“Why not?” He answered the honesty of her question with his own and paced forward to join her by the desk. He could not gauge the direction this conversation was taking without looking at her more directly.
“Why not?” He asked again in a deliberately soft voice. He searched her face for clues as she swallowed hard and raked him with her own intense scrutiny.
“You are hardly the sort of man who rescues damsels in distress,” she said at last. Something in her eyes tried to soften the harshness of her words. “By your own admission you lead a life that leaves you privy to the dangers and lures of life in the city. Seeking your relative is admirable, but why would a man like you go out of your way for a handful of country lasses?
“Given your circumstances”—she took a deep breath and, if it was possible, studied him even more intently—“why do you care?”
He couldn’t tell her the truth and he couldn’t offer an evasion he was certain she would not detect. She was one of the most intriguing and intelligent woman he’d ever had dealings with. He waited the space of several heartbeats before answering in the only way he could think that would not involve lying. “Given your circumstances, why do you?”
She sucked in a sharp breath and looked as if he’d slapped her. Given all she had revealed to him only a few hours ago, and her reaction to that vulnerability, he knew his turning her question back to her would hurt. Until it was hanging in the air between them though, he hadn’t realized just how insulting it would sound.
Her face grew still as stone. They’d been engaged in a conversation of equals and he had suddenly cut the floor out from under her feet, reminding her of her status outside the bounds of polite society. She couldn’t possibly hate him more than he hated himself at this moment. He reached out and touched her hand, trying to soften the harshness of the exchange.
She pulled away as if his touch burned and would have stepped back but the desk blocked her. She steadied herself and stood her ground. The gray depths of her eyes hardened to granite. “So it is all right for a self-professed gambler and wastrel to care about the less fortunate, but not a fallen woman. Mistress or whore, it makes no difference what title you give us. We are not allowed to have a heart, to have feelings beyond our role in a man’s bed?”
“I never meant . . . I didn’t . . .” He’d so obviously struck a nerve he had no idea how he could recover, how he could make things right.
“If my circumstances change, perhaps then I would be allowed to have concerns beyond my own well-being.” Her tone was bitter, her features flat. She was gazing down at her hand as she leaned against the desk—her left hand.
If my circumstances change
. . . Alarm bells pealed. Had he upset her enough to have her reveal her intent in a completely different game? Did she have intentions of taking up Stanhope’s foolish proposal? His other obligation kicked into play.
“You cannot marry Stanhope.” The words came out bald and ragged and far harsher than his previous comment.
Her head came back up sharply. “What makes you think I would? What makes you think he would?”
There was a dangerous light glittering in her eyes. He’d pushed her hard just to get her to reveal what she had already. He’d have to push harder to get the whole truth from her. “He asked you, did he not?”
“That is no one’s business but our own.” She practically spit her reply. She curled her fingers into her palms as if preparing for a true fight.
He closed the distance between them.
“Business?” he goaded. “If you think of his proposal as business, how much would it take to lure you away from Stanhope?”
She blew out a quick breath as her eyes hardened and she pressed her lips into a firm line. He’d hoped to throw her off balance with the rapid changes in their conversation, to force affirmation or denial from her.
He swore that although she certainly looked ready to slap him as he so richly deserved, she did not appear on the verge of revealing her plans. Somehow he was not surprised by her resistance, or even at his admiration of her for not immediately spewing the rage she so clearly held at bay over his insulting offer.
What did surprise him was the depth of his concern over her answer.
But he needed that answer. He placed both of his hands on her forearms. “I am prepared to be extremely generous.”
She bit her lip, lifted her chin, and tried without success to pull away. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders, revealing the creamy softness of her skin above her dress’s modest neckline. He could not allow her appeal to distract him.
She struggled for only a moment before freezing him with the coldness in her gaze. She did not, however, cease from resisting, and he gripped her harder to prevent her pulling free.
“Despite your luck at the card tables earlier, I find it hard to believe you are making such an offer on your own. Who do you represent? His mother, Lady Helena? Or . . . his grandfather.”
