Married to a Rogue

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Her heart thudded. What did he expect of her in the conservatory? But she dare not say no. He must think her at least wavering on whether to take him as a lover, or he would probably stay away from her in future. She glanced up at him from beneath the thick fringe of her lashes and nodded. “Yes,” she breathed.

  • • •

  Baxter entered Sir Dutton’s opulent foyer and handed his hat and stick to the butler. He was late even by fashionable standards and could hear that the soprano had already started. She wasn’t the reason he was there, anyway. He wouldn’t even have come if he hadn’t been informed that Emily was attending.

  His visit to her house that afternoon had been greeted with the information that she had already left to go shopping with his aunt. He needed to see her. If he had not been tied up with government business all day he would have gotten to her place sooner. But those damned officials with their maundering questions and hypotheses! Yes, there was someone still trying to kill him. And no, he didn’t know who it was. He could hazard a guess. There were a few candidates and probably others he didn’t even know about who were connected with the whole business, but damn it, he would not roam about his own city with a damned guard as a shadow.

  He strolled into the drawing room, where rows of chairs were set up facing the fireplace and a large woman in scarlet taffeta, who stood by the piano and sang an aria. Where was Emily? He desperately needed to talk to her about the previous night. He had gone directly home and when he did finally sleep, he had dreamt of making love to Emily again in the folly at Brockwith. As sweet as the dream was, the reality was what he hungered for.

  He searched the rows of men and women, looking for the familiar coil of dusky hair. He knew most of the company, including the knight and his family. He stood with a couple of gentlemen he knew near the door and scanned the crowd.

  There she was in the second row! She wore lavender silk with knots of purple ribbon at the neckline and . . . damn! She sat with that damned Frenchman! The vicomte had his arm casually and familiarly draped over the back of her chair, his bare fingers—the man didn’t even wear gloves!—lightly touching her skin above the neckline of her dress. It was a gesture elegantly indicating possessiveness, whispering to the polite world that he had the right to do this, that this woman was his to touch. Baxter’s hands curled into fists at his side as he watched in impotent fury as the damned puppy caressed her neck and she turned to smile at him. A luminous smile of approval! What was she thinking?

  The singing was over and the crowd moved, standing and heading for the door toward the refreshment tables. He would damned well nab her as they came through and demand that she go with him somewhere private so they could discuss things. She was short and disappeared among the taller people around her, but Baxter was taller than most in the crowd, and he kept an eye on the Frenchman. But it seemed that Etienne was going the opposite way, toward the other doors that led to . . . Baxter searched his memory for a plan of the Dutton house.

  The hallway toward the conservatory?

  But maybe she wasn’t with him. He had best stay where he was with the crowd surging past on the way to the refreshments, flattening him against the wall. He scanned the crowd but kept his eye on the other door, too. There was the vicomte. And there, on his arm, was Emily, going with him out that door.

  Baxter pushed through the crowd and followed. He made his way into the hall just in time to see Etienne open the conservatory door for Emily. She glanced up to smile at her lover and caught sight of her husband. Her face reddened, and then drained of color and she gave an audible gasp. Etienne followed her gaze and saw Baxter. He smiled and nodded, and then guided the sagging Emily through the door and into the intimate privacy of the conservatory. Baxter watched them go, his gut twisting into a painful knot.

  But what could he do, call the man out? Beat him to a pulp and make a scene in Sir Frances’s home? She went with him willingly, that was evident by her smile before she had seen her husband. With difficulty he quelled the violent urges that swept through him. Feeling more hollow and bereft than he ever had in his life, he turned and walked out, forgetting his cane, forgetting his hat, forgetting everything but the look of guilt on Emily’s face and the expression of triumph on his young rival’s. Youth had won. His Emily was lover to that damned smug French sprig. He rued the day that Marchant had come to his rescue.

