The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  Confused, her breathing still out of control, every nerve thrumming, Afton sat up and gathered the front of her gown together. She pushed the torn edges of her camisole into the dress as she refastened the buttons. What had she done? Or was the fault McHugh’s?

  Her body pulsed with unquenched passion. She still burned for his touch between her legs, and through the frustration she realized what had gone wrong. McHugh would not, because he could not. How had she forgotten that? How had he?

  She stood on legs still wobbly and weak, straightening her skirts. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she swept her cloak up from the floor. She had left her muff on the highboy dresser—too close to McHugh. She would have to leave it. She was halfway through the door when his voice gave her pause.

  “I’d take ye home,” he said from far across the room, the rough Scottish brogue back. “But I’d likely change m’ mind in the coach and have y’ heels over y’ head then and there. You’re safer alone than w’ me, Afton Lovejoy.”

  Keeping her back to him, she pulled her hood over her head and closed the door. She had not made it to the rear stairs before she heard a loud explicit curse followed by the shattering of glass and the crash of furniture.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rob frowned when the wheels of their coach slipped on the icy cobbles as they rounded a corner. Across from him, his brother gripped the hand strap to prevent a sidelong tumble to the opposite door.

  “Fortunate the streets are nearly empty,” Douglas observed.

  Rob looked out the window without answering. Christmas. It was supposed to be a day of rejoicing, but he hadn’t wanted to go out at all today. He’d rather have stayed alone in his room getting quietly, morosely drunk. Or better yet, finding some fresh-faced prostitute to take the edge off his irritation. That was the only way he knew to forget the tantalizing lure of what could never be.

  He’d been better off in the Dey’s dungeon. Then he’d only been haunted by his own guilt at what his indifference had cost, and by his fury at the forces that had directed Maeve down that path. McHugh the Destroyer—aye, that was him, and that was bad enough. Now he was haunted by the knowledge of what could never be, and the pain of knowing he could never love Afton without destroying her, too. He’d tasted her passion, lost himself in her guileless responses, daring to believe, for just a moment, that he could make love to her without loving her. He hadn’t known it was already too late.

  “With my very life,” she’d said, responding to his plea for trust. That had stopped him. Maeve had put herself in his hands and had forfeited her life. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that to Afton. Nor could he risk alienating her with his excessive passions and sensual needs. Or risk having her turn away from him in disappointment and revulsion. Or watch her love turn to loathing. That would be more than he could stomach. Ah, for the dulling, numbing nectar of forgetfulness!

  He shifted his weight on the leather squabs to ease the hard aching in his groin. The edge he’d balanced on for months had just narrowed to a thread.

  Well, he could never go back and unmake that mistake. Never unlove her. Never unsmell the lily scent of her hair, untaste the sweetness of her lips, untouch the slick heat of her sex…

  And now he found himself speeding toward a destination where he knew she would be. She would not be pleased to see him. She would expect him to have the decency to send his regrets and not stand in her parlor as a reminder of her lapse in judgment. But no, he was completely shameless. Even if it were not for Douglas, he doubted he’d have the strength to stay away from Afton’s siren call. He’d never be able to make it right again, or undo the damage, but he’d have to find a way to make amends. The sooner the better. Tonight.

  “You’re in a surly mood, Rob,” Douglas observed, interrupting his thoughts. “D’ye think you can leave it behind for the party?”

  “I’d not have inflicted my mood on anyone today had you not insisted we attend Mrs. Forbush’s gathering,” he lied.

  “I didn’t fancy moping about my rooms,” Douglas admitted. “Besides, it was your invitation. You are my entrée. You had to come.”

  “And why, Doogie, did you have to come?”

  Douglas gave the crooked smile that made the ladies swoon. “She’s the fairest in the land, Rob. Her eyes shame a summer sky. Her hair is threaded with liquid gold. When she laughs, the angels sing.”

  “When we call her, we call her…what, Doogie?”

  “Dianthe Lovejoy. Even her name is pure poetry.”

