A Pledge of Passion (The Rules of Engagement) (11 page)

***

Nick had stood helplessly frozen to the floor as Mariah gave him her back and walked out.
Bloody hell
. He couldn't have blundered it any more if he'd tried. As he'd hoped, she hadn't the least interest in Rochford's proposal, but that was small consolation given that her rejection was largely because he'd been the one to present it. How could he possibly hope to win her back if she refused even to see him?

He'd been such a fool ever to imagine he could sacrifice his own selfish desires and let her go.  He'd known the moment he'd laid eyes on her again that he could not give her up, not to Rochford, not to any man.

Nick was leaving Russell House just as Marcus was arriving. "Once more, we are well timed," Marcus declared. "I have just come from the Duke of Richmond's. I heard he has several horses for sale. I'm seeking a good English hunter to take back with me to Modena. The countryside there is ideal for the hunt, but the Italians know nothing of good horse flesh. Have you come to see Mariah?"

"Yes. I have already spoken with her."

"And?" Marcus prompted. "Never mind. Your expression tells me everything. Care for a drink?"

"Yes. I could use one."

After several brandies in Marcus's study, Nick found his distress had only marginally tempered. "She refuses to see me again. What am I to do?"

"Do you recall how obstinate Lydia was when she perceived that I had snubbed her? Good Lord, what she put me through! She had me kneeling at her feet before she would forgive me."

Nick grinned. "I never would have imagined you groveling, but I must say you are a better man for it."

"If I am a better man, it is indeed because of her. I don't know how I ever lived without her."

"I can't imagine myself with anyone but Mariah," Nick said. "I've never felt this way about another woman. I can't bear to give her up without a fight."

"Fortunately for the male half of this world, most of the females of our species are possessed of a compassionate and forgiving nature. As I did with Lydia, you must get her alone with you somewhere private . . . and make it impossible for her to refuse you."

"Impossible how?"

"You must use every weapon in your arsenal." Marcus returned a slow, sly smile. "Did I never relate to you the . . . particulars . . . of how I won Lydia back?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"He who would search for pearls must dive below."-
John Dryden

THEY ARRIVED BY CARRIAGE at the Westminster pier, where the private barge awaited to take them to Richmond House. It was Mariah's first social outing, and she was filled with nervous anticipation. It had also been nearly a week since her fateful meeting with Nicolas. Her stomach knotted at the thought of another encounter with him, but as part of the diplomatic corps that had forged the peace, he was almost certain to be there.

After a week's campaign of flowers she’d discarded and letters she'd refused to open, he was steadily wearing her down. Would he seek her out again? Would she once more snub him if he did? She didn't know if she had the strength to do so.

Her heart was sorely bruised, as was her pride, but her anger had softened. She would not seek him out, but if he asked again, she would at least allow him to explain himself. That was not to say he'd be forgiven, but not knowing what had moved him to write that heart-wrenching letter still tortured her.

It was just past dusk, yet the river teemed with sailing vessels of all shapes and sizes, from fishing boats to the wherries that taxied the working classes and then the elegantly canopied and gilt-adorned luxury barges, such as the one that would convey them to the duke's fete. 

The night breeze grew in strength as they approached the dock, blowing back the hood of her cloak. Mariah breathed it in as she stepped across the planks onto the barge, allowing her olfactory senses to explore the unfamiliar melange of scents—dank and briny riverbank mixed with the hemp and teak wood oil of the barge.

Although Mariah would have preferred to remain in the open air to take in all of the sights and sounds of the Thames by night, she accompanied Lydia and Lady Russell inside the velvet-draped cabin.

Ever solicitous of his pregnant wife, Marcus had ensured that the barge provided every conceivable amenity. The cabin was stocked with hampers of food and bottles of wine, and a Turkish divan provided a place of repose. Though Lydia rarely complained, it was evident by her demeanor that she was growing increasingly uncomfortable by the day. Mariah was both surprised and a bit envious of Marcus's thoughtfulness. Would she ever know such devotion? She had once thought it possible, had dreamt of the day she and Nicolas would have a child, but now her chances of that kind of marriage seemed so bleak.

Marcus didn't immediately join them inside, but stood on deck until well after the oarsmen had launched the vessel.

"Mariah," Lydia said. "Please don't let me forget that there is a package hidden in one of the hampers."

"What kind of package?"

"A gift for Marcus. I didn't know how else to carry it undetected, so I asked the footman to hide it in the hamper. Since tomorrow will be our first anniversary, I thought it appropriate to give him a signed first edition of Henry Fielding's newest novel."

