, Miss Fogarty,” he said. “I accept your terms.”
“You’ll let my aunt stay? You’ll keep your friend away from my cousin?”
“Yes. Now haul your shapely ass into my bedroom and climb up on the bed.”
She hesitated forever, then she squared her shoulders, gulped, and marched past him. In a quick second, she was lying on his mattress so he went over and lay down too.
Mr. Drummond stretched out atop her, and she struggled not to flinch.
She wasn’t a coward. She’d come to him of her own accord, and she understood what she’d agreed to do. Or at least she sort of understood. It would be physical, would involve touching and kissing and maybe some nudity, but she was determined to stagger through it without humiliating herself.
She hadn’t imagined she’d ever find herself where she currently was. When he’d initially suggested the illicit arrangement, she’d been vehemently opposed. But circumstances could bring clarity to a situation.
Over supper, Sophia had told her mother about Mr. Drummond’s scandalous proposal, about Mr. Roxbury’s too. Augusta had been offended for Sophia, but her outrage hadn’t extended to Georgina.
After Sophia had retired for the evening, Augusta had visited Georgina and spent two hours haranguing over how much Georgina owed the Marshalls. The fact that Georgina had always worked at the estate, had aided the servants as a girl, then managed the property as an adult, hadn’t entered into the conversation.
What was relevant to Augusta was that Mr. Drummond had provided Georgina with a method to save all of them. Augusta had argued that women constantly saved themselves by alliances with rich men. Usually they did it with marriage, but if marriage wasn’t available, they accomplished it in other ways.
Augusta had always been able to manipulate Georgina, and Georgina grasped that she was a fool who was too obliging. Even though Augusta’s remarks had been persuasive, Georgina had intended to refuse. Then Augusta had begun to cry, and Georgina had never seen her aunt cry. Augusta had accused Georgina of being selfish, of not caring about them, but Georgina cared too much. She simply wished they cared back, even though she knew it would never happen.
After Augusta had left, having charged Georgina with being cruel and heartless, Georgina had sat in the dark and the quiet, wondering if it was true. Was she being selfish? It was in her power to fix what was wrong. Shouldn’t she try?
Ultimately she’d walked to the manor and sneaked to Mr. Drummond’s room. She was more despondent than she’d predicted she’d be. A silly part of her had hoped he wouldn’t let her proceed, but apparently he had no gallant tendencies.
She forced a smile. “Could I ask you a question?”
“Ask away, Miss Fogarty.”
“Would you ever…ever marry me?”
“No. Why would you even be pondering such a ridiculous notion?”
“I just thought it might make things…better between us.”
“Trust me, Miss Fogarty. This is as good as matters are ever going to get.”
“You don’t have to be snide. I promised to be cheerful and happy, and I meant it.”
“You don’t look happy. You look as if you’re at the barber’s and about to have a tooth pulled. What’s vexing you?”
“I’ve always heard that the marital act is horrid.”
“Who told you that?”
“Wives who have to perform it.”
He shrugged. “I suppose it can be.”
His comment did not reassure her. “Will I hate it?”
“Not with me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’ve had quite a bit of passionate experience with women. I like it to be pleasurable.”
“It can be pleasurable?”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
“Put your arms around my neck.”
“Why?”
“I’ll kiss you for a while, but you can’t lie there like a stiff board. You have to participate.”
“All right.”
She draped her hands over his shoulders, and it was shocking and thrilling to hold him in such an intimate manner. He brushed his lips to hers, and she stiffened as he’d warned her not to. It was an instinctive reaction she couldn’t prevent, but as he deepened the kiss she relaxed into it.
He’d kissed her before, and it had actually been splendid. She tried to focus on that aspect, that he was handsome and dashing and intriguing, and though he could be a beast in his day-to-day behaviors, in the bedchamber he was extremely adept at his amorous skills.
He continued for an eternity, and she was worried that something awful was about to transpire, that he’d rip off her clothes or rip off his own, but he seemed in no hurry. He simply kissed her, then kissed her some more, and gradually she forgot she was scared.
She pretended she was a bride, that it was her wedding night with her beloved bridegroom. It was an inane fantasy, but it made the event easier.
He drew away and stared down at her, and there was a new warmth in his gaze. He was looking at her as if he…liked her after all, as if he’d genuinely enjoyed kissing her.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he inquired.
