Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (31 page)

Within minutes Mark had left Tarquin tending to his limp, bleeding wife and set off towards the Surrey border with Riley cursing and squirming beside him. Now that his bruisers were unable to save him Riley had quietened, but Mark knew that his foxy brain was constantly calculating methods of escape.

‘If you want to jump, go ahead,’ Mark snarled. ‘There’s a good chance it won’t kill you … not straight away, anyhow. The sight of your broken limbs won’t bother me. As long as you’re able to talk, that’s good enough.’

Riley kicked out in frustration at the side of the vehicle, then slouched into the seat with a sullen scowl on his face.

Mark reined back as they approached a crossroads. ‘Which way?’

Riley remained uncommunicative. When Mark slid along the seat towards him and repeated his question in a voice of silky steel, the villain jerked his head to the right.

Immediately Mark snatched up the reins, whipped leather over the backs of the horses, and they sped off again into the night.

The meal was coming to an end and with it Emily’s capacity for conversation. She felt exhausted and fearful. Nicholas would feel entitled to strike now he had acted the gallant and wined and dined her. She slipped her unsteady fingers to the dinner knife she had secreted in the folds of her skirts. She hoped she would not need to utilise it, but she had no intention of quietly going upstairs with him!

Oh, where was Mark? Why had he not come to her rescue? Once she had shunned his touch; what would she not give now to rest within his powerful embrace?

Emily dropped the spoon with which she had idly been stirring her syllabub and jumped to her feet. While she had been deep in wistful reverie Nicholas had made his move. He had gained half the
length of the table, and his expression was unmistakably predatory. Before she could properly extricate herself from her chair to flee, he was trapping her against it.

With a low chuckle he twisted the dinner knife from her fist, for he had anticipated her defensive tactics. Mockingly he clucked disapproval as he dropped the silver on to mahogany. His hard fingers were tight as manacles on her wrists as he brought his face closer to hers.

Emily’s back bowed as she tried to avoid his lips travelling on her throat. His murmured endearments steamed on her skin and then his mouth pounced, forcing apart her lips, so his tongue could thrust within.

Emily twisted in his grasp, but his unpleasant laugh met her futile attempts to free herself. He was enjoying curbing her struggles, she realised, and she would not knowingly give him pleasure. Abruptly she became still, allowed him to nuzzle at her neck whilst her averted eyes darted to what lay on the table that might serve as a weapon. Her flitting glance returned to the grand silver candelabra. It was quite close and its weight would do far more damage than the dainty porcelain crockery within easy reach. The knife he’d taken from her had skidded
some distance on the polished surface, but a fork was tantalisingly near to the fingers she had splayed on the table edge for support.

Swallowing her revulsion at the Viscount’s fingers exploring her bodice fastenings, she forced herself to relax and tolerate a kiss. Coquettishly she twisted her head away. ‘Do you really regret not marrying me, Nicholas?’ she gulped whilst slyly edging sideways. ‘I should like to think that at least is the truth.’

‘Of course it’s the truth,’ he growled on an impatient pant and planted his hot mouth against the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.

Emily squirmed in his grasp, loosening his hold enough to allow her to sidle a step closer to the fork, barely an inch from her outstretched fingers. ‘You’re not just saying it to seduce me more easily?’ she wheedled.

Nicholas raised his head, gazed at her with hot amber eyes. ‘I said I’d rather share the pleasure with you, Emily,’ he answered huskily. ‘I’m not a violent man … but I can be when I’m desperate.’ He cupped her chin in a hard hand. ‘I want you … I’m desperate to have you. Why are you being cruel?’

He made the complaint with such genuine perplexity in his voice that Emily could barely repress a snort of derisive amazement.

‘Be kind to me, my love!’ Nicholas demanded hoarsely. ‘Then I shall be kind to you.’ He tried to prove his point by biting against Emily’s throat with less brutality.

‘I’m afraid I can’t, for you disgust me,’ Emily gasped and, snatching up the fork from the table, used all her might to stab him in the thigh.

Nicholas yelped and tottered back, a hand massaging furiously at the wound she’d delivered.

Emily raced to grab the silver candlestick and brandished it with both hands. ‘Stay away, you vile swine, or I swear I’ll use this on you!’ she cried.

Nicholas gave a final rub to the puncture in his flesh. ‘You little bitch,’ he enunciated slowly. ‘You will certainly pay for that.’ He twisted his mouth into a sneer. ‘And if you think a candlestick will save you, you are a silly little fool.’ He paced purposefully closer, making Emily retreat in time with his advance. ‘You are exceeding all my expectations, my dear. Fight me if you will. I’ll enjoy taming you. I should have told you that it’s the chase … the victory … that I need above all else.’

