Authors: The Cad
He placed her hand on his arm and she walked by his side. Her head came to his shoulder and he had to tilt his own head in order to speak with her, and she loved the unusual feeling of protection and security that gave her. When she looked up at him she had a hard time looking away again. It was fortunate for her composure that he kept pointing out things for her to see, because that way she didn’t see that he seldom took his eyes off her.
They saw the milkmaids and their cows, the sheep in the meadow, and all sorts of dogs on their romps. He bought her a bunch of violets from a ragged little girl standing by a gate, and then another when the little girl was so overjoyed by that. They talked about nothing and laughed over everything. There weren’t many young adults in the park because it was an ordinary weekday and high afternoon, when common young men and women were working, and ladies and gentlemen were shopping, having tea, or visiting friends or clubs.
Bridget had a marvelous time even though there wasn’t a fashionable person in sight. E
specially
since there wasn’t a fashionable person in sight, because she knew she must look bedraggled in her old dress, with no bonnet, and her hair mussed by the breeze and his hands.
When no one was near, he stopped, drew her behind a tree, pulled her even closer, and kissed her witless. She’d been kissed a few times in her life, mostly against
her will. Nothing had ever felt like this. He took her in his arms, bent his head, and curved his body against hers, pouring himself into his kiss, concentrating on her utterly. She felt the heat of his mouth, the expertly teasing touch of his tongue. It was even more astonishing, disturbing, and wonderful than when they’d kissed in the carriage, because now she could feel the urgency of him pressed against her entire body.
Extraordinary, frightening, delicious. He made her forget to worry about being seen, and chuckled at her confusion when she emerged from his embrace. She was flustered, but also pleased to note that his chuckle was strained.
But then she remembered something. Her eyes searched his. “Ewen. One thing. Your first offer, that I become your mistress, was that only in the nature of a test, then?”
He seemed surprised by her question and tilted his head as he considered it. “Testing you? Or testing myself? What is courtship but a testing process? Whatever it was, I have no more time for games.” He cupped her face in his two hands and kissed her lightly. He gazed down into her face and said, “Tomorrow.”
Then it was time to head home.
“Tomorrow,” he said again as he stood with her on her aunt’s front step. He paused. He reached into his vest pocket, withdrew a small silver case, and took a card from it. “It occurs to me that you don’t know where I live. A small thing, but maybe large in your mind. Here is my card. If you need me, send word to me.”
She took the card without looking at it, frowning. “You wouldn’t have given Cecily your card,” she said, her face and voice troubled.
“I wouldn’t have asked Cecily to marry me, either. Nor do I doubt her mama has my direction—as well as my assets, properties, and funds, all neatly and completely listed by now.”
She grinned in spite of herself. “Tomorrow,” she said, nodding. She watched him drive out of sight. She still didn’t believe what had happened. She still didn’t want to doubt it. She buried her nose in the violets he’d bought her, breathing in their sweet, elusive fragrance. They were warm and fragrant and velvety against her nose. She gave a long shuddery sigh at the feelings of yearning they aroused in her. But she’d felt so much today…. E
nough of feelings, my girl
, she told herself,
now you’ve a lot of thinking to do
. She went into the house, bemused and bewildered, wishing she had someone she trusted to talk to now.
Instead, she had Aunt Harriet and Cousin Cecily. They were waiting in the salon. It was as if they hadn’t moved since she’d left. But the sun had been pouring in then. Now, Bridget realized, there were only the lengthening gray shadows of twilight.
“W
here
,” her aunt asked with awful haughtiness, making the word sound as if it had three syllables, “have you been?”
“With the Viscount, but you know that,” Bridget said, taken aback.
“Why is your hair like that?” Cecily demanded, but she was looking at Bridget’s lips.
“I was riding in his rig, and the wind took my bonnet away.” Bridget said, trying for an innocent explanation and ruining it by blushing.
“It’s been hours,” Aunt Harriet said in outrage. “No decent woman would stay out until dark!”
Bridget was about to mention it was only twilight but had no chance.
“And no man with decent intentions would keep you out so long!” Cecily snarled.
“Well, as to that—his intentions couldn’t be more decent,” Bridget flared. “He’s asked me to marry him!”
Cecily and her mother fell still. It was so quiet Bridget could hear her own pulse pounding. They just stared at her. But not for long.
“Mama,” Cecily screeched, “it’s not fair! Look what she’s done!”
“Be quiet,” Aunt Harriet commanded her now wildly weeping daughter, “or I’ll send you to your room! I’m only letting you stay so you can learn from this. If you can’t control yourself, leave!”