“No. Are we finished?”
“We’ve hardly started.”
“Am I doing it correctly?”
“Yes.” He nestled closer, his body pressing hers into the mattress. “I want you to touch me all over.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ll like it.”
“I can do that.”
Her hands were on his shoulders, and she caressed them down, stroking in slow circles. Very quickly, she stopped and frowned. His skin was coarse and ragged as if there were slash marks all over it.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The skin on your back. I
t’s so rough.”
He held himself very still, then he slid away. “I’ll get a shirt and cover it.”
“You don’t have to,” she was stunned to hear herself say.
“I’ll put one on. You asked earlier if I would, and I should have.”
She rose up on an elbow, watching as he went to the dressing room. In a minute, he returned, and he was stuffing his arms in the sleeves, but he didn’t button it so his chest was visible.
There was only a single candle burning so there wasn’t much light, but as he’d scooted away, she became certain the rough marks were scars. It dawned on her that he must have been viciously flogged—and more than once too.
Her heart sank. She hated to imagine the adversity he must have suffered. It would make her like him, and she didn’t intend to like him. She intended to simply force herself through the liaison, hoping she’d emerge from it with a modicum of her dignity intact.
He came back to the bed and rested a hip on the mattress. His face was a blank mask, and she couldn’t guess what he was thinking.
“What happened to you?” she asked, even though she suspected he’d never confide in her.
“Nothing,” he claimed.
“Were you flogged?”
He dithered, then admitted, “Yes.”
“When? Where? Why? Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Do the scars hurt?”
“Not usually. I have a salve I rub on them if they’re bothering me.”
“Were you a sailor?”
“No.”
“A prisoner?”
“No.”
“Then who beat you?”
“Someone who regretted it afterward.”
His expression was stony, and a frisson of fear slithered down her spine. She could almost picture him committing murder. Would he have?
By all accounts, a terrible injustice had been inflicted on him at Kirkwood, and he’d wound up alone in London. What had occurred after that? Clearly it was horrendous.
“I want to look at them,” she said.
“There’s no reason to.”
“Let me.”
“You should probably go.”
“I won’t.” She couldn’t believe she added, “We have a deal, remember?”
“Yes, I remember, but I wasn’t serious. I don’t wish to have an affair with you.”
“You said I could save my aunt and cousin. You said you’d give me a chance.”
It seemed the oddest predicament. When she’d initially visited him, it had been with an enormous amount of dread and trepidation. Now he was refusing to proceed, and she was upset and begging him to continue.
What was wrong with her? She should be relieved that he’d told her no, that he wouldn’t ruin her.
She stared at him, her probing gaze digging deep, and she realized that—with her seeing his wounded condition—he’d allowed her to peek into a portion of his world others never witnessed. Obviously he was troubled by it and likely wondering what else she’d discover if she got too close. But getting close was exactly what she needed to do. If a woman played her cards right, she could manipulate a man. That’s what Augusta had counseled.
Was he lonely? Georgina supposed he was. From the stories she’d heard about him, his grandfather had been his only family so he had no one to call his own. If she could ingratiate herself, if she could convince him to like her, what benefits might she obtain?
Feeling very brazen, she slipped a hand inside his shirt and laid it on the bare skin of his waist. For several torturous seconds, he hesitated then he leaned forward and kissed her again.
With slight pressure, he eased her down, and he wedged his torso between her thighs. It was a scandalously intimate placement, and suddenly his private parts were flattened to her own. She reveled in the naughty position as if her anatomy recognized it and had been waiting for it to occur.
He hadn’t ceased kissing her, but there was a difference now, a distinct tenderness as if he was glad she was with him, as if he was glad she’d come. Might he be?
The passion escalated. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands in her hair. Down below, his hips flexed so he was rubbing his loins against hers in a steady rhythm. Her own hips responded, and it was extremely arousing, like nothing she’d ever experienced prior.
His fingers went to her breasts, and vaguely she recollected she shouldn’t be gleefully enjoying his ministrations, but her body had its own plan, and it wasn’t listening to any warnings. How could that be? How could her body identify what it wanted when she couldn’t have described or explained what it was seeking?
He broke off to nibble a trail down her neck and chest. He rooted under the bodice of her gown, and before she understood what he intended, he sucked on her nipple.
