by Jane Lark
John had spent seven years abroad. She’d written to him, but he’d rarely replied and she’d been too young to hear much of how he’d lived. He’d married Kate soon after his return.
“If you do not believe me, ask him. I doubt he’d lie. A young man’s recklessness is part of life – a part your brother now claims to be above. But he has no cause to judge me ill beyond my lack of wealth.”
“But you have a reputation.”
“Yes. Ignore it, it is irrelevant to us; your brother had a reputation. Now he has a wife. This is about the two of us, no one else. You and I shall be all that counts.”
Her heart ached. But her common-sense whispered. “Only because you need my money.”
“What I need right now, Mary, darling, is not your money. I need you.”
A muddle of turbulent emotion writhed inside her but longing overrode them all, as his lips pressed down on hers.
She forgot doubt and responded as his tongue slipped past her parted lips. Her fingers gripped his shoulders and when she slid her tongue into his mouth, he caught it lightly in his teeth, for an instant, before sucking it deeper.
It was so intimate.
Her fingers slid up into his soft, thick hair.
I love you, the words whispered through her thoughts unbidden. She did, she loved him, no matter what John said, no matter the risk. She loved him.
His hands held her, resting against her back.
She remembered everything he’d done the other night. His lips left hers and began travelling a path of kisses along her jaw then down her neck.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, against her skin.
She shivered. “And rich,” she whispered to the air above her, forcing her mind to return to reality.
His head lifted and a soft laugh left his lips as his finger tapped beneath her chin. “Yes you are rich but there is far more to you than money.”
His fingers fell to either shoulder and slipped beneath the short sleeves of her gown then slid them down. They hung loose on her arms and her bodice sagged
His gaze dropped to her breasts, and his heated palms cupped them.
Mary’s mouth dried and she looked up at the glass roof above. It reflected her image, against the jet black wash of night.
She saw his dark hair against her pale skin as his lips touched the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse flickered.
When his fingers slid into the fabric and gripped her breasts, she shivered again.
Oh dear Lord. A sweeping sensation plunged down to the place between her legs. She ached for him there.
He eased one breast free, then his lips brushed her nipple before covering it and then sucking it; cradling her nipple on his tongue.
Her bones dissolved and her fingers clasped in his hair, as she watched the mirror image above them.
This was wicked, but delicious; the sensations intoxicating.
Her breath came in pants. He made her body ignite.
Still sucking her breast, his hands slid to her hips, and began lifting her dress.
Cold realisation drenched her, he was not going to stop. He did not simply expect kisses. “No.”
Her fingers, slid from his hair, gripped his shoulders and pushed him away. “No.” She had not completely lost all sanity.
His gaze cut through the darkness, meeting hers, his heavy breaths echoing against the glass. “Mary.” His fingers unclenched, letting her dress fall.
But when she would have stepped back his hands slipped to cup her buttocks, and pulled her closer still.
A column within his trousers pressed against her stomach through their layers of clothing. “See what you do to me.”
Her grip on his shoulders urged him away. “Let me go.”
“You have no need to be afraid of me.” His hands slid back to her waist then fell as he stepped back.
Her fingers shaking, Mary righted her bodice and lifted her short sleeves, unable to look at him.
“I would not hurt you.” His voice hit a hard tone.
Fear and wariness slashing at her foolish soul she met his gaze. What if her instinct had been wrong? She had good cause not to trust him. It was not only John who thought ill of him, he was an outcast, ignored by most.
“For God sake, Mary.” His pitch lifted to anger.
Her chin titled defiantly. She had to stop this before it became too late to turn back. “I will not meet you again.”
“I did not hurt you.” Irritation brimmed in his voice.
“I know you did not.” She stepped back – away. This was the end. “I did not say you did, but I cannot… I will not meet you again. I won’t hurt my family. I cannot keep betraying their trust.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you… I would not—”
“You took your time saying no. If that was your intent. You came to be made love to…” he growled.
Mary held up a hand, to ward him off. “Love is not involved in this. I may be innocent, but I am no fool either, Lord Framlington. You may convince me you are attracted to me but you will not persuade me this has anything to do with love.” At least not on your part.
That was her downfall. She’d let him take liberties because she did love him.
* * *
Silver moonlight caught in Mary’s eyes.
Pain shone there.
He’d said he would not hurt her, but he had. That cut at him. He thought of Caro… and himself as a child…The only time when perhaps he could compare his feelings to understand Mary’s. He never wished to hurt Mary.
Damn, he was unused to women with a heart – a woman who knew love. A woman who’d been surrounded by it her entire life.
His error glared him in the face. He should not have wooed her with passion. It was not her body he had to persuade – it was her heart. She wanted to be loved. Of course she did.
“Andrew,” he stated bluntly.
Why had he given her his full name?
Her chin tilted higher, reminding him of her brother’s stubborn countenance.
How the hell do I make her love me?
“What?” Her tone rang sharp and challenging.