"Mr. Fielding has a new novel?" Lydia remarked excitedly.

"Yes. It's said to be a scandalous story entitled
The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
. It is almost impossible to get one's hands on a copy, but Marcus is such a great admirer of his works that I had to find one. I am planning to surprise him with it at the stroke of midnight." Lydia bit her lip. "With all of the excitement of the party, I fear he may have forgotten our special day."

"I am sure he has not," Lady Russell interjected. "I have rarely seen a husband so devoted to his wife."

Although a short distance, the journey by barge took close to an hour with the river traffic that significantly increased the closer they got to Richmond House.

"It appears we aren't the only ones who thought to travel by water," Marcus remarked at the long line of vessels queued to land at the duke's dock. "If we don't wish to wait here all the night, we will have to moor and approach the house by tender. Are you comfortable with that idea, my dear?" Marcus asked.

"I am a passable swimmer," Lydia replied, "but I daresay I would float exceptionally well were I to fall into the Thames."

"Don't even jest, my love," Marcus chided.

Moments later, he hailed a passing wherry manned by two watermen, one of whom deftly ascended the ladder to assist the passengers. Marcus was first to board the smaller craft, from whence he assisted each woman by turn into the wherry—Lydia, then Lady Russell, and finally Mariah, who was halfway down the ladder when Lydia exclaimed, "Botheration! The hamper!"

"My dear wife," Marcus said, "I daresay the duke will have enough food—even for you."

"That's not funny, Marcus." Lydia swatted his arm. "I left something important on board."

"Then I will retrieve it for you," Marcus offered.

"Pray don't trouble yourself, Lord Marcus. I'll be happy to fetch it," Mariah said.

"Yer hand, milady?" The wherryman on deck offered his own as she reascended the ladder. His collar was turned up against the wind and his tricorn pulled low, casting his face in shadow, but there was no mistaking the golden-brown eyes that stared back at her. The moment she came under the lamplight, she realized she'd been duped.

"You!" She snatched her hand away.

"Aye, me."

Mariah spun back toward the ladder, only to discover the wherry had already pulled away. "I can't believe this!" she cried, aghast at the conspiracy. "Lydia! How could you?"

"She didn't have much choice, I'm afraid," Nick answered. "Marcus wouldn't let her come tonight unless she agreed to give me a chance to speak to you. In turn, I promised her I would take you immediately back to them once you have heard me out."

"Very well," Mariah said stiffly. "Speak your piece and take me back to them."

"Please, Mariah." He stretched out his hand to her. "Don't be like this."

"Like what?" she asked, backing just out of his reach.

"So bitter."

"How do you expect me to react after what you did?" She bit her lip to stop the quiver. "Do you think I am made of stone?"

"No," he replied, reaching out to brush the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "Stone is cold and unmoving. You are all that is warm and wonderful. Please," he glanced at the oarsmen, "let us go where we can speak privately."

His warm and gentle touch sent a familiar frisson to a place low in her belly. She despised her rebellious body that responded so readily to him. He pressed a hand to her lower back. She didn't resist as he gently propelled her toward the privacy of the cabin.

"Why?" she demanded the moment he'd closed the door. "I kept my promise. I eagerly anticipated every letter and marked off each day that passed, thinking it one less that kept us apart."

"As did I," he said. "Yet as the year came closer to an end, I knew that I was no closer to achieving my desire. I was utterly despondent and thoroughly foxed when I wrote that letter to you."

"You were?" Was it true? Had he really written it out of despondency?

"Yes, Mariah. I was wallowing in the pit of despair."

"How do you think I felt upon receiving it?" she asked.

"I didn't think about that. When I wrote you, I saw no way forward. I couldn't conceive of how we could be together. I meant only to free you, not to hurt you."

"But you did!" she cried. "And the worst part was that you gave me no explanation." She averted her gaze and tried to swallow against the choking sensation in her throat. "I could only think that you had fallen in love with another."

"Is that what you really thought?"

"Yes."

"My dearest heart," he murmured while whispering distracting kisses over her face. "Have I not told you that I have never loved anyone but you?"

She pulled back from him with a frown. "How do you expect me to believe that when you did what you did?  If you truly loved me as you claim, why did you insist on going away in the first place? Why did you make me wait?"