The last was not a question. She closed her eyes and shook her head as though she had already read the truth in his eyes. “Please tell the
Ard Tiarna
that I am not interested in his money.”
“I would rather tell him you were not interested in becoming the next Countess of Clancare, that you have no future interest in his grandson.”
She barely took a breath as she studied him for what seemed an interminable minute. Her contempt was as palpable as his hold on her arms. He did not blame her. He could barely stand to be in his own company.
“I know why this matters to the earl. Why does my future matter to you?” The disdain in her almost-whispered question cut him to the quick. Her eyes flashed with anger and indignation. He hardly blamed her. He had jumped from concerned citizen seeking her aid to insulting and intrusive in the space of only a few phrases.
“Why indeed?” Anger heated his own question.
“Does my future matter at all?”
He looked at her, her eyes glittering with the rage and hurt he’d put there. Her fair skin was pale, her hair tumbling with abandon over her shoulders as she asked a question that seemed to rock the very world around them. “More than you know.”
Then he surprised them both by pulling her against him and kissing her.
A startled gasp escaped her lips, parting them. She did not struggle or push him away. It wouldn’t have mattered at this point if she did. She fit too well against him, felt too right for him to back away.
He deepened his possession of her mouth as fire raged through him and scorched his very soul. He slid his hands from her forearms to her shoulders and cradled her even closer. The softness of her breasts pressed against his chest. The warmth of her breath fanned his cheeks. His desire for her flared hot and immediate.
The silken feel of her gown felt cool under his hands as he threaded his fingers through her hair and tilted her head back to claim her more completely. Her lips parted further as he traced their inner and outer rims with the tip of his tongue, over and over, out and in.
He darted his tongue inside, then pressed her lips harder with his own to force them to open further so he could seek her tongue. She moaned softly and greeted his invasion with her own parry, the first sign that she was anything but passive in his embrace.
Triumph roared through him.
Her hands slid up his chest to rest just below his shoulders as she returned his passion, clinging to him, demanding more, giving more.
Primal satisfaction pounded through him. She was his. Her touch, her answering kisses left him breathless.
He braced her with one arm while his other hand sought the warmth of the satin-smooth skin at the nape of her neck. Her pulse was rapid, wild. Her skin every bit as soft as it appeared as he traced the neckline of her gown.
He rained small kisses over her cheek and back along her jawline before claiming her lips again with a deep kiss as he dipped his hand to brush and caress her breast.
Beneath the layers of gown and chemise her nipple greeted his touch, hardening as he stroked her with his thumb, back and forth, even as he plumbed the depths of her sweet mouth, in and out.
He was nearly mad with his need to possess this woman. All of her. Right here. Right now. There was no time for thought, no need for consideration. She was his, and he meant to claim her.
He cradled her fully against him, letting her feel just how much he wanted her, enjoying the fact that she wore no stays, that only a few scraps of fabric stood between them.
The pounding of his pulse in his ears turned into an insistent knocking on the salon door.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald?” her footman called. “Are ye all right? I have a message jest delivered fer ye.”
They broke apart, both breathing heavily. She steadied herself on the edge of the desk as she gulped for air. He walked over and snatched up his glass, then strode to the table by the window to refill it.
“Madam?” The doorknob rattled. The door was still slightly ajar, but the servant would not enter unless summoned or unduly alarmed by their continued silence.
“Please bring the message here, Gerald.” She attempted to smooth her hair and bent to retrieve her shawl where it had fallen on the floor.
Garrett watched her wavery image in the window’s dark reflections. He needed the diluted perspective to put some distance between them and what had almost occurred. Over what had occurred.
What had come over him? What had come over her? She had practically declared a very mercenary intention to wed another man then very nearly allowed him to make love to her. What kind of woman was she? He hated the obvious conclusion.
“Is there . . . is there anything I may do for you, Mrs. Fitzgerald?” Gerald handed his employer a sealed envelope.
“Thank you, no. I will ring if I need you.” She opened the envelope and read the contents as he left them alone once more.
“Oh God.” She dropped the letter and buried her face in her hands.
He turned to her immediately. “What is it?”