  Striding from the house, he looked back up at the brightly lit windows, finding the one that he believed was the conservatory. He wanted to howl in frustration. He had finally realized what he had lost when he separated from his wife, only to find that it was too late. She was being loved by someone else.

  He needed . . . he wanted . . . he shrugged in defeat. He would go to Belle. At least she wanted him, and he would not waste his time on a woman who did not.

  • • •

  Emily was shivering, and Etienne was all solicitude. He put his arms around her and held her close, his touch becoming more amorous as he stroked her back and kissed her hair, nuzzling her ear. But all she could think about was the look on Baxter’s face. The shock. The anger. And something else . . . was it hopelessness?

  “Emily,” Etienne whispered. “Please, let me kiss you. I have longed to since the other night. Please allow this one caress.”

  She swallowed down her fear and dejection. Though it was possible that she had just destroyed any chance she had at a reconciliation with Baxter, she could still do what she had intended. She must find out if Etienne was a danger to her husband, if he was the assassin who was trying to put a period to his existence. She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax in Etienne’s embrace. She felt his lips cover hers in a soft kiss that deepened as his passion flared.

  He wanted her! It seemed strange after all those years of self-hatred, all the times she had looked in the mirror and despised what she saw as she got older and rounder. And yet this handsome young Frenchman, who even now was tightening his arms around her and caressing her as his heart pounded, wanted her, desired her.

  She drew away from him. “Please, Etienne, I must breathe!”

  “Pardon, chérie. I forget myself.” He relaxed his hold but kept his arms around her.

  The conservatory was dimly lit with wall sconces. The Duttons were known for their pride in their rare plants, and once in a while people wandered in. If she and Etienne were caught kissing, there would be a scandal. Or perhaps not. She was not a green girl, a virgin who must be chaperoned. Most people would just look the other way and pretend they hadn’t seen. They might whisper the gossip to each other, but no one would think the worse of her for taking a handsome young lover.

  “What do you want from me?” Emily blurted.

  If he was startled, the young man didn’t show it. He smiled, a tender lover’s expression. “I will not lie: I wish to make love to you. I will not settle for stolen kisses forever. Ah, Emily, you would not regret it. I have been told I am a very good lover, and where I want to please . . .” He kissed her again. Pulling away from her, his eyes still closed, he swallowed hard. “I want you!” His words were a whispered plea.

  “But why me?”

  His eyes flew open. There was understanding in the depths. “You ask this because you have not the fashionable figure, yes? You have learned to think yourself undesirable.”

  She nodded.

  “Many men secretly prefer the opulence, the feminine body volupteuse. But fashion, it dictates that they must not. But for men like myself, my love, you are considered the height of delectability.” He stared into her eyes and ran his hands lightly over her body. “Such sweetness as you possess I wish to sample, to drink of your nectar, my love, to do things to you that perhaps no other man has thought to do.”

  Emily blushed and stood, pulling away from him. “Etienne!”

  “I want to feel you shudder, chérie, as I kiss you in delicious places no man has thought to kiss you.”

  “Etienne!”

  “I shock you?”

  �
��A little.”

  “But you need to hear it, to know it. You should not deny yourself the pleasures of the flesh, and I can show you those pleasures. If I am not mistaken it has been a long, long time since you have been made love to. Let me be the one! Chérie, I will make you happy.”

  His words were seductive, and she felt a languor steal over her. Her body, dormant so long, had been aroused the previous night by Baxter’s caresses. She longed for a lover’s touch . . . Baxter’s touch. Etienne was not Baxter, and though her body responded with some sensation at the light brush of his fingers, her husband’s touch would have affected her so much more. She would have been on fire instead of just warmed.

  But after seeing her with Etienne, Baxter might never want to see her or touch her again. The fragile bud of reconciliation had been crushed, and she knew how proud and stubborn her husband was. This might be her only chance to make love with someone that she cared for. And yes, she liked Etienne; she cared for him. He was sweet and tender toward her and treated her like a desirable woman.

