If You Give a Rake a Ruby (21 page)

“—think I understand what is going on here,” Warrick was saying.

Well, she was certainly glad someone understood.

“You see yourself as a sort of guardian for Fallon.”

“I
am
her guardian,” Titus answered.

It was news to Fallon—who had been on her own since fifteen, and who was past the age of majority—that she had a guardian. Especially one on her own payroll.

“And naturally you have concerns about me and my intentions.”

Fallon rolled her eyes. This was like some sort of grand farce. She employed Titus.
She
had saved
him
. She remembered meeting the giant. She had been new to the world of the demimonde and still learning her way. The Earl of Sin had set her up in her town house with Anne and a footman. Sinclair had even loaned her his own butler, Abernathy, to help put the house in order. And what she had learned from Abernathy was that she needed a good butler of her own. Of course, she had no idea where to search for one.

And then she had been on her way home one evening—or rather one early morning—and passed by a group of men beating what appeared to be a giant. It was five against one, and she had never liked to see odds like that—even if the one did appear to be, on first inspection, the equivalent of three ordinary men.

She'd ordered her coachman to stop, and he hadn't argued, though they had not been in the best part of Town and he had no real means to protect her if things did not go well. She'd taken a small, dainty pistol she carried for show from beneath her seat, climbed out of the carriage, and faced the thugs down. She didn't know quite how she'd done it, but she managed to convince the thugs that they should load Titus into her carriage, and she was driving away before the men could question her.

She'd taken Titus home and nursed him back to health. He had stayed on, gradually taking on more and more of the household responsibility until he was virtually running the place. She'd never asked where he'd come from, why the men were assaulting him, or who he'd been. In return, he didn't question her.

And they'd gotten on well for years. But now, apparently, she'd crossed some invisible line, and Titus intended to challenge Warrick.

“I do, sir,” Titus answered, sounding very much like an actual butler. She supposed he was an actual butler, though she couldn't have said exactly when the transformation occurred.

“My intentions are honorable,” Warrick was saying. Fallon put her hand on the door, intending to go in and stop the nonsense at once. Warrick didn't have to explain himself to Titus. But Fallon didn't push the door open. Something made her hesitate.

“So you say, sir,” Titus answered, “but I have reason to doubt.”

“Understandable. But I assure you, Titus, I intend to marry your mistress.”

Fallon had known Warrick was going to say that. He had fastened onto the idea of marrying her, and no matter how much she tried to convince him they would not suit, he hadn't let it go. Truth be told, she didn't want him to let it go. And perhaps that was why she was eavesdropping. She needed to know if Warrick still wanted to marry her.

“And if she does not want to marry you?” Titus asked. Fallon smiled. Only Titus would think to ask such a question. Of course, he'd helped throw out many a determined suitor who would not be persuaded she was not interested in playing the role of wife for the night.

There was a long silence, and Fallon could picture Warrick frowning and clasping his hands behind his back. “That is her decision, of course. But I think it would be a foolish choice, considering she is in love with me.”

Fallon opened her mouth to respond that it wasn't a foolish choice at all, but she remembered she wasn't supposed to be listening. And since Warrick had probably guessed she was listening, she stepped away from the door and started up the stairs to her bedchamber.

She tried to ignore the way her heart thudded, tried to tell herself it was the exertion of climbing the stairs so quickly. She tried to tamp down the bubble of excitement that arose when Warrick's words echoed in her mind.

I
intend
to
marry
your
mistress.

But bubbles were notoriously difficult to control. As a child, she'd tried to catch them on her finger, but more often than not, the bubbles escaped her. And when she did catch one, it inevitably popped immediately. The bubble of excitement escaped her, rising and rising until she could not help but skip, giddy with exhilaration. Warrick loved her. Warrick wanted to marry her. She had never thought she would marry, but now images of Juliette's recent wedding flickered in her mind. Fallon wanted what Juliette had had—the lovely dress, the fresh flowers, Warrick in his morning coat, looking at her with that expression of love that melted her heart. She realized she wanted what Juliette had with her duke. She wanted someone who would love her more than was right, more than was proper, and more than convention deemed appropriate. She wanted someone who would tell Society and all of its social dictates to go to the devil. The Duke of Pelham had done just that for Juliette, but he was the exception. She had no hope Warrick would do the same for her.

Fallon closed her eyes and pictured the sunlight streaming through the church on Juliette's wedding morning. The stained glass windows had reflected a shower of sapphire, topaz, ruby, and amethyst on the marble floor. Those same colors had danced across the back of Juliette's silver-embroidered wedding dress. Fallon remembered thinking it the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. How she longed to be the one with the spray of color frolicking over a pale silk gown.

Oh, please
, Fallon prayed.
Don't allow this bubble to pop
.
Not
yet.
She wanted to enjoy it, just for a little while.

When she entered her bedchamber, she was pleased to note Anne had drawn a bath for her and scented it with a few drops of the jasmine oil from India for which she had paid far too much.

Anne helped her undress, and Fallon dismissed her, luxuriating in the warm bath water until all the tension oozed out of her shoulders and her head ceased to ache. She was beginning to doze when she heard Warrick's deep voice. “That's a lovely scene. I should have come up sooner.”

She didn't open her eyes, but she smiled. “If you'd waited too much longer, I would have been asleep.”

“You should sleep. You must be exhausted.”

She opened her eyes. “We'll both sleep. After.”

He shook his head. “You know I never sleep.”

She straightened, clasping her arms around her knees. “Why is that? Are you afraid of your dreams?” The fire in the fireplace flickered, making his face appear all shadows and hard planes. His black clothing was severe and unrelieved against the backdrop of the bright jewel tones in her bedchamber. Behind him, beads on amethyst-, emerald-, and opal-colored pillows glittered like cat's eyes.

