Ravished by the Rake (25 page)

‘Of course!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘They won’t be a houseparty of bucks or rakes but deadly dull businessmen of the utmost respectability. There is no way she can accuse you of harassing her with them in the house. And, I’ve just thought of another idea—why not bring her to call on us and ask Mama’s advice on
finding a suitable companion to live with her? Mama can tell everyone quite truthfully how thoughtful you are and how concerned that Imogen is looked after and how you are exerting yourself to make the Dower House comfortable for her.’

‘Yes, that should put a stop to her nonsense. We make a good tactical team, you and I.’ There it was again, the sense of connection that he so often felt with Dita stealing over him, as though their minds were touching. ‘I don’t understand her—she seems to be reacting with spite because I haven’t fallen at her feet. But she must know perfectly well that any sort of relationship other than the obvious one is impossible—and scandalous.’

‘She has a guilty conscience.’ Dita rested her chin on her knees and tipped her head to one side, thinking. ‘She knows she betrayed you and that both she and your father acted badly—it is much easier to attack the person you have wounded rather than beg forgiveness. I feel sorry for her. At least, I feel sorry for the girl she was, and it is sad that she did not have the character and intelligence to mature into a happy person now.’

‘Sorry?’ He stared at her. ‘What is there to arouse your pity, pray?’

‘It kept me awake last night, thinking about it,’ she confessed. ‘I was so angry with her, and so frightened at the damage I feared she could do you. But gradually I began to think about her all those years ago. She was very young and, I have no doubt, completely under the influence of her parents, as any well-bred girl would be. What they said was law. She fell for you and I am sure they encouraged it, for you were an exceptionally good match. And then someone—probably her
mother—realised that your father’s roving eye had fallen on her. Not the heir, but the marquis himself. They didn’t care that he was old enough to be her father, or that she had a
tendre
for you. He was the better match and that is all there was to it.

‘They would have told her to encourage him, she would have found herself alone with him when she might have expected to be chaperoned.’ Dita shivered and looked up at him as he stared back at her, appalled. ‘He had a reputation, did he not? This was not some kindly, fatherly figure. This was a mature rake and she was an innocent little lamb.’

‘My God. She was unwilling?’

‘She did as she was told, as was expected of her,’ Dita said and he heard the anger quivering in her voice. ‘I wonder if the fact that you look like him made it better or worse. But I doubt she ever thought she had a choice; young girls in our world do not, you see. They are raised to make a good match at all costs. That is what the Marriage Mart is, a market, and they are the lambs brought for sale.’

‘All of them? What about you?’ he asked and her fierce expression softened.

‘I have exceptional parents.’ She chuckled, ‘And I am a disobedient and difficult daughter. Evaline is not like me,’ she added, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘She is the dutiful one, like Averil. I hope she will be all right; this is her first Season.’

‘I won’t be in London for another week at least, but I will keep an eye on her,’ Alistair promised. ‘And then you and I will talk and you will realise by then that marrying me is the right thing to do.’

Her face must have changed for the arrogant male certainty of his expression softened. ‘Dita? Are you all right?’

‘No. I am not,’ she said. ‘I am thinking about those young women like Imogen was. Like Evaline. All those hopes and expectations, all that duty and ignorance. A few months when they are the focus of attention, their virtue and their bloodlines and their dowries on display—and then a lifetime to live with the results of the bargains that are struck.’

‘It is the way it has been done for people of our class for hundreds of years.’

‘And it suits the men very well, does it not?’ she flashed back. ‘Listen to yourself: the complacent marquis. You will keep an eye on my sister and make sure she finds a suitable man, never mind her true feelings. You will satisfy your own pride and sense of honour by trying to force me to marry you. Not because you love me, or even because I am
suitable,
but because you took my virginity.’

Too angry now to sit at his feet, she scrambled up. ‘Nothing else matters, does it? Such a little thing to make such a fuss about—a thrust, some pain. But that makes the woman your possession and you will duel and kill for that. Was that what it was with Imogen? Your father had her virginity and you did not even stop to think about her feelings? Damn you and your honour.’