She did not even know his name. He’d wooed her physically and not even let her in so far as to tell her his name.
His voice dipped to a calmer conciliatory pitch. “My name is Andrew, although most people call me Drew.”
“Oh.” She looked confused. Perhaps she also realised how many favours she’d allowed him without even knowing his name.
“Say it.” His voice held the undercurrent of the desperation humming in his blood. He could not let her walk away. Everything hung on him winning her. The idea had fermented in his head for so long, he could not choose to change his path, not now. He could not bear to be with anyone but her.
She took a breath. “Andrew.”
A fist gripped hard and firm in his gut.
“Or Drew… That suits you more, it is more dangerous.”
“You deem me dangerous… I’m not the devil, Mary, just a man. A man looking for a wife, you, and once we are wed, every morning when you wake, you will say my name; and when we retire, I’ll make love to you, slowly and thoroughly so you know it is not a marriage solely for money.”
Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. But he knew he could not progress. He needed to regroup, and think of a new strategy. To make her love him?
Damn. He knew nothing about love.
But an odd sensation seared in his chest.
If she came to love him, he’d rejoice. It was what he wanted – a faithful, committed wife. He had no idea how Mary would fare once they were wed, but surely if she loved him it could not go awry. “I want you, Mary. If you need to be loved, I will love you, I swear it. I’m half in love with you already.” It was surely true, the emotions inside him were a turmoil of desperation, need and hope.
Her eyes turned cold. “Or half in love with my dowry…”
Her stubborn insistence t
hat he desired her money made him angry. “You were right earlier, you don’t know me. Money is not all to me.” He picked up her gloves and thrust them at her.
She took them, then turned.
But he caught her elbow before she could leave
“I have to go. I am promised for the next dance.”
“Next time—”
“There will be no next time!” Her elbow slipped from his grip, and then she was gone, her ivory clad figure disappearing into darkness.
Bloody hell, he’d lost more ground than he’d gained tonight. If she would no longer come to him then how the hell was he to progress? He could not approach her, that would make her family suspicious. They would remove her from town.
Striding from the garden he didn’t bother heading back to the ball, instead he headed to his club. He needed to drink, and think.
Chapter 6
After breaking her fast, Mary retired to the drawing room with her mother, her sister-in-law Kate and her sisters, while the boys were at lessons upstairs. She chose to sit on a sofa in the sunshine, beside her younger sisters, Helen and Jennifer, who were busy working on embroidery samplers. Mary guided them.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.”
Mary looked up. Mr Finch stood just inside the door, a small silver tray balanced on his fingers.
Kate held her son on her lap, and had been amusing him with a wooden rattle while Mary’s mother sat on the same sofa, with Mary’s youngest sister, Jemima. They’d been studying a picture book.
They all looked up.
“What is it Finch?” Kate asked.
“A letter for Miss Marlow,” Mr Finch intoned.
“Mary?” Her mother looked in Mary’s direction, a question bright in her eyes. Who?
Mary stood, heat flaring in her cheeks. She received letters regularly from a variety of friends, and her cousins, but they came with her father’s and John’s post.
She took the letter from the tray, her skin glowing.
Mr Finch turned to leave.
The writing was unfamiliar. But… Surely not…. It was large, bold strokes. She broke the blank seal and looked at the bottom of the page.
D. F.
Drew Framlington.
Her heart pounded against her ribs.
Her family had noticed her absence last night. She’d told them she had gone to the retiring room. Even so her father had admonished her for not telling her mother. They had warned her of rousing unnecessary gossip.
Kate had interjected then, saying she’d experienced such things and would not wish them on Mary.
By the time they’d come home, Mary had been thoroughly chastened, and been made to feel painfully guilty. She’d cried herself to sleep, then woken barely an hour later, thinking of the things she’d let him do, and what he’d said.
Holding the letter she crossed to the window.
“Who is it from?” her mother asked.
Mary glanced back. “Lord Farquhar.” Daniel, one of her friends, she’d known him since her come out, her mother knew him too.
Her mother smiled with a fond look, before turning her attention back to Jemima and the picture book.
Mary longed to take the letter up to her room but that would look odd. Instead she sought seclusion on the window seat, slipping her feet from her shoes and then lifting them on to the cushion before her.
My dear Miss Marlow,
Has any man told you what a treasure you truly are?
The rogue, he actually referred to her fortune in a pun. She smiled, more amused than angry.
What I would give to make you mine, you cannot imagine. I am yours, a hundred times over. I adore you. Your ebony hair and your alabaster skin. Your eyes, as blue as a summer sky, or an azure sea, so pale they are like ice. They make me shiver when you turn your gaze upon me, turn it my way often and forever, Mary dear. Make me yours, make me love you. If love is what you want, bring me to your heel. I will come. I will beg for you if that is what you wish, only never turn your smile away from me, that is what I live for, to see your perfect smile.