“They are not pleasant. How are your ribs? Do they still pain you?”

She touched her side and realized she could hardly feel the injury any more. “My ribs are much better, but you are changing the subject. We're speaking of you. What happened tonight outside the bank? You seemed to go away for a few moments, and when you returned, even I was frightened.”

Warrick ceased pacing. “I apologize. My behavior was unforgivable.”

“Hardly.” She reached for her towel, stepped out of the tub, and began to dry off. “I can forgive quite a lot. And, really, there's nothing to forgive. I only wanted to understand.”

When he didn't speak, she glanced at him. His eyes were so dark with desire, she almost dropped the towel. “Could you hand me my dressing gown?” she asked. Anne had left the ruby silk gown draped on the end of her bed.

“I could, but it would obstruct my view.”

“I promise to take it off again, slowly, when we're done talking. But, for the moment, I want your complete attention on our conversation.”

“I make it a policy never to argue with a naked woman.” He handed her the gown, and she slipped it on, cinching the sash in the front.

She took his hands, pulled him to the bed, and sat while he stood before her. “Tell me,” she said quietly. “Whatever it is, it won't change my opinion of you. You already know my secrets. If you do want to marry me, you have to share some of yours.”

He raised a brow. “So you
were
listening at the door.”

“You will have to do better than that to divert this conversation.”

With a sigh, he sat beside her. His thigh was solid and warm against hers, and she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“My doctor has called my condition soldier's neurosis. I feel like some sort of hysterical woman when I speak of it in those terms, but I don't have any others.”

“And what is soldier's neurosis?”

“Basically I cannot seem to escape the war. At times my mind goes back to it, and the images are so real, I feel as though I am there again. I can hear the cannons, I feel the ground tremble beneath my feet, I smell the blood and the overturned earth, I see the mangled bodies of the men I knew. I search. I crawl over bodies because I'm searching for something or someone.” His voice caught, and she reached over and took his hand again. “Don't ask me to describe it any further. It is not something I want you to imagine. It's too horrific.”

“And this is why you cannot sleep? Your dreams bring you back to those horrors?”

“At times they do, but almost anything can trigger an episode. That boy tonight—something about him reminded me of… another boy. Before I knew it, I was back on the field, reliving it all.”

“And when I spoke to you, you thought I was one of the soldiers?”

“No.” He turned to her, took her by the shoulders. “You brought me out of it. Your voice helped me to return to reality.”

“Is there anything to be done for this neurosis? Any treatment?”

Warrick gave a bitter laugh. “
Time heals all wounds
is the advice I received.”

“I'm certain that's true, but I think we can do better than that.” She reached for her sash and unfastened the knot.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Taking your mind off war and battles and death. When I'm done, you won't be able to think at all.” She released the sash and allowed the gown to sliver open.

“Fallon, you should rest. You're tired.”

“We're both going to rest.” She bared one shoulder. “Later.”

“I…”

She bared the other.

“If you're going to argue, you should do so quickly. I'll be naked soon, and you know your policy concerning nude women.” The gown slipped farther until it rested precariously just above her nipples. They were hard, and the silky material chafed and rubbed.

“I find,” Warrick said, drawing the garment down slowly so that her breasts were bared to him, “the policy also applies to half-nude women.” He brushed the back of his hand over one breast, and before Fallon could forget her intention to seduce him, she stood and allowed the gown to pool at her feet. Warrick let out a low groan. “I could not resist you, even if I wanted to.” His warm hand stroked the curve of her waist. “You are exquisite.”

She smiled. She had been complimented thousands of times in her role as a courtesan, but she had never believed a single statement. But she could see Warrick meant every word. She was far from exquisite. She looked like every other woman, and she had her flaws. She was short, and her legs were not at all long and slender. But Warrick didn't see any of that. He looked at her as though she were perfection personified.

She could have loved him for that alone. And perhaps his insistence that she was somehow special, even though he knew she was as common as any other person they should pass on the street, was the reason she had fallen in love with him. But it was not the reason she loved him. In Warrick she saw the contrasting qualities of strength and vulnerability. He could support her, buoy her, protect her. But he needed her too. He needed her to help him forget all he had seen and done. No one had ever needed her before, and after years of being told she was worthless and then more years of being an ornament for a ballroom, Fallon yearned to be needed.

With a light push, she toppled Warrick so he fell back onto her large bed. She loved the look of him—those broad shoulders, the beginnings of a beard darkening his face and making him look somewhat dangerous, the intensity in his gold-flecked eyes. She wanted to take him then and there. But this was about helping him to forget. She wanted his mind filled with images other than those of war and battle. She turned, bent, and pulled his boots off, first one foot and then the other.

“Oh, good God.” His voice sounded tight and barely leashed. When the second boot dropped to the floor, he sat, spun her around, and kissed her. “Bend over like that again, my love,” he whispered.

“Not yet.” She separated them using two fingers and then pulled off his coat and his shirt and opened the fall of his trousers. “You
are
ready.” She pulled him up and slid his trousers off, running her hands along his muscular thighs and cupping his bottom. He jerked, and she leaned forward and kissed his flat abdomen.

“You are killing me. I do not have this much restraint.”

“Oh, I think you do.” She pushed him back to a sitting position, admiring the way the firelight burnished his skin. “Later, when you fall asleep, this is what I want you to see.” She lifted her hands and caressed her shoulders, imagining her own hands were his. She slid down her body until she reached her breasts then cupped and stroked them. She watched his eyes grow impossibly dark and his breathing grow labored as she circled her nipples with her fingers. She was aching for him now.

Her hands slid down over the curve of her stomach, tracing the swell of her hips, then brushing her thighs. Slowly she inched toward the juncture of her thighs until one hand rested there, parting her folds.