‘Honour and desire,’ Alistair said, and closed the distance between them in two strides. He took her wrist and bent his head even as she reached to lash out at him. ‘Let me show you.’

He had taught her well. She had him twisting to avoid
her knee, grunting as her stiffened fingers found his stomach, cursing under his breath as her teeth found the back of his hand.

‘So you will force me now?’ she panted as he crushed her back against the tree.

‘But you want me. Tell me you don’t want me.’ Almost eye to eye the amber gaze held hers, demanded the truth, made her knees tremble.

‘Damn you.’ But she stopped struggling. I love you, you arrogant creature. Why can’t you love me? I want you.

‘Tell me to stop,’ he said. His body heated hers; the thrust of his erection felt as though it had the power to pierce their clothing. Her mind emptied of everything but need.

‘Let go of my arms,’ she managed to say and he did, his eyes darkening at what he must think was her refusal. Dita curled her arms around his neck and brought her mouth, open, to his. There was a moment of stillness, then his tongue thrust in to take possession.

She expected urgency, roughness, anger. Instead, he stilled again, then began to lavish languid strokes into her mouth. She had time to taste him and savour every texture, the slide of her tongue across his teeth, the muscular agility of his tongue, the soft, wet interior of his mouth, the firmness of his lips. This was kissing as luxurious as the most decadent dessert and she surrendered to it with soft whimpers of delight.

His hands cupped her breasts, his fingers seeking her nipples, frustrated by the tight weave of her tailored habit. She slid her hands between them, fumbling with the buttons until the top opened and he could push aside
the short habit-shirt and free her breasts from the constraint of the light corset she wore for riding.

In contrast to his mouth his fingers were not gentle as they found the peaking nipples, trapped them, rolled them until they became aching pebbles and the sensation lanced down through her belly to where she throbbed for him.

Dita found the fall of his breeches, opened it, clumsy with her haste, and sobbed with relief against Alistair’s mouth as she closed her fingers round the hard silken shaft. He lifted his head as his hands left her breasts and took hold of her skirts, but the length and weight of the voluminous habit defeated him.

‘Down,’ he rasped, pulling her to the grass. ‘Like this.’ She found herself on hands and knees, her skirts up to her waist, her jacket hanging open as he bent over her. ‘Dita.’ He buried his face in the nape of her neck, biting softly as his hands cupped the weight of her breasts. ‘You are mine.’ She felt him nudge her legs apart and gasped. She wanted to look at him, to see his eyes, kiss his mouth, but the weight of him, the excitement of what he was doing was strange and arousing almost beyond measure.

He left her breasts, one hand braced on the ground as the other parted her. ‘Such sweet honey.’ She should be embarrassed that she was so wet for him, but she was beyond that now, pushing shamelessly against his probing hand. One finger slid into her, then another and she moaned as he caressed her deeply, withdrew, tormented the throbbing focus of her need, plunged in again. The exquisite feeling built and built to the point
of pain and she gasped, wordless words that he seemed to understand.

Alistair shifted and she felt him against her, hard and implacable.
‘Yes,
now!’ And he surged into the heat and the tightness. There was discomfort, momentary; it had been a long time and he was a big man, but her body opened for him, sheathed him as he entered, and she shuddered with delight as he began to move, driving them both with his passion until the spiralling tension took her, shook her, threw all conscious thought from her as she felt him groan above her and pull away.

Dita came back to herself to find she was leaning back against Alistair’s chest as he knelt, supporting her. ‘I should have got you with child,’ he said and his voice was not quite steady.

‘You—’ She did not know the words, could hardly speak.

‘I withdrew,’ he said, his arms tight when she would have twisted to look at him. ‘It makes no difference. You must marry me now.’

So, that had not been a spontaneous expression of passion, perhaps concealing feelings she longed for, but which he was unaware of. It had been a calculated move to force her. The hurt was almost as great as that first rejection had been.

‘Nothing has changed,’ she said, finding her voice was as harsh as his. ‘I am not a virgin and I am not with child.’

‘Damn it.’ He stood, pulling her with him. ‘Then I should finish the business and do it properly this time.’