Cecily fell sulkily still, glowering at Bridget. Aunt Harriet closed the door to the salon and then turned her attention to her niece. “I was afraid of this,” she said, as though to herself.
“He asked me to marry him,” Bridget said, holding her head high. “I can’t help that, nor will I apologize for it.”
Her aunt dismissed what she said with a withering look. “Don’t be a fool. He’s silver-tongued, but you’re not stupid. He couldn’t have asked you to marry him. It’s too soon, for one thing. For another, look at yourself. You’re no longer young, you haven’t a penny to bless yourself with, and you have a disfiguring scar on your face. He is one of the wealthiest men in England, titled, disastrously attractive, and an acknowledged rake.”
“He wants my answer tomorrow,” Bridget said bravely, but in a small corner of her mind she was already beginning to doubt what he’d said. More precisely, since she
doubted herself much more than him, she was wondering if she’d heard him right.
“If his proposal was honest, don’t you think he’d have come to your uncle first, or, failing that, to me?” Aunt Harriet frowned and her voice grew a little softer as she gazed at her niece. “Life hasn’t been fair to you. But life isn’t kind. We marry where we may and hope for the best bargain our family can make for us. Some do very well,” she said, and added bitterly, “and some have to do the best with what they’re given. But we marry through our families, Bridget. You have none to watch over you, except for us.”
“My mama,” Bridget said, and grew quiet when she saw the look on her aunt’s face. They both knew that if her mother could have offered her better, Bridget wouldn’t have been a drudge all these years.
Aunt Harriet nodded, as though the thing had been discussed. “We can’t do more than offer you a roof over your head, since you’ve nothing to offer in marriage except yourself. And that is little, and imperfect to boot. I’m not being cruel, merely honest. Which he was not.”
“He said he came to London for a bride and must marry instantly.”
“Instantly?”
“He said his father was gravely ill and—”
“And a load of other utter nonsense, I don’t doubt! Which you believed because you wanted to. Come, Bridget, think!”
“I have, I am,” Bridget cried. “I do believe him. Why should he lie to me?”
“So you will lie
with
him,” her aunt said bluntly. “You came perilously close, I think. But you’re unaccustomed to any flattery—certainly to the wiles of such a man. I
could cast you from this house for almost ruining Cecily’s reputation, because what people would say if they knew her companion had spent such an afternoon, I shudder to think! But I understand your inexperience with such attentions, so I’ll do my duty by you. Just give me your word you’ll never see him again.”
“I can’t do that!” Bridget protested. “I promised to give him an answer.” She didn’t know what that answer would be, because now she even doubted his question. But she knew she had to see him again.
“I forbid you to see him. Bridget.”
“He’s coming tomorrow.”
“If he does, he will see me, not you. You’ll stay in your room.”
“Aunt,” Bridget said, trembling with outrage and the effort of containing it, “I’m five and twenty! I can’t be sent to my room like a child.”
“If you can’t, you can’t stay here with us any longer. In fact,” her aunt said, “I think that’s the solution. I’ll write to my sister-in-law in Devon immediately. She has an elderly mother and lives in the countryside. I suppose the gaiety, the excitement of London and Cecily’s life, turned your head. You made a fool of yourself by forgetting you are not like her. Clearly you can’t be a companion to a young person. In time you may be suitable for such pleasant duties. A long stay in the countryside will calm you. Perhaps in years to come you’ll suit some young lady very well.”
“Yes. Perhaps you can come companion
my
daughter when it’s her turn to be presented to society.” Cecily said sweetly.
“Don’t you dare gloat!” Aunt Harriet ordered Cecily. “So there it is,” she went on as both her daughter and
her niece looked at her, amazed. “Go to bed now. I’ll take care of the Viscount, you’ll be off to the countryside, and all of this will be but a memory before long.”
“No,” Bridget said quietly. Her aunt and cousin stared. But she knew what she had to say. “I know you mean the best for me, Aunt.” A
nd she does
, Bridget thought in wonder. Her aunt had been kinder to her in the last moments than she’d been since she’d met her. “But you didn’t hear him and you don’t know him. I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I must see him tomorrow.”
“He has nothing to offer you but dishonor!”
“He has offered me marriage,” Bridget said, clinging to that one thought desperately.
“That will turn out to be false, or falsely postponed, or impossible in one way or another,” her aunt said. “Let it be. Forget it now while it only hurts, before it destroys you. What is there for a woman with no family and no honor? Nothing. Enjoyment for a brief while, perhaps. But when he tires of you he’ll pass you on to a friend, and then there’ll be nothing but other such men, and then, if you haven’t been clever enough to save money, the streets.”