  Rob closed his eyes and muttered a prayer for forbearance. Was he doomed to having a Lovejoy everywhere? There was no use reminding Douglas that he’d said almost the same words about Bebe Barlow barely two weeks past. His brother would only swear this was different—this was real. Well, why not? Wasn’t that always the way with Douglas? Quicksilver emotions, quick to fall in love and quick to heal.

  “Don’t go rolling your eyes at me, Robbie McHugh. We lesser mortals make mistakes. Only godlike creatures such as yourself are blessed with restraint and eternal love.”

  “Eternal love? Is that what you think Maeve and I had?” he asked. “You think I am mourning her? That no others can compare to her?”

  “Is that not the way of it?”

  No, not mourning. The word acquit came to Rob’s mind. Was he trying to acquit himself of her death, or find a reason, other than her disgust and fear of him, for her to abandon her home and position? But that was between himself and Maeve. “Have it your way, Doogie.”

  His brother looked as if he would question him, but the coach drew up in front of the Forbush mansion. It was time for Rob to reckon with his sins.

  Afton knew she’d go mad if she dwelled on the events in McHugh’s room. She had been keyed up and on edge since her return home last night, a sense of heightened anticipation keeping her on the edge of an imaginary precipice, unable to think of anything but what McHugh had done to her. And of her shockingly wanton response. Who was she? What was she? She scarcely knew herself since McHugh had come to town.

  She took a deep breath, smoothed the lilac-sprigged ivory satin of her gown and tightened the lilac ribbon that fastened her hair on top of her head. It was time to join the party. Sir Martin was wending his way through the guests toward her, and she intended to flirt shamelessly. Anything to forget McHugh and put last night behind her. But Afton hadn’t been able to help herself. A depth of emotion she hadn’t known she possessed had overwhelmed her, and she hadn’t been able to get enough of him.

  Heat swept up from her toes to her face at the thought of McHugh’s kisses, his touch, and her breasts tingled with the memory of the intimacy of his mouth against her flesh. She had to stop and steady herself. Lord! How could she have allowed him to believe she had come to be seduced? But was that not better than the truth—that she had come to expose him as a murderer?

  Alas, the truth was also that, no matter how it had started, they had both wanted it. She’d been ready to throw caution, her reputation, Dianthe’s future and the family name to the wind—all to find what lay at the end of that questing. Well, she hadn’t found out, and she still felt as if she might jump out of her skin at the tiniest provocation.

  From the confident smile on Sir Martin’s face as he came forward, he must have thought her blush was for him. “About time, Miss Lovejoy! The party hasn’t truly started for want of you.” He offered his arm and a cup of hot mulled wine redolent with cloves and cinnamon.

  She accepted his arm and the cup. She hadn’t eaten yet today, and the wine hit the bottom of her stomach and spread a warm sensation through her. The party truly was underway.

  Dianthe rounded the corner from the parlor and stopped, smiling at her. “There you are, Binky. I have been looking all over for you. You’ve missed the games, but we are going wassailing after supper. Say you’ll come.”

  Perhaps the cold air would douse the heat in her limbs. She nodded. The ringing of the doorbell brought her around with a feeling of expectancy. She had hoped she w
as safe, but only one guest had yet to arrive. It had to be McHugh. She looked around for Mr. Dewberry, Grace’s butler, but he was occupied in overseeing the buffet. Grace was in the parlor, urging the guests toward the dining room.

  Afton went forward reluctantly and opened the door. “My lord,” she said with due deference and a formal curtsy.

  He stepped into the foyer, stomping snow from his boots, followed by a younger man with the darkly handsome McHugh looks. Rob studied her, and she knew that had they been alone, he would have made some reference to the night before. An apology? A taunt?

  “The McHughs!” Sir Martin said in greeting. “By George, now we shall have a full chorus for wassailing!”

  “Af—Miss Lovejoy. Have you met my brother, Douglas?”