‘Then you would be forcing me.’ She moved away
and fumbled with her buttons. When she turned back he was stuffing his shirt into his fastened breeches, his face thunderous.

‘How do you know I am not capable of that?’

‘Because I know you,’ she said. He made no move to stop her as she untied her mare and stood on a tree stump to mount. She did not turn back as she rode away into the woods.

She went back to Wycombe Combe by way of the ruined tower where she had found him that evening eight years ago. It was deserted, so she slid down and sat there amongst the flowerless rose bushes, out of sight of everyone and everything except the jackdaws, and got her weeping done, once and for all. There was a pool of rainwater, clear and fresh, on top of one of the tumbled walls, and she bathed her eyes afterwards and walked briskly home to plot with Mama against the spiteful, damaged woman who would try to ruin Alistair. The woman who had loved him once.

4th April—Grosvenor Street, London

‘L
ord Iwerne is in London.’ Lady Wycombe spread the single sheet of notepaper open beside her breakfast place, not noticing Dita drop her bread and butter back on the plate.

A week apart had not made the separation any easier to bear, as she had hoped it would. Perhaps nothing ever would. ‘Alone, I trust?’ she said, making her voice light.

‘Yes, this is a letter of thanks, I believe. He says that Lady Iwerne is settled in at the Dower House and is planning its redecoration with the assistance of Miss Cruickshank, whom he considers was an inspired choice of mine.’

What we need, Mama had said, is a lady as apparently frivolous as Imogen, but with the sense to realise who is paying her very substantial wages and enough insight to hazard a guess as to why.
It appeared they had
succeeded. ‘It was a masterstroke of Alistair’s to have expressed doubts about Miss Cruickshank,’ Dita said. ‘Lady Iwerne is quite content, thinking she has bested him in this.’ Despite that earth-shattering incident in the woods he had still called with Imogen and Dita had done her best to help. It seemed they had succeeded.

‘And is he at the Iwernes’ town house in Bolton Street?’

‘Yes, he writes it is in drastic need of redecoration and is tempted to send the entire contents to the Auction Mart. He also says that if we are attending Almack’s this evening he will see us there and he hopes we will ease his initiation into the Sacred Halls, as he puts it.’

Evaline laughed. ‘I do feel sorry for the poor gentlemen. They have to wear the stuffiest of evening dress, the food and drink is almost non-existent and they spend their entire time escaping from predatory mamas.’

‘I hope that is not directed at me, my dear,’ Lady Wycombe remarked with a chuckle. ‘I cannot feel so sorry for them; they have every eligible young lady presented for their inspection—think of all the effort it saves them!’

Twelve hours later Dita overheard Evaline put this point of view to Alistair as they stood beneath the curving front edge of the orchestra balcony. Her sister had seemed rather subdued and thoughtful for the past few days, but teasing Alistair appeared to have revived her spirits.

‘Rather it confuses the eye,’ he retorted. ‘All this beauty and vivacity dazzles the poor male brain.’ He did not appear very dazzled to Dita, watching this exchange.
If anything, his expression as he surveyed the dancing in the centre of the ballroom and the chattering groups around it was detached and judgemental. She put out a hand and steadied herself against a pillar. It was hard to believe that this man was the one with whom she had shared those passionate interludes. How could their experiences together not brand them as lovers for every eye to see?

‘So may a sultan inspect his seraglio,’ she murmured, recovering herself. She waved her fan languidly.

‘I have no need of one of those,’ he said, not turning his head. ‘My choice is fixed.’

‘It takes two to make a contract,’ Dita retorted. ‘Where has Evaline gone?’

‘Over there with that fellow with the crimson waistcoat.’ Alistair pointed.

‘Oh, yes. I wonder who he is,’ she mused, more out of an instinct to keep an eye on Evaline than from any real curiosity.

‘No idea, but then, I hardly know a soul here. Dita, I will call on you tomorrow.’

And I will be out,
she vowed. ‘Come and let me introduce me to some of our acquaintances.’ She slipped her hand through his arm.

‘Are you having any problems with gossip?’ he asked bluntly as they strolled along the edge of the dance floor. She could feel his muscles under her palm and sensed he was every bit as tense as she was, despite appearances.