Joanna Maitland

by Rakes Reward

  It made no sense. What on earth…? Marina scrabbled around on the table for the inner letter and forced herself to read it carefully, one sentence at a time.

  Then she understood.

  The letter was dated two days hence and addressed to the Dowager Countess Luce. Its tone was curt and formal. Madam, it said, Your intermediary has prevailed upon me not to collect on your recent debt. I shall call upon you tomorrow, as agreed. Your vowel shall be returned to you then. Christopher Stratton.

  In her haste, she had overlooked that one significant word—tomorrow. And the date. The letter was worth nothing, nothing at all, until that day. She had been duped.

  How arrogant, how stupid she had been to think for one moment that she could outwit a practised deceiver like Kit Stratton. He had taken her stratagem and turned it back on her. She had demanded payment in advance and he had provided it, but so cleverly that she could not make use of it until after she had delivered on her side of the bargain. Nor could she now retreat, as all her senses were urging her to do. If she did not meet him on the morrow, he would no doubt make their bargain public immediately, using Marina’s letter as proof of his allegations against her. It would cost him nothing. He had no reputation to lose. But Marina would be cried a liar, a cheat and a wanton, to boot. Lady Luce would discharge her on the spot—she would have no choice. Marina would be forced to return to Yorkshire with not a penny to her name—a name that would be dragged through the mud in London and, eventually, in Yorkshire, too.

  Marina would be an outcast. Mama would be shamed, dreadfully shamed. There would be no more pupils—no father would permit his child to enter such a household. They would have to rely on Harry for their very bread.

  Harry! What of Harry? He would probably suffer, too. He might even be asked to leave Oxford, for who would give a living to a man with such a sister?

  A tear squeezed its way out and down Marina’s cheek. Angrily, she brushed it away. What was the point of tears? She had brought all this on herself, by her own stupidity in sending that incriminating letter. And signing it, too! If her family suffered, she alone was to blame. Oh, why had she ever set eyes on Kit Stratton?

  He had won. It mattered not how many curses she called down on his head. He had won.

  He expected her to be in his carriage on the morrow. And, heaven help her, she now had no choice but to comply.

  Chapter Nine

  Marina had not slept.

  As soon as she heard the first stirrings of the household below, she rose and began to make ready for her fateful meeting with Kit Stratton. She felt like the condemned preparing for the scaffold.

  She stripped off her nightdress and washed every inch of her skin with the freezing water left from the night before. The cold should have brought her body to life, but it did not. She barely shivered.

  Then she hunted through her meagre supply of underthings to find those with the least evidence of mending. She shivered then, to be sure. He would see them…all of them, but her pride would not permit him to discover the full extent of her poverty. He must be made to remember that she was a lady and—in that at least—his equal.

  She shuddered again at the sight of the pretty green gown hanging from the rail. Had she really considered wearing such a thing for this meeting? She had truly been mad.

  Hastily she donned the most severe of her drab Yorkshire gowns, plain, long-sleeved and high to the neck. Only then did she pause to look at herself in the glass. Her face was almost as grey as her gown. The mass of chestnut hair curling around her shoulders contrasted starkly with her pale skin, like a wig on a corpse. With shaky fingers, she braided her hair and pinned it back into her usual neat knot. That was better. No…it would not do. She unpinned it and did it over again, much tighter. Her hair would be barely visible now, especially under her bonnet.

  But he was bound to insist that she remove it. And then every other stitch of clothing she was wearing…

  Swallowing her fears, Marina forced herself to look around the gloomy interior. The carriage was far from elegant. And it had a vague, musty smell to it, as if it had lain long unused in some damp coach house. Involuntarily, she wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I apologise for the carriage, Miss Beaumont.’ Mr Stratton was leaning carelessly back in his seat to let his frank gaze wander over her body. ‘It is not mine, you understand. Mindful of your reputation—’ He quirked a sardonic eyebrow at Marina’s start of surprise. ‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Mindful of your reputation,’ he said again, with emphasis, ‘I have hired this anonymous vehicle, rather than use my own. It is not quite what I should like…but then you will not be in it for long, will you?’ He leant forward and slid one lean hand out behind the closed window blind. After a moment, he sat back once more, carefully folding the white silk scarf that had been attached to the door handle. ‘I would not, for the world, draw attention to your presence here,’ he said in a soft, almost menacing voice.