She lifted her head. There was an incredible amount of pain in their depths. “You must leave at once. Stanhope is on his way. He arrives within the hour.”
Her declaration hit his gut like a sledgehammer. He had no claim on her. The man to whom she belonged was on his way. He was dismissed.
“We have—”
“There is nothing we need to resolve this evening.” She hugged her shawl around her and turned away, placing her lover’s note on her desk.
“Nothing?” The ground tilted beneath his feet. She was right. He had no right to treat her the way he just had.
“Leave now, Mr. Lynch, or Gerald will escort you out. You may badger me about my personal life tomorrow when you come to my school, if there really are some missing girls you wish to find and not just a fat reward from the earl for scaring me off.”
He left then, turned on his heel and strode into the foyer, unsure of how he felt for the first time in a very long time. How would he face her tomorrow knowing what was about to take place here? Knowing what had almost taken place between them? How could he not?
Gerald was standing by the doorway to his anteroom, Garrett’s hat and gloves at the ready. He accepted them and was partly down the steps before he could put a name to how he felt.
Betrayed.
Chapter Eight
As the door clicked shut behind Garrett, Maura sank onto the settee. Nausea swirled in her stomach and pain pounded once more in her head. In all the time she had been in Dublin, she had only felt this dirty and ashamed once.
Not when the neighbors gave her the cut direct in front of their wives, or when they winked at her behind their wives’ backs. Not when most of the servants quit rather than serve in a house of ill repute after Colonel Whyte departed for England. Not even when some of Sir Reginald’s closest friends had paid their calls within days of his passing, claiming concern for her well-being, but all the while hoping to claim her.
Garrett Lynch had achieved something she had vowed would never happen to her again. He had molded her to him like putty in his hands and turned her into the very whore her own mother branded her. She was suddenly very cold despite the shawl she hugged about her while trying to cover her shame of welcoming, nay, practically begging for him to paw and fondle her.
She reached over to the table and snatched up her tumbler of brandy, emptying the contents in one fiery swallow as she tried to burn away the memory of her mother arriving in her widow’s weeds, with the message burned into her very soul that knowledge of his only daughter’s adulterous behavior had carried her father off to his grave.
To ensure her shame would not reflect on her brothers, she was instructed never to come home again. And lest she think she was free to go on her selfish and self-indulgent path to hell free of obligation, she was still expected to contribute to her brothers’ educations and her mother’s welfare.
Maura had understood that day how the despoiled and despairing could be prompted to throw themselves into the River Liffey. She tried very hard to sustain her family and use her resources to help other girls in less fortunate circumstances. To hold at bay the shame for the path her life had taken and her sense of self separate from what she did, despite her mother’s condemnation.
Now, Garrett Lynch, with his piercing gaze and surprising quest, had led her to abandon all of her defenses and believe her mother had been right all along.
Was she nothing more than a wanton?
He’d thrown her completely off guard by his pose of concern for a matter so close to her heart. He’d made her so angry with his questions and offers on behalf of the earl, and then completely disarmed her with a mere touch. How could she have been so foolish? So weak?
From the first brush of his lips she had practically melted into him. She’d shivered in his arms and reveled in the power of the passion she’d awakened in him, evidenced by the tight passion he had poured into her with the demands of his lips, and the hard desire he’d pressed against her softness when he’d cradled her against him so intimately.
Another moment or two and she’d been certain he was going to sweep her desk clean and claim her right there in her own salon.
And she had wanted him to.
She had all but begged him to.
It had been mindless. Powerful. Overwhelming.
And a sham.
He’d staged the whole seduction to destroy her hold on Freddie.
Freddie.
Oh God, Freddie would be here in just a short time. Having practically betrayed him, however would she face him? She knew she looked a wreck. Garrett’s purpose could still be achieved and he didn’t even need to be there. Freddie had been her friend long before he became her lover. Surely he would know as soon as he looked at her that things were not as they should be. Pleading illness would be her only course, if only to spare him. She sat down instead
She started toward the salon door.
“Maura? I hope you do not mind my calling on you so unexpectedly.” He was here, entering her salon without knocking, so sure of his welcome despite his disclaimers. She wanted to sink right through the cushions. But there was nowhere to hide.