The move was so decadent and unexpected that she gasped aloud. He nuzzled, licked, and played until she was on fire and might simply burst into flames. Was it all right for a man’s caresses to feel so riveting? Was it normal? Or was this her mother’s unruly blood surging to the fore?
Unfortunately she had no way to judge. She knew so little about amour, and she had no one to ask. There was only Sophia, and her cousin was even more unschooled than Georgina.
He continued until she truly doubted she could stand it another instant. She was on the verge of a shocking conclusion, as if she might explode, and just when she was about to demand he desist, he drew back. He hovered over her, staring at her bared breast, then he tugged up the fabric to hide what never should have been in plain view.
“Why have we stopped?” she inquired as he sat up.
“I told you, Miss Fogarty. I’m not interested in having an affair with you.”
“But…it seems as if you are.”
“I was lying. I have no desire to entangle myself in your petty problems.”
“What about my aunt and my cousin?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with them.”
“You promised.”
“No, I didn’t.” He shook his head. “I never make promises because I never keep them.”
She scowled, pondering their fevered embrace. “Did I do it incorrectly? Is that it?” She couldn’t imagine how she could have. For the most part, she’d simply lain there and let him do all the work.
“You were fine, Miss Fogarty.”
“What is it then? It was so difficult for me to approach you. I fretted all evening—until I was practically sick with distress. You can’t change your mind.”
“Of course I can. I’m a cad and a bounder, but I never trifle with innocents, which you definitely are.”
“Is it because I saw your back? Is that why?”
“No.”
“If it is, I swear I’ll never tell a soul.”
He scoffed. “I don’t care who knows about my back. Tell the whole bloody world if you wish. It’s merely more evidence of what I endured due to Miles’s perfidy.”
She didn’t believe he’d like people to be apprised. She suspected he never permitted anyone to see his injuries. He wasn’t ashamed of them exactly, but he was very proud and wouldn’t like others to learn that a brute had bested him.
She sat up too, and from how they were positioned, they were eye to eye, nose to nose. The worst swell of affection swept through her, for what he’d suffered, for what he’d survived. There were other sentiments too that she hadn’t envisioned and couldn’t control. She was being roiled by sympathy, by a general sense that she could be his friend, that he needed her to be his friend.
She rested a palm on his cheek and murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything that was done to you.”
He studied her, and she perceived a thousand replies flitting in his head. The one he picked was, “Well, I’m delighted to hear you’re sorry, but it doesn’t fix the past and it doesn’t erase the scars on my back.”
“No, it doesn’t, but I’m sorry anyway. Sometimes that’s all a
person receives in life, the compassion of others.”
“Is that what you’re offering? Your compassion?”
“Yes.”
“I hardly need it, Miss Fogarty.”
They were silent, searching each other’s gazes. Finally she asked, “What will happen now?”
“I’ve told Miles he may beg me twice to seek mercy for you three ladies. I’ll meet with him once tomorrow afternoon and once the afternoon after that.”
“Why make him?”
“Because I want to watch him grovel.”
“That sounds cruel, as if you’re a bully.”
“I’m not being a bully. I’m simply having history repeat itself.”
“Meaning what?”
“When Edward Marshall fired my grandfather, he came to the manor for several weeks, pleading with Edward to get his job back. The vicar came. Neighbors came. Shopkeepers came. Everyone begged and begged, but it was pointless.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, thinking what a paltry word it was.
“So Miles has the chance to supplicate on your behalf—if he wishes to try. But I doubt he will. He’s too arrogant, and he and I both know it would never have an effect on me.”
“It’s all for show, to give you some satisfaction.”
“Yes.”
“Will it?”
“I predict I’d garner a tremendous amount of satisfaction, but as I said, he’ll never do it. You’ll have a full-on example of how little he cares about any of you. He won’t lift a finger to help you. In fact, I’m betting he’ll sneak off before dawn.”
“What will happen then? If he doesn’t beg you, what will happen?”
“Then…all of you—you, your aunt, and your cousin—will pack your bags and leave with what you can carry.”
“To go where, Mr. Drummond?”
“It matters not to me.”
She snuggled herself closer, nestling herself to him so her breasts were pressed to his chest. “After I’ve been here with you like this, could you really be that spiteful?”
He didn’t respond, but stood and pulled her off the bed and onto her feet.
“Goodnight, Miss Fogarty.”
“Might I stay a bit longer? Could we talk for a while?”