  She would make herself mad with this indecision! If only she knew whether she had a chance with Baxter, but that should make no difference. She should make a decision based on her own desires and needs, not on the whim of her husband!

  “Etienne, please, let us just talk for a while. This is difficult for me, and I need a little time, but I will think about what you’ve said.”

  “That is all I ask, chérie.” He bent his head to kiss her again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Going to Belle after seeing Emily retreating to the conservatory with Marchant had been a mistake, Baxter decided as he let himself out of her town house and strode down the quiet damp street. He breathed deeply, aware of a change in the quality of the air around him. There had been rain, and the air, for once, smelled fresh, cleansed of the day-to-day odors of garbage and horses and human waste, all mixed with the ever-present smell of the Thames.

  His boot heels struck the cobbles with a thunk thunk as he walked. He needed to think and walked aimlessly at first, glad he had dismissed his carriage after arriving at Belle’s. This was the same time of night as when he had been attacked, but that had been in a much nastier part of town, where his attacker would be more likely to escape notice. If he confined his walk to the better area, he should be all right. He strolled on and wondered, what was he going to do?

  Belle had been, as always, pathetically glad to see him and eager to offer her sexual services to relieve his tension and disappointment. But God help him, he could not do it. And it was not just determination this time, not just keeping to his good intentions. He now knew that he wished he was with Emily, that he wished they had never separated. If they hadn’t, there never would have been a Belle in his life, for he had been faithful to his wife until the moment the separation agreement was signed. And now even rage and humiliation had not been enough to make lovemaking with another woman palatable.

  He wanted no one else but Emily, his sweet, adored wife, the mate of his body and his mind and his soul. But it seemed that it was too late for him and Emily.

  He walked through the quiet neighborhoods. In front of one stately manor, a carriage drew up and footmen emerged from the house, silently padding on soft-soled shoes down the steps and to the carriage. With the aid of the groom and tiger, the footmen pulled and tugged at a corpulent reveler, finally getting him out of the carriage and carrying him up the steps. There had not been a single word or command among the men as they worked, and their expressions were carefully blank, but Baxter found the scene ludicrous and walked away shaking his head.

  How many souls in the city of London would repeat that same scene tonight and every night of the season? How many men and women went about their usual routine, never wondering what they were doing or why, or whether there was a better way?

  Like him. He had reacted to his separation from Emily by throwing himself into much the same lifestyle—drinking, gaming, whoring—at least until his work took him to the Continent. But now there was no excuse. What did he want from life? He frowned and pondered and kicked at an errant stone as he strolled the streets. He glanced at his pocket watch once. One a.m. The middle of the evening for some.

  Life had taken some unpredictable turns lately, he thought. His work as a courier had become more, suddenly, and then there were the attempts on his life. No one had yet identified whence the threat came, but they would track the culprit or culprits down eventually. Until they did the government had wanted to assign him a guard, but he had steadfastly refused. There was no way he was going to be shadowed by a hulking human shield. He could take care of himself, even if he was getting older and feeling it more every year. He would just be a little more careful, that was all.

  Where had the time gone? He and Emily had been separated for five years out of their fifteen as man and wife. What a waste. He stopped on the pavement and glanced up at the house before him. He was in front of Delafont House, which he had allowed Emily in the separation agreement for London excursions.

  Was it just coincidence that he should end up in front of his wife’s house just as he realized that not only did he still love her, he likely always would? He did not especially believe in coincidence. It was more likely his unconscious desire that led him this far, to Emily’s doorstep. But his unconscious desire was doomed to disappointment because his lady-wife was at that moment in the arms of her paramour, no doubt. Perhaps she had even brought Etienne back here, and they were wrapped in each other’s arms in her bed at this moment.