“I told Gerald I would announce myself.” He stopped a few feet in from the door as she raised her eyes to greet him. She sat down instead.
“My God, dearest. Whatever has upset you so?” He rushed over and knelt on one knee beside her. “Gerald said you had been feeling unwell earlier.”
Freddie’s gaze was so kind, so loving. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Say something, sweetheart. Shall I send for a doctor? Would you like Mrs. Kelly to make you a posset or some tea?”
He gently wiped her cheeks, drying the tears she hadn’t fully realized had been streaming from her eyes. How long had she been crying? She shouldn’t be crying, at least not tears of self-pity. She didn’t deserve the comfort of tears. She didn’t deserve Freddie’s solicitude. She shook her head.
He gave her a little smile despite the alarm still filling his eyes. “That’s a little better. At least you realize I am here. You do not have to bear whatever is bothering you alone.”
He eased himself onto the settee beside her and pulled her gently against his shoulder and into his embrace. She could feel his breath on her hair, the rise and fall off his chest against her cheek, and hear the steady beat of his heart. She didn’t deserve this respite. But despite the cost it would impose later, she welcomed it.
Dear Freddie, it would be so easy to take what he offered, to give him all that he asked of her—to be allowed to love and honor her. But he deserved more, so very much more than she could ever give him.
He held her close for several minutes, allowing her time to regain a measure of her composure, to try and draw her scattered thoughts together and determine what she was going to tell him and how best to put it.
“I know I told you not to expect me.” He tried to draw her out again. He brushed his lips against her hair. “But I missed you.”
“I missed you, too, my lord.”
And I believe I will miss you for some time to come.
She sighed.
“You know, on my way up the street I could have sworn I saw Garrett Lynch.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed. Hard. “Who?”
“Lynch. Garrett Lynch. You met him the other night at the card party.”
“Oh yes.” She pulled away from Freddie’s arm and turned herself so she was sitting next to him instead of against him. “Did you . . . did you talk to him?”
“He tipped his hat and mumbled something about an appointment. I failed to catch it all.” He took her hand in his. His fingers were warm and reassuring. “Did he call here? Looking for me? I canceled an appointment with Daniel and Percy to be with you instead. Perhaps Lynch was to be part of that group, too. Although I do not think he and Jameson care much for one another’s company.”
He was trying so hard to fill the awkward silence, bless him. Given the company he could be keeping at this moment, she should be grateful he’d decided to come to her. But she was just sad—sad and sorrowful. She’d never realized the differences in those words before she’d been called upon to break her first heart.
She drew a breath. Time to begin. “Mr. Lynch was here. He is making some inquiries about missing girls from the countryside.”
“What on earth has possessed him to begin such a search, let alone seek you out?”
“I do not know what motivated his interest in these missing girls, but he wished to speak to me about my school.” She offered him the easiest answer she could, at least on this point—the truth.
“Your school?” Freddie straightened in his seat and looked at her. “Whatever could have led him to discover your connection to the school you sponsor?”
She shook her head. “I have no clue.”
Freddie jumped to his feet and paced across the carpet, turning to face her when he reached her desk. “Is that what had you so overset when I arrived?”
He paced back and knelt with one knee on the carpet before her again, bringing his eyes level with hers. “You should be proud of your work, of what you do for those poor girls. I have never understood why you felt the need to keep your name from being associated with either your business or your school.”
How could she explain it to him? She had wanted to keep this project separate from her life as a mistress, as a willing playmate or plaything for wealthy men. She had wanted something that was just hers.
He cupped her cheek with his hand. “When we are wed, you might not have the time to devote to them that you do now, but you certainly will have enough funds to help as many girls as you can find. And you will have no reason to hide your good deeds.”
She felt the tears gathering at the corner of her lashes as she looked deep into the eyes of this man who loved her. She hated the tears, hated what she was about to do. But her mother’s condemnation echoed. She was selfish and self-indulgent. She had allowed his courtship to go on for too long, knowing it was doomed, knowing he was destined for more than a life of shame with his former mistress.