Bridget laughed, relieved. Her aunt was the one who had read too many novels! She was talking like a street-corner savior, ranting about morality. It gave Bridget some perspective. “Oh, Aunt, no! Rogue he may be, but never so desperate as that! He’s a gentleman, after all. I’ll talk to him, he’ll reassure you—you’ll see.”
“I will not, nor will you,” Aunt Harriet said stonily. “You know nothing of gentlemen. You can’t run wild, Bridget. This is my house, and it will be as I say. If you refuse me in this, you may as well leave my house
and
my protection.”
“You really mean that?” Bridget asked, astonished.
“I do. Think about it, Bridget, think long and well. Rules are disobeyed at one’s peril. I care for your welfare. He cares for…” She paused, openly inspecting Bridget—her rumpled dress, tumbled hair, swollen lips. Bridget flushed under her slow appraisal. “He,” Aunt Harriet went on, “cares only for his pleasure. Give me your word now and this will be forgotten. Refuse me in this and I’m through with you—I and the rest of the family, I assure you. And so? I’m waiting for your answer.”
Cecily was staring at her avidly. Bridget tried to think, but she was wild with hurt and anger. This went beyond pride and longing. This had to do with trust and love, fear and folly. It was her whole future she was considering now. Aunt was right about one thing: It was hard to believe what he’d said was real. It was even hard for her to believe her time with him had been real. It had been too wonderful. Her head and her heart hurt. She was not brave.
“Well?” her aunt demanded.
E
wen sat back and stretched out his long legs, resting for the first time that day. He was content for the time being. There was nothing more to do now. He was at his favorite club, deep in his favorite chair; the evening was soft and gray outside the great bow window overlooking St. James Street. He could barely see the lamplighter making his rounds, making the new gas lights wink on one by one. Ewen closed his eyes. He had brighter things on his mind,
He’d ordered his dinner and had nothing to do now but wait for it—and everything else he wanted. He had nothing to do, and could do nothing, either, he thought with the first spurt of annoyance he’d felt all day. He was a man who was sometimes a spy; he’d grown used to laying traps, setting snares. The planning and the execution of the plan, however dangerous, were always
exhilarating. The waiting was the worst part. He’d done it before and it never got easier.
Would she or wouldn’t she? Could he have made it any easier for her? For him? Should he have been more ardent or less so? But how could he have been less so? She made it impossible. He thought of Bridget, that almost perfect face, made more fascinating by its blemish, and those magnificent eyes she had. They showed the striving spirit that animated that lovely face—and form. Oh, that exquisite little body. He remembered it and her passion very well, too well for his complete comfort now. He couldn’t forget that slender, curving shape pressed against him, those firm breasts dimpling against his chest, the tentative way she’d taken his kiss, how eagerly she’d accepted and then learned from his mouth. The very scent of her—
“She must be something extraordinary,” an amused voice commented.
Ewen’s eyes snapped open. The wing chair opposite him was now occupied by a tall, gaunt gentleman with a harsh face and flaming red hair clipped in a fashionable Brutus crop. Ewen said nothing. Instead he cocked an eyebrow at the new arrival.
“The look on your face,” the redhead explained. “The word
voluptuous
doesn’t do it justice. Even with your eyes closed it would’ve got you slapped—or arrested—if there was a female nearby.”
“I’m hungry and waiting for my dinner,” Ewen said simply.
“Ha! I know that look. I’ll bet the main course you were thinking of is much tastier and a lot more tender. Spicier, too. Who is she? Not the buxom little dancer
you’ve been seeing; I hear you just gave her a healthy severance check, but no one knows why. Wait—you were on the prowl at that ball the other night. But it couldn’t be the blonde you danced with; you were smiling, but your eyes were glazing over. Whose wouldn’t? The Brixton chit’s adorable, but I’ve met smarter geese. And less avaricious lawyers.”
“Yes,” Ewen said, “too true. But as for the woman in my thoughts, it doesn’t matter who she is. She’s only a daydream to fantasize about, for now. I wouldn’t tell you who she is, anyway. I don’t know why, but otherwise sensible females get the urge to warm themselves at your red hair, Rafe, and what I do not need is competition from you.”
Rafe snorted. “As if you worried about that! Damme if I know why, but women bet on the black—like your hair and your soul—instead of the red when we’re together.”
“Liar. How goes it with you?” Ewen asked lazily.
“As it goes with you,” his friend said, shifting in his seat restlessly, “We helped get the cursed little emperor out of France, into exile, and on his new throne at Elba, but I swear if I’d known how dull it would make my life, I’d have given him a rifle, a fast horse, and wished him Godspeed.”