"Because I was a completely self-absorbed jackass. I was so obsessed with my own pride that it never even occurred to me what misery you might experience from another man—one who might ruin you with gambling or humiliate you with his philandering. Once that epiphany came upon me, I swore that I would do whatever I must to make you mine."

"If that is so, how could you offer marriage to me on behalf of another? You are making no sense!"

"I am making perfect sense," he replied evenly. "You know that I am in Rochford's employ and thus must do his bidding. I made the offer only because honor obligated me to do so. I believed you would refuse, and that refusal would allow me to pay suit for him to another. Having fulfilled my obligation to him, I would then be free to pay my own suit to you." He shook his head ruefully. "It was a calculated risk that tragically backfired on me."

"What would you have done had I accepted?" she asked.

"I never thought that you would, but had you accepted, I could never have given you up to him. If that means swallowing my damnable pride, so be it.  Listen to me please, Mariah. I love you and only you. My only desire, if you would have me, would be for us to make a real life together."

Fear and doubt refused to let her yield to him. "You have already betrayed my trust once, Nicolas. How can you expect me to believe you would be different from any other man?"

"All I have to offer you is what stands before you—my body, my heart, and my soul. They are yours, my love. I lay them at your feet. And I swear under all that is holy that I will never hurt you again. I will uphold my vows to love and cherish and protect you to my dying breath."

***

Having pled his case, Nick waited several agonizingly silent seconds as hope and hesitation warred in her sea-colored eyes. He forced his gaze from hers to focus on her lips instead, as if by sheer force of will he could draw the answer from her. He longed to kiss her lips, to reacquaint himself with their softness, shape, and texture. Now that they were alone, he was almost desperate to take her into his arms.

"Sweet words are easily spoken," she replied bitterly. "How can I know you really mean what you say?"

"You asked me once in a moonlit garden how you would ever know for certain that a man really cared for you. The answer hasn't changed, Mariah.
This
is how."

He claimed her mouth slowly and thoroughly, as if he was finally taking possession of what was always his to begin with. He'd already poured out his heart with his words, yet she remained unconvinced. Now his body must speak for his soul.

He sensed the precise moment she yielded her will; the drop of her shoulders and the soft sigh that escaped her mouth signaled surrender. The sound alone made him want to drown himself in her. He could not let this night end without showing her the depths of his love.

She kissed him back with equal fervor, slanting her head, nibbling at his mouth, drawing his lower lip between her teeth and sucking on it before offering a soft stroke of her tongue. He took control, cupping her nape and deepening the kiss. Their tongues met and tangled, each new stroke firing the passion they'd reawakened the very moment their mouths had joined. As their tongues danced, desperate desire took possession.

Nick devoured her mouth with lips, teeth, and tongue, she eagerly reciprocated his passion. He cupped a breast, sliding his thumb inside her bodice to tease her nipple as he kissed down her neck to the tops of her milky-white mounds. He was growing desperate to bury his face between them, but her bodice and stays presented a barrier.

She arched into him with a needy sound.

He was painfully aroused and ached to touch and taste and worship her inch by sweet, delectable inch. "I want to touch you, Mariah," he murmured hotly against her lips. "I want to kiss and touch and taste you. Please, will you let me?" 

He knew even as he glanced toward the Turkish divan that where his thoughts led, his body would soon follow. He'd already sacrificed his pride for love. Now he added his honor to the altar of Venus. Before she could answer, he kissed her again, deeply, intensely, and began backing her toward the divan.

"Yes," she whispered and reached to loosen her laces.

He sat, pulling her down beside him. His hands joined her tugging and fumbling, loosening her bodice and stays. He kissed her again as he lay her back on the cushions, licking and nipping the length of her neck before lowering his head to suckle her luscious breasts.

She whimpered, a yearning sound that heated his blood and blurred his mind. He knew she didn't even know what she needed, but he did. Any remaining will to fight his conscience succumbed to his lust.

He continued distracting her with his mouth as he snaked a hand under her skirts, stealing up the length of her silky-smooth legs. Her eyes were closed, but her rosy lips were softly parted as if awaiting another kiss. Her breasts rose and fell in an erratic rhythm with her breathing.

He groaned with the ache to be inside her, engulfed in that sweet, wet, feminine heat. He knew she was more than ready for him. Her arousal was evident in every sound of pleasure that passed through her lips, in the way her body responded to his touch and—God help him—the musky scent of her sex. The first whiff of her natural essence nearly undid him. He was desperate to feel her wet heat, to touch her, taste her. He couldn't bear it any longer.