The warning she had taken from the offer Garrett had brought from Freddie’s grandfather, and the lengths he had been willing to take to accomplish his ends, made it clear that if she had any hope of dissuading Freddie on her own, she would have to act.
And fast.
Perhaps if he could lay the blame for the end of their liaison solely at her feet, he would be able to take comfort from his family, to accept their support without blame and recriminations. She owed him that much at least. She hoped it would be enough to keep him from the likes of Harold Jameson or even Garrett Lynch, men who preyed on the weakness or vulnerability of others.
“Sweetheart, please tell me what is wrong. You are so distracted.” Freddie knew her too well. “I love you. Talk to me. You can tell me anything.”
“You must not speak to me of love.” She jerked her face away from his caress. She slipped around him and walked a few feet away. “It is neither right nor fair. You must not love me.”
“Maura. Maura.” He followed her and tried to take her in his arms. “Of course I love you. I love you as you love me. We are going to be married.”
She stepped away before turning to look up at him. “No, that is a dream.” She shook her head. “That is your dream.”
He just stood there, looking at her. As if she spoke in a language he didn’t understand.
“Marriage is your dream. Not mine,” she said again.
“Then we will just keep on as we have been a little longer. Until you are ready.”
She could see the shift in his gaze as the reality of what she was saying, and what she was not saying, finally sank in. She shook her head ever so slowly.
“Maura?” His gaze shifted from the half-filled decanter and tumbler of brandy on the tray by the window to the empty one on the table by the settee. Then he raked her with his eyes, the blinders beginning to fall away. “Why was Lynch here tonight?”
The directness of his question startled her. She was sure her surprise showed on her face “I told—”
“Why, on a night when you thought I was engaged elsewhere, would you entertain another man?” His gaze darted to the decanter and back. “If I had not sent you a message from my mother’s, what would I have walked into this room and found?”
The woman you love in the arms of another man, at the very least.
She was a coward. She couldn’t bring herself to confirm his suspicions, to tell him that whatever he imagined either was true or had very nearly been so. Her guilt was surely stamped on her face. She looked at him mutely.
He pulled her to him. His fingers dug into her shoulders and his gaze hardened as the realization grew that she was offering no defense because she had none.
“Maura.” He said her name as if it was distasteful, a bitter mouthful.
She’d known breaking things off with him would wound him deeply. She hadn’t realized how much it would hurt her as well.
His grip tightened further. His lip curled. His eyes narrowed into those of a stranger. He opened his mouth to say something. She steeled herself for the invective she’d earned with her betrayal, for the anger she’d brought upon herself. She felt certain she’d already cried as much as she possibly could in one day.
He released her so abruptly she nearly fell. He strode from the room without another word and slammed the salon door behind him. As the front door followed suit in what seemed like the space of only a few heartbeats, she sank to her knees on the carpet.
Like so much else in this day, in her life, she’d been wrong about the tears. She’d thought she had no more left to shed.
The Crown was crowded tonight—standing room only and all abuzz with conversation and raucous good humor following a cockfight at a nearby warehouse. The winners were celebrating and the losers commiserating. Harold Jameson saluted them all through the amber depths of his whiskey glass.
Winners or losers were all alike to him—pawns to be maneuvered or sacrificed to suit his game.
The young bucks he’d invited for the night’s midnight frolics were nearly all assembled. They enjoyed their spirits and some fine cigars in the convivial atmosphere of the private parlor he had secured for them. He preferred the more ribald company of the tap. He remained outside in the public room ostensibly awaiting his guests, but in truth he had little patience for the inane conversations and baseless boasting of the future scions he sought to catch in his net.
That Clancare’s heir would not be joining his little party tonight after all was a minor source of irritation. He took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the raw burn of cheap spirits. He wanted control of that lad, or more exactly, control over the lands and influence he’d one day claim.
His more immediate purpose in casting his lure at Stanhope could just as easily be accomplished by Longford or even that feckless fool, Masters. But it was Stanhope he wanted firmly under his thumb. That the baron seemed so thoroughly wound around the oh-so-dainty finger of his mistress made him all the more of a challenge. He liked challenges.