“Yes, which is why you almost lost your life getting him on that new throne. How’s the arm?”
“Still attached,” Rafe said with a scowl, “though sometimes I wish it weren’t. So. What’s there to do tonight, then? You may be content to just sit and dream, but I’m not.”
“I’m not content to just dream, either. What have you got in mind?”
“New things, untried things, for us bored old rogues
to do. There’s a new farce at the Haymarket, there’s a new opera, too, and Freddy Winthrop swears that Madame Gold’s got herself a parcel of new stunners in her house. And aside from White’s and Brook’s and the usual gambling spots, I hear there’s a new hell where Hazard may actually be played honestly.”
“Life’s a farce for me these days, Rafe. I have no ear for screeching. I don’t patronize houses of pleasure, even if they have the Venus de Milo and her twin sister in residence; I thought you knew that. Because however charming the merchandise may be, I don’t like to be next in line—at least, not so obviously. But as for high-stakes gambling…well,” Ewen said, a slow, sensuous smile curving his lips, “I’m doing that right now. It’s what I was thinking about. That, and other new things to do, too, should I win.”
“You always win,” his friend complained. “Everyone thinks you’re so lucky at love, you should lose at cards, but you don’t.”
“Lucky in what passes for love with us,” Ewen said softly, “but as for
love
—how should I know?”
“Oh, philosophy, is it? Then I’m off to find more congenial company.”
“My lord?” a footman said, bowing to Ewen. “Your dinner is ready to be served.”
“Care to join me?” Ewen asked his friend. “The philosophy usually disappears along with the roast beef.”
“Why not? It’s time to eat. Maybe I can talk you into doing something else after.”
“We’re not joined at the hip, like a pair of babies in a bottle at a country fair,” Ewen said mildly.
“If you’re going to cut up sharp, be damned to you!” Rafe snapped, jumping to his feet.
“Softly, softly,” Ewen said, rising and putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Why do you redheaded fellows take that myth about your terrible temper so seriously? Or is it that it’s true?”
“No calmer fellow on earth than me,” Rafe said grouchily. “It’s you who’s the firebrand.”
“I apologize. Forget it, whatever it was, will you? We’ve worked together too many years for our friendship to fall apart now. Peacetime is hard on both of us. Join me. I need someone to talk to who knows what secrecy, stealth, and danger are all about.”
“Ah, She’s married,” Rafe said.
“No,” Ewen said, and laughed. “And I’m not ready to talk about her, remember? So forget that, too. I’d rather talk about the old days, since the new ones are so damnably dull.”
“Aren’t they? Yes, I’ll share a bird and a bottle or three with you. Ewen, damme if I won’t! We’ll share some laughter, too, talking about the bad old days.”
Their dinner was served with many courses and many wines. They talked about the old days in the past decade, when they both had traveled the Continent making public reputations as pleasure lovers and careless rakes. And private ones for boldness and valor, as they also made themselves busy evading foreign agents, freeing English ones, and ferreting out secrets to send home. But as the evening wore on, they laughed less and less, remembering those men who hadn’t been able to come back to England, as they had.
“Enough! We’re going to be bawling in a minute if we don’t stop,” Rafe finally said in exasperation. “They don’t need our tears any more than they can use them now. They knew what they were getting into, as we did.
Which is more than we do now. Damme, Ewen, a fellow knew what he had to do then! He had a purpose for getting up in the morning, and no guilt about whom he went to bed with at night. It was all so clear then—them or us, and squeeze as much pleasure as you can in between. Now, what? Raise turnips on our estates? Sit in the House of Lords and squabble with each other all day? What if we don’t want to farm
or
bicker? What are we supposed to do now?”
“Have lives, I expect,” Ewen said, “a thing we didn’t care about before because we knew we could lose them at any time. It’s what most men do, you know. Make a choice and get on with it. Raise a family or raise Cain. Seek pleasure or permanence. Or go to some other country and get involved in their war, if peace is too boring for you.”
“Ha!” his friend said mirthlessly. “No more war, thank you. At least I know that’s one thing I had enough of. And you? What are you going to do now?”
“What do you think?” Ewen asked, raising one dark brow.
“That’s easily answered, as I’ve seen you doing it: pursue pleasure, of course, as usual. Don’t know why I even asked,” he said moodily. “Don’t know if it’s right for me, though. Don’t know what is. Ewen, you’re a fine fellow and a good companion, but the truth is your company’s driving me to drink tonight. And I’ve got no room for another glass. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to someplace you don’t want to go. You’ve got some rig running, and I don’t.