And your lips, I have not yet spoken of those…
It was nonsense of course, all nonsense, and it went on and on, profoundly expressing her beauty and his adoration, while not once claiming to love, but pleading for her to give him the opportunity to fall in love. It begged her to tame him. It asked her to show him how. Then he finished it all with a silly poem.
When she folded it and lifted her gaze, a smile curved her lips.
He’d not been deterred by her dismissal yesterday. That gave him credit. He was more serious about choosing her than she’d thought. He could have simply transferred his attention to another wealthy woman.
“What did he say, Mary?” her mother asked.
Mary looked across the room. “He is gushing, Mama.” It was becoming far too easy to lie. She rose from the window seat, and slipped her shoes back on.
Her mother smiled. Her sister-in-law Kate looked up and smiled too.
“Are you interested in Lord Farquhar?” her mother asked, with a curious look.
Mary laughed. “Heavens no, but it is flattering.”
“Let me see!” “Let me read it!” Her sisters cried.
“No!” Mary clutched the letter to her breast as they rose and rushed over.
“It’s personal,” her mother admonished. “Helen, Jenny, sit back down and leave your sister alone.”
Fortunately her parents were not in the habit of reading her post. They trusted her.
A sharp pain cut deep into Mary’s chest.
She did not deserve their trust anymore.
She’d been beyond foolish last night. She would have lost her family’s respect forever if she’d been caught with Lord Framlington. She would have been utterly ruined. She would have had to marry him.
But, then, surely, his discretion was another point in his favour. Even his letter did not contain anything which would force her hand.
Last night he could have had what he wished, her hand in marriage, her money, if he’d arranged for someone to discover them.
Surely that he had not arranged it – that he would not act without her consent – meant he was honourable despite his reputation. Then he must also – to some degree – care for her.
“May I take this letter up to my room, Mama, so I can put it in my travelling desk?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Her mother gave her another fond look.
Mary fled the room with sinful, wrong notions, spinning in her head. If only she knew his address she might write back.
No! No! I have finished with this foolishness.
* * *
Fate played an odd game on Mary at the Fosters’ ball; as Mary stood talking with Miss Emily Smithfield, Lord Farquhar asked Mary to dance the first set.
She accepted with a shallow curtsy, smiling at him, then glanced back to give Emily, who invariably ended up the wallflower once more, an apologetic smile. Emily was the shy type, too quiet, but as she had only come out this season, she was still finding her place in society.
Mary looked back to see if Emily had found another companion to speak with, and caught her mother watching. The look in her eyes resembled the one in the drawing room that morning. Her father’s eyes glistened in the candlelight when she looked at him.
They thought she carried a torch for Lord Farquhar and he for her.
Mary turned away.
Lord Farquhar carried his torch for her good friend Lady Bethany Pope.
Oh heavens, lying never brought any good. It was always found out. The only time she’d lied in her childhood was when she’d accidently broken her mother’s perfume bottle. She’d hidden the broken bottle and claimed no knowledge of it. They’d known because she was the only one who smelt of the perfume.
She’d been in more trouble for lying than for breaking the bottle.
She’d never lied again – until the day of the Jerseys’ garden party.
Lord Farquhar’s eyes twinkled wi
th good humour as he led her on to the floor. She liked her friends. She’d formed a good set last season. She glanced back at poor Emily. She was sure Emily would become settled, her friends were loyal, happy people, and generous in nature, all of them – yet none of her male friends carried an air of mystery, as Lord Framlington did. She selfishly wished for a life that was more exciting than this.
Her heart ached with a bitter sweet sadness. Lord Framlington made her long to unravel all the things he kept hidden. He was exciting…
Yet she had not even known his given name until she’d been about to leave him in the glasshouse.
The image of his eyes as he’d asked her to say his name aloud caught in her memory.
He was… vital… consuming heat… danger – and mystery. All other men were bland compared to him. How could she carry a torch for a bland man when there was Lord Framlington to compare to?
She would probably never marry, and then if she never married her whole life would be dull.
“You do not look quite the thing this evening, Mary. You look distracted. Is anything wrong?”
Lord Farquhar’s fingers gripped hers as they passed each other in the format of the country dance.
She had not even spoken to him since they’d walked on to the floor. “Nothing is wrong. But thank you for asking. I am merely tired, I have attended too many entertainments…”
“You can never attend too many…Are your shoes pinching? You may have too much dancing if your shoes are pinching…”
Mary laughed at his attempt to cheer her but stupidly it sent her tumbling into the doldrums.
If she never spoke to Lord Framlington again she would have to endure an entire life of dullness?
“I should be honest. It was not I who noticed. Bethany did. She sent me to cheer you up.”
“Ah.” Mary glanced at Bethany, who now stood beside Emily, then she looked back and smiled at Lord Farquhar.
She must cease longing for Lord Framlington. This was enough to make her happy. It had to be, and happiness was enough. Even if inside she spent her life screaming for excitement.
When the dance drew to an end Lord Framlington entered the ballroom, as her group swapped partners then formed the next set.
He walked with a group of men. They stopped and looked about the ballroom.