  A stab of pain rent his heart. The thought was vile and insidious, working into his brain like a parasitic worm. He should go, he thought, before he did something foolish, like beating on her door and demanding satisfaction from her French dandy. He turned, about to leave, and then, out of nowhere there was a rush of noise, pain thudded through his head and he felt himself falling forward.

  • • •

  It had been a long evening. Emily sighed and leaned back against the squabs in her carriage. They must be almost home! She was so tired and only wanted to drag herself upstairs so Sylvie could undress her and she could fall into bed.

  She and Etienne had talked for almost an hour, long enough for their absence to be noticed. And she had had to suffer the knowing looks of the men and the envious glances of the women. She was the cynosure of all eyes as she strolled back in to listen to the second half of the soprano’s performance.

  And she hadn’t learned a bit that was useful, that was the frustrating thing. She had no more idea now of whether Etienne was the guilty party than she had when she started talking to him. Oh, he talked. He talked about his family’s life in France before the Terror and how they had all been wiped out in one brutal attack, but his brave nanny—he was only a babe when it happened—had protected him and raised him as if he was her own.

  But he had always known he was Vicomte Etienne Marchant; she had raised him with the knowledge that he was born to something better. He had left his country sickened by the bloodshed to come to England, about which he had always been curious.

  And that was all she had been able to discover. It was slow going because he insisted on interspersing his story with kisses and caresses, some that came dangerously close to being indecent. Not as much so as Baxter’s the previous night, but close enough. The carriage turned onto her street. Suddenly the horses broke into a gallop and she started up as she heard her driver shout, “Hey there, you leave ’im be!”

  “What’s going on, Gorse?” she called out. “What’s . . .”

  The carriage halted suddenly and rocked as Gorse, her driver, jumped down from his perch.

  “You stay inside, my lady. Poor sot’s bin set upon by thieves!”

  Emily gasped in dismay and with trembling hands unfastened and threw down her window. They were almost directly in front of her own house, and Gorse had shouted for Trumble, who, minus his wig but still in livery even though the hour was late, threw open the doors and raced down the
steps, all his dignity forgotten. She could hear, above the commotion, the sound of multiple footsteps running off into the distance, but Trumble, Gorse, and one young footman were bending over a figure on the ground, still as a corpse.

  In a flash, Emily knew who it was. Later she wouldn’t know how, or why. He was just a still figure, prone on the pavement, but she recognized him even as she would recognize her own reflection.

  “Baxter,” she screamed, flung the door open and tumbled down to the ground, her skirts entangling her without the usual arm to aid her. She raced to the figure’s side and threw herself down on her knees on the damp cobblestones. It was him. It was her husband, and he was still as death with a trickle of blood soaking the starched whiteness of his neckcloth.

  She had him carried to her room and sent the housekeeper scurrying for a basin of warm water and cloths. She pulled his jacket off with the help of Trumble and sent the footman for a doctor.

  It was a long and anxious couple of hours, but the groggy doctor pronounced that he was really in no danger and would likely come out of it with nothing more than a mighty headache. The wound was superficial, just a scrape that had bled quite a bit, as head wounds were wont to do. Emily sent the household to bed, insisting that she and no one else would sit by Baxter and bathe his head.

  And so finally, they were alone.

  Baxter’s breathing was steady and even, assuring Emily that the doctor had not lied, nor been mistaken. The room was dark, with just a single candle guttering on the bedside table. She watched how the pale light flickered, sending shadows across her husband’s grim and saturnine face, his expression stern and unrelenting even in repose.

  But she loved him so, despite the grimness of his aspect, his stubbornness, his dangerous, dark temper. He could be fierce when angry, but she knew his tender side, his gentle touch, his compassionate heart. She moved up onto the bed and stroked his face, the dark stubble of his beard raspy, as it always was at the end of the evening. He now wore just his shirt, and that open at the neck, and her fingers trailed down to his chest, the smooth hard wall that she had lain against so many times after lovemaking. His heart thudded steady, even, thumping against her fingers in a powerful rhythm.