  Marina stared dumbly at the floor. It was none too clean.

  ‘Remove your hat and gloves, if you please.’

  Marina looked up with a start and then complied, struggling a little with the strings of her bonnet. She had made the bargain. He would make sure she kept it.

  ‘Now, give me your hand.’ His long fingers enfolded hers in a strong grip. With a single movement, he pulled her from her seat and on to his lap, lowering his mouth to hers.

  Without thinking, Marina tried to push him away.

  He raised his head and looked down into her eyes. His expression was unreadable. ‘Willingly, Miss Beaumont,’ he said softly. ‘That was what was agreed. Have you so soon forgotten?’

  ‘Willingly in your bed, Mr Stratton,’ snapped Marina, ‘not in a dirty, smelly carriage.’

  Kit gave a great shout of laughter. ‘Touché, Miss Beaumont,’ he said, grinning. ‘Perhaps you would like to resume your seat?’

  Without giving Marina a chance to respond, he grasped her round the waist and placed her back on her seat as though she weighed nothing at all. Then, still grinning broadly, he lounged back in his own place once more.

  It was the first time Marina had ever seen genuine humour in his face. For once, his eyes had softened. His whole expression was alive with amusement. He seemed years younger…and devastatingly handsome. If this was the face he showed to his conquests, it was no wonder they all succumbed. Marina, too, could feel the pull of his attraction. She wished—

  She turned away before her resolution failed her and busied herself with replacing her bonnet on her tightly braided hair. Even without her gloves, it seemed that her fingers wanted to tie themselves in knots.

  Kit leaned towards her, smiling mischievously. ‘Shall I help you, ma’am?’ he said, stretching out a hand. ‘I am accounted…adequate in dealing with ladies’ clothing.’

  Appalled, Marina batted his hand away and turned even further from him. He was doing it quite deliberately. He was determined to ensure she was thoroughly unsettled. As if his mere presence was not enough to do that.

  At last her bonnet was tied and her gloves restored to her hands. She clasped them together in her lap and sat round in her seat. She would not let him see how much he affected her. ‘May I ask where we are going, sir?’ she said quietly.

  He nodded approvingly. Confound the man! It was as if he could read her mind and was awarding her marks for self-control.

  ‘I am taking you to my house in Chelsea, ma’am. It is far enough away from the fashionable streets and perfectly suited for the…business we have to conduct. I take it you do not object?’

  ‘I was not aware that I had any choice in the matter,’ Marina replied acidly.

  ‘No, but it does no harm to observe the niceties of polite conversation, do you not think? It serves to make a tedious journey pass the more quickly.’

  He was laughing at her! For just a second, she saw it in his eyes, before his expression became a bland mask, as usual. With difficulty, she suppressed an urge to slap that handsome face into awareness
of her anger. But there was no point. She had tried that tactic before, and failed. Last time, he had—

  Last time, he had kissed her.

  The carriage slowed. Kit lifted the blind a fraction to see where they were. Then he reached into a pocket and produced a lady’s veil. ‘I suggest you drape this over your bonnet, ma’am, just in case. One never knows who might be walking by. I would not wish your reputation to be sullied because you had omitted to wear a hat with a veil.’

  Oh, how dare he? He was blaming her for what was about to happen. More than ever, she wanted to hit him, but she forced herself to drape the veil over her bonnet instead. It covered her face completely. It was unlikely she would be recognised, even by someone who knew her well.

  He was already standing on the flagway, holding up a hand to help her down.

  Marina hesitated. There was something about those lean hands… She was afraid to touch his fingers, afraid of what she would feel if she did.