  Ah. So this was the youth whose life Madame Zoe had ruined. He looked so open and vulnerable that Afton’s heart twisted. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. McHugh,” she managed to reply. She turned for help. “Have you met my sister, Dianthe? And…and Sir Martin.”

  Seymour laughed, stepping forward to ruffle Douglas’s hair. “Met? I changed the lad’s nappies.”

  Douglas grinned and swatted at Sir Martin’s hand. “You never! I had a nurse for that.”

  “Aye. Well, I remember you in nappies,” he insisted. He took Afton’s arm and turned her toward the parlor, leaving the others to trail behind. “You’re just in time for supper,” he told the late arrivals.

  “Smells wonderful,” Douglas declared. “You cannot imagine how dreary it is to eat hotel food day after day.”

  “Oh.” Dianthe fluttered her eyelashes. “You poor things. You must come more often.”

  Afton felt a deep groan building in her center and hoped she had not uttered it aloud. She would have to have a word with her sister.

  The McHughs excused themselves to offer their regards to Grace, who was circulating among the guests. She moved with such elegance and poise that she did not give the impression of being a harried hostess. Lord Ronald Barrington acted as her host, offering the male guests the refinements of brandy and quiet conversation centered on business and politics after dining.

  Two agonizing hours later, the buffet was cleared in favor of fruits and desserts. The snowfall had increased and there was muttering that the weather was too foul for wassailing. Instead a cry went up for more games.

  In the parlor, Afton waved a cup of tea away in favor of more mulled wine, feeling more and more unsettled with every passing minute. She could detect the weight of McHugh’s long glances, and feared he would give her away.

  She tensed when he came to stand beside her, lowering his voice to be discreet. “Miss Lovejoy, I owe you an apology. I should not have taken such liberties last night.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she snapped, and then felt churlish with the knowledge that no one had dragged her to his room. She’d gone uninvited. Late at night. Alone.

  “And you should not have come to my room.”

  She studied the toes of her ivory slippers. “Yes. That was a mistake.”

  “Shall we agree to forget the whole incident?”

  Forget? How could she ever forget the unendurable intimacy of his mouth? How could she disregard his sure and steady touch, the strength of his embrace and the masterful stroke of his hand? “What incident?” she retorted, the wine making her contrary.

  McHugh’s laugh was cut short when Grace clapped her hands to claim the attention of her guests, and announced a game of hide-and-seek.

  “Choose your partners,” she said. “Quickly now. The count has begun.”

  Sir Martin took a few steps toward Afton, but Grace intercepted him with a quick request to partner a dowager whose family had gone to the Continent for the holidays. He shrugged and gave in with good humor.

  Having seen the byplay between them, McHugh commented, “So. You and Martin, eh?”

  On the verge of denying it, Afton stopped herself. It would be best if McHugh believed her attentions and affections were otherwise engaged. She offered her own shrug.

  “Well, fate has paired you with me.” He seized her hand and pulled her out of the parlor into the long hallway. “You have the advantage, Miss Lovejoy, since you know every nook and cranny. Where is the closest hiding place?”

  They were passing a storage closet hidden beneath the main staircase, and Afton gave the paneling a little push. The spring latch released and the door popped open. Before she could think better of it, she stepped inside and drew McHugh after her. “Hurry! The count is almost done.” He resisted, but she tugged harder.

  She pulled the door closed by the little strip of leather fixed to the edge. A narrow band of light rimmed the door, affording just enough illumination for her to make out McHugh’s form facing her. The warm wine and the odd yearning that had not eased since last night made her bold, and she pulled him to her by his cravat and fitted her mouth to his.

  He resisted for only a second. Before she could regret her impulse, his arm tightened around her and his tongue slipped past her lips, eliciting a soft moan. The darkness heightened her senses, making her more aware of the size of his hands as they splayed out on her back, of the masculine smell of his cologne and the steady thump of his heartbeat in the stillness.

  He had ducked to clear the doorway of the closet, and now he straightened, knocking his head against the ceiling and nearly tripping over a trunk pushed into a corner.