“Unlike you, I don’t expect much, so I’m happy with what I get,” Rafe said as he got to his feet. “I can sleep through anything onstage, so if it’s a bad farce, who
cares? I don’t mind gambling, because I expect to lose. As for females, I don’t mind being one in a line of men, if I don’t actually see them standing there. I have
some
discretion and a
bit
of taste, you know. But still, whom am I deceiving? Whether she’s a lady or a whore, I know I’m never the first and won’t be the last.”
“Thank you, that’s cheered me considerably,” Ewen said.
Rafe chuckled. “Oh, you’re cheery enough underneath,” he said wisely. “I worked with you long enough to know that. You can’t hide from me. Your face might be bland as butter, but you’re all anticipation—you’re practically licking your lips. You’ve got eyes like crystals, Ewen. You can make them flat and hard, but I can see them glittering. It’s the only thing that gives you away, and you’re lucky the Frogs never twigged to it. You’ve got some prize in mind that makes everything else seem dull by comparison. But me? I’ll take whatever I can use to get through this night. I bid you a good evening, Ewen. And good luck.”
B
ut will luck be enough
? Ewen wondered as he strolled home from his club, alone. He hadn’t had much time. She had to act on what she knew now. It was just as well. As things stood, he wouldn’t have been able to let her know more, even if they’d had three months instead of three meetings for her to judge him by. Three months? Impossible to even imagine. For one thing, he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off her for another three minutes. For another, her aunt and cousin wouldn’t have let him woo her that long anyway. It needed to be done as it had been done, quickly and in secrecy.
He was obsessed with her now, a strange thing for
him. He wasn’t sure just what it was about her. and that was new for him, too. He was usually very certain of why he wanted a woman. This went beyond that delightful body, though. Did he pity her, as she had said? Certainly the surge of pure lust he felt every time he thought of her wasn’t pity; the way he felt in her company didn’t resemble pity; the way his body reacted when she was in his arms wasn’t remotely like pity—unless it was pity for himself, because the thought of being without her bothered him very much.
The scar? It was nothing but a lure to him. Her lack of a dowry? Why should that concern him? Her obvious loneliness? Ah,
that
he pitied. But these days he pitied it in himself just as much.
No. No use wondering about it. He might regret what he’d done in some ways, but he was used to that. He could not regret his choice. She needed him. She was lovely. She liked him, in spite of herself. She had a sense of humor and a quick tongue—and a delicious one, he thought, a smile springing to his lips.
It was easier to think about pleasures than puzzles tonight. She had
such
lovely breasts, he mused as he strolled the fashionable streets toward his townhouse. How he’d like to see them. Her skin was so white and smooth, they could be no less. He’d felt them taut and tilted against his chest, felt them rise to him and wondered how they’d feel in his palms, but he’d dared not go so far. She was skittish with him, with good reason. But that would pass, he knew it from her body’s response.
He became aware of a hard arousal, his own body responding to his thoughts. He frowned, surprised and annoyed. He was too old for such nonsense. A man
learned to control such things as soon as he was out of the nursery, or at least a gentleman certainly did—especially in today’s fashions, he thought wryly. Skintight pantaloons and form-fitting trousers ensured that a man had to learn to master outward manifestations of his desires. Which forced them inward, where they burned. Yes, he thought, he’d told her the truth in that; he did bum for her.
He’d given her a day. He wondered how he would get through the night.
He took out a book, but the words made no sense. He tried to write a letter, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. He glanced at the clock on the mantel again, but it was moving slowly tonight, as though it didn’t believe in tomorrow.
Well, but it was time for bed, Ewen thought. Not that he knew what time that was anymore. London had no time for sleep. No matter what hour it was now, he could have been at a ball, a gambling hell, a party of friends, or any number of amusements until dawn. He could have shared his bed with any number of women, too. But he wanted only one now. He wouldn’t know her decision until daylight, and he refused to spend the night with less than what he wanted. Not now that he knew who that was.
But it was stupid to sit waiting for tomorrow, reviewing his tactics, wondering about his chances. Ewen prepared for bed at last. He went upstairs, took off his clothes, washed, put a dressing gown on over his nakedness, and sent his valet to bed. He lay down on his own bed. But someone seemed to have put pins in it; it was too hot, too hard, too lumpy. He couldn’t get comfortable on his side or his back. He got up and went downstairs again.
He went to his library, rekindled the fire in the hearth, and stared into it. He was annoyed with himself as well as on fire for her now. Three and thirty years old, and he had no patience—nor any belief that she’d come to him. Why should that be? Women had always liked him. But that was
women
, not ladies. He didn’t know very much about ladies. And even though she’d no money or family to protect her, she was definitely a lady. He knew it too well.