  ‘Come along, ma’am,’ he said impatiently. ‘Let us be done with this business of ours.’ He looked narrowly at her, as if he could read her thoughts through the veil. ‘Unless you wish to renege on our bargain?’

  Marina rose, gathered her skirts and climbed down unaided, marching towards the door without once looking at Kit Stratton. She lifted the knocker and let it fall back on to the door with a hollow clang.

  In the echo, a voice whispered in her ear, ‘I was persuaded you were no coward.’

  Marina shivered. She could feel his breath against her neck and the warmth of his body at her back. She could not escape. Oh, why did the door not open?

  After what seemed an age, it did. The tiny housekeeper stood there, hostility writ clearly in the lines of her body. Even the black bombazine of her dress seemed to bristle. For several seconds she stood blocking the entrance, staring up at Marina with narrow, searching eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Budge.’ Kit’s voice was cool but authoritative. His housekeeper stood aside to let the visitors enter.

  Kit placed a hand—ever so lightly—in the small of Marina’s back and guided her into the little sitting room where they had met before. Marina told herself to remain calm, to ignore the tingling of her skin and the sparks shooting down into her belly. She would find out all about them, soon enough. Soon, she would be in his bedchamber…in his bed.

  He shut the door firmly on the housekeeper, giving instructions that they were not to be disturbed. Perhaps he wanted to— Oh, surely not here?

  ‘No, Miss Beaumont,’ Kit said laconically, ‘I am not about to ravish you on this hideous Chelsea carpet. I hope you will grant me a little more finesse than that.’

  He was reading her mind again!

  ‘Pray be seated. May I offer you some refreshment?’

  Marina shook her head dumbly. It would choke her.

  Kit sat down opposite her, stretching out his long legs towards the fireplace. He seemed much too large for the tiny room.

  ‘I must admit, ma’am, that I am surprised you have come.’

  She sat up even straighter in her chair, but said nothing.

  ‘You mean to keep your side of the bargain, then?’

  Slowly, she raised the veil from her face and looked haughtily across at him. ‘Of course. I would not break my word,’ she said levelly. ‘Even to you.’

  He sat quite still, watching her. She was white and drawn. In the half-light of the small windows, she was not in the least attractive, apart from those huge, luminous eyes. A victim on the tumbrel could not have looked worse. How had it come to this? He had been so sure that she would break her word. Women always did. But this one had proved him wrong. He ought to let her go. So what on earth was he doing?

  Collecting on a bargain, made and sealed. He had agreed to forgo twelve thousand pounds, and his revenge on Lady Luce, besides. Some recompense must be due for that. And there was something about this woman…

  He sat silent, staring at her and wondering at his own perfidy. Was he truly about to allow an innocent gentlewoman to sell her virtue to him for twelve thousand pounds? In all his twenty-seven years, he had never paid a woman to share his bed. Never.

  He had pursued them, certainly. Over many months, on occasion. Indeed, it had taken nearly a year to pluck his lovely Baroness from the arms of her husband. His friends in Vienna had called her unassailable. They had taunted him. In the end, he had been forced to prove that even she could be made to fall in love with him. Like a ripe plum, she had been ready to drop into a waiting, caressing hand. His hand. But, in truth, she had fully intended to fall…if not with him, then with another. That virtuous demeanour had been a façade, covering a lusty, passionate nature. She suited him; and he her. When she had come to London with her husband, it had suited him to follow. It had been time for him to return. And it suited him to have her here, whenever he wanted her.

  That was not quite true. At present, he did not have his beautiful Baroness.

  He had Miss Beaumont instead.

  She was prepared to surrender herself to him. No doubt she thought she had made a bargain with the devil, but she would keep it, because she had given her word. A most amazing woman. If only she had the looks to match that remarkable character…

  He ought to let her go. Now. But then that old harridan would have won. As she had done five years ago.

  A second defeat was unthinkable. Miss Beaumont must be held to her bargain.