  “Bloody hell!” His soft curse sounded slightly panicked.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “They’ll hear you.”

  “What is this place?”

  “Aunt Grace’s storage closet. Trunks and old hat boxes. That sort of thing.”

  “How…how do I get out?”

  “There’s a strap halfway down. Push to trip the spring, then pull the door open by the strap. Are you giving up?”

  “Giving…up?”

  What was wrong with him? “Yes. Quitting the game?”

  He stiffened as footsteps passed outside the closet door, then he stepped closer, almost toppling her. He pulled her against him with a breathless thud. “I—no.”

  “Then be quiet.”

  She could feel his muscles twitching beneath the smooth fabric of his jacket. “Keep me quiet, Afton,” he challenged, almost desperately. Without waiting for a reply, he bent his head and kissed her again.

  She pushed against his chest, whispering angrily, “You cad! How can you make free with me after last night?”

  “Aye, I’m a cad. And a beast, and a rutting bull. Ye’re not the first to tell me so. But I thought ye were free, lass,” he muttered against her throat. “Then what’s the price?”

  “More than you have, McHugh. More than any man has. Now release me!”

  “No, Afton. I’ll not let ye go. Ye’d best hold on tight.”

  “Are you mad?” she asked in outrage.

  “Mad? Aye. I canna stomach the dark, the confinement. But you, now—you make it tolerable.”

  Sir Martin’s words echoed in her brain. Being confined to a small box for days on end is bound to have some sort of effect on a fellow. He might be…well, unhinged. Somehow, the physical scars she had seen last night were less upsetting than this betrayal of dread and horror.

  But she did not fear him. She was only afraid he would seduce her here, in the closet, with Aunt Grace’s party in full progress outside. Lord! If this was unhinged…

  “McHugh,” she murmured against his lips. “We cannot—”

  “Aye. We can.” His kisses trailed from the corner of her mouth to the hollow of her throat, and she nearly swooned. “We should,” he said, his voice a deep vibration in her chest. “It’s our obligation.” His heated breath left her flesh scorched in its path.

  She was past dissembling. Some primal part of her wanted to find, at last, the end of what he’d started last night. “Do it then,” she invited.

  He made a rumbling sound deep in his throat as he bent to the task, sweeping the ivory silk up her legs. His hand sought that softn
ess at her center and she went limp in his arms, clinging to his shoulders so she wouldn’t collapse in a boneless puddle.

  He moved her, adjusting her position to fit her against him. A firm pressure pushed against her core and she knew she was close—so close—to that elusive destination. Close enough to want to scream. The darkness of the closet made his touch all the more intimate, and she was damp and ready for whatever came next, and fearful it would never come. “Hurry,” she urged.

  The spring clicked and the closet door popped open, admitting a band of light. Afton gasped, knowing what she and McHugh must look like. McHugh spun toward the light and glared at Sir Martin.

  Disbelief followed by hurt and embarrassment registered on the man’s face before he said, “Nothing in here, Lady Norcroft,” and shut the door again.

  Now accustomed to the dim light, Afton glanced into McHugh’s eyes. The world receded and she felt herself floating among the stars, moons and suns of a vast universe. Then his eyes grew dark and intense, and she recoiled from the bottomless depths of the glacial green, falling back to earth with the harshness of a physical blow. Shaken, she pushed him away.

  A commotion from the vicinity of the front door gave her the diversion she needed to regain her composure. “We…we should—”

  He nodded. “You or me?”

  “You,” she said. “I shall need a moment.”

  He nodded again, looking truly frantic to escape the tiny room. He opened the door quietly and slipped out, leaving Afton to compose herself and put her gown to rights. That was the easy part. The more difficult task was wondering how she could explain her behavior to Sir Martin.

  As she slipped into the corridor, she heard excited laughter and questions from the foyer. She found half the guests gathered around a beaming man with sandy hair, an angular face and hard jaw.