  He should never have offered the bargain in the first place, for Lady Luce would be the gainer, while all the costs would fall on her hapless companion. Only a man sunk in the depths of infamy would take her. Was he that man?

  Miss Beaumont was turning a ring around her finger under her glove. Or rather, she was trying to do so, with precious little success. Was she at all aware of what she was doing?

  Kit rose and began to pace. There was too much furniture in the room. In the end, he gave up and went to stand at the window, looking out into the street. It had begun to rain again.

  ‘Miss Beaumont,’ he said into the heavy silence.

  She started in her seat. The hand with the ring went to her mouth in an unconscious gesture of anxiety.

  Kit came to stand over her. ‘Miss Beaumont, you have kept your side of the bargain. I must admit that I did not expect you to do so. I honour you for your courage.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘I must tell you, ma’am,’ he began again, ‘that I now have no desire to complete our mutual…business. I make it a rule never to mount more than one mistress at a time. Yesterday, as it happens, I was fortunate enough to…’ He let the words tail off, watching her intently. ‘I see that you take my meaning. If you permit, I will now escort you back to the park so that you may return home.’

  ‘I…I do not understand. The debt… We agreed—’

  ‘The debt is paid. You may deliver my letter to Lady Luce tomorrow. On Friday, I shall call and return her vowel, as I promised. The debt shall be cancelled.’

  ‘I—’

  Kit put his hands under her elbows and lifted her gently out of her chair. He could feel that her body was shivering. ‘Do not be afraid, ma’am. I, too, keep my promises. You may be sure of that.’ She looked quite bewildered. Her huge eyes were dark as she stared up at him. There was the beginning of a spot of hot colour on each of her cheeks, marring that beautiful complexion.

  Slowly, he lifted the veil from the top of her bonnet and arranged it over her face once more.

  ‘Come, Miss Beaumont,’ he said softly. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  She said nothing more while they mounted into the carriage and took their places as before. She said nothing throughout the drive back to the park.

  Kit looked at her tense, shrouded figure. What was it about her? He was giving up a debt of twelve thousand pounds. And for what?

  For a woman who was a worthy opponent, a woman who had as much courage as any man.

  He smiled to himself as he watched her. He would make sure her honour was protected. She deserved no less. For Lady
Luce, on the other hand, he had determined that there would be no protection. He would forgive her the debt, to be sure, but the whole world would learn that he had done it. He, Kit Stratton, would be seen to be thoroughly magnanimous. And she, the Dowager Countess Luce, would be publicly beholden to him for twelve thousand pounds of charity. The world would expect her to be exceedingly grateful to Kit Stratton.

  She would be humiliated beyond bearing.

  It was not the revenge he had planned for, but, on reflection, it might prove to be just as sweet.

  Marina was very, very cold. The cracked leather at her back felt like sheet ice, reaching its freezing fingers through to her bare skin. That would account for the shivering that she could not prevent.

  He was taking her back to the park. She had been in his house—at his mercy—and he was returning her, intact. She was not even worth an hour’s distraction from his latest mistress!

  She glanced across at him from under lowered lashes. She had not so far dared to look at him, even through the veil. She was afraid of what he would see in her eyes.

  He seemed to be miles away. His face wore an expression of intense but distant concentration, as if he was solving a particularly knotty, abstract problem. How to checkmate a king, perhaps? Or overcome an attacking queen?

  The rain had stopped. She had not noticed before. In Chelsea, it had been pattering half-heartedly on the roof, suggesting yet another muddy walk back to Lady Luce’s house. Perhaps, now, it would not be quite so bad. She should be able to pick her way through the mud and the puddles.

  A knowing smile started to play around Kit’s mouth. Marina knew at once that he had solved his puzzle, and was now enjoying his anticipated victory. She never, for a single moment, doubted that he would win. He would always win, especially where women were concerned. He was the devil.

  That lean hand moved the blind a fraction, just as before. ‘We shall arrive in a moment or two, Miss Beaumont,’ he said. ‘You will be able to make your own way from here, I hope? You will understand that I dare not take you to your door, lest…’