Just as Emily was rallying strength to launch her missile at him, a noise made her hesitate and whip her head around. But what she saw made her realise that the interruption was a reprieve, not deliverance.
The manservant was hovering on the threshold of the dining room. A neutral expression was shaping his brawny features as though it was not uncommon for him to witness a young lady about to fend off his master’s advances with a flaming candelabra.

Nicholas’s face was a mask of fury and a few crude curses were spat out as he strode towards the fellow.

The servant hastened to meet him, now with an intensely apologetic look on his face. Quickly he whispered a message and, in return, received a curt nod, and a muttered instruction from his master.

‘It seems that Mr Riley has returned for some reason best known to himself.’ Nicholas’s tone was rough with irritation. ‘Please excuse me just for a moment, my dear, while I impress on the dolt that he is
de trop
and very much unwelcome.’ He gave her a subtle smile. ‘I will not abandon you for long, I promise, but be seated again.’ His former suave composure seemed to be restored. A theatrical hand flicked specks from an immaculate sleeve. ‘There is no escape; my servants are utterly loyal to me. So … why not relax and finish your syllabub whilst you wait for my return?’

Nicholas had instructed his manservant to stop the pimp setting foot inside the house. He therefore
strode out directly on to the canopied porch with a snapped, ‘I hope you have an excellent reason for this impertinence, Riley …’

‘He has,’ Mark drawled as he emerged from the shadows cast by the eaves. ‘He doesn’t want a bullet lodged in his black heart.’ The duck’s foot pistol was held in a steady hand against Mickey Riley’s chest. Abruptly Mark realigned the weapon so both men were in its range. ‘As for you, Devlin, a bullet strategically placed elsewhere might suit.’ Mark indicated with a wave of the weapon that they should go inside the house.

‘Do you mind telling me what the hell this is all about?’ Devlin blustered, affecting outrage. He sent Riley a purely poisonous look.

‘I think you know exactly what this is about, Devlin,’ Mark responded with icy calm. ‘Where is Miss Beaumont?’

Devlin licked his lips. He had not for a moment anticipated that a knight in shining armour might turn up and scotch his plans to force Emily to become his mistress.

‘I shall quite happily persuade you to answer,’ Mark said. ‘I have enough ammunition to make life very uncomfortable for you both.’

‘Miss Beaumont is presently eating her dinner,
Hunter,’ the Viscount uttered quickly. His mind ferreted for explanations as to what prompted this man’s interference. He knew that Tarquin Beaumont and Mark Hunter were friends, but he sensed that Hunter’s involvement might be due to a more personal interest in Emily. Nicholas had been aware that soppy Stephen Bond was sniffing about her, but not that a fellow of Hunter’s stature was in the running for Emily’s affections. It was time to mark his territory, even if in doing so he sullied Emily’s reputation.

He gave Mark a conspiratorial smile. ‘I think you must recall, Hunter, that the lady and I once were betrothed. Alas, it came to nought but we still are
passionately
fond of each other.’ He spread his hands appealingly. ‘There, I have said it. You are privy now to our secret. It is a delicate situation, but we are both men of the world. I know you would not intentionally ruin a spinster’s future marriage prospects by breathing a word of this to anyone.’

‘No … but you would, and give little thought to the consequences for her and her family,’ Emily uttered in a gruff little voice. She had immediately followed Nicholas from the dining room. So confident was he of his servant’s loyalty and vigilance that he had not
bothered to lock her in. Now she moved forward, slowly at first, but her relief at seeing Mark prompted her to skip swiftly to his side.

A strong arm immediately secured her there, heavy and possessive about her quivering shoulders. The hand holding the pistol did not waver from its target.

Devlin’s eyes narrowed on the couple. Emily had quite naturally curved into Mark Hunter’s embrace as though she had done so before. He smiled grimly. ‘Perhaps the two of you have been keeping secrets of your own—’ he began, but his insinuation was immediately curtailed by Mark’s voice.

‘I know you won’t object if we are immediately on our way.’ Mark swung a look between the two men and his lip curled slightly. ‘I imagine the two of you have scores to settle.’ Keeping the gun steady on them, he led Emily towards the door.

‘You must think you’re pretty clever, to get the better of me,’ Devlin gritted in furious frustration as he watched Emily slipping from his grasp.

‘No … not really,’ Mark answered. ‘What I do think is that you’re pretty stupid to think you’d get away with such an outrage.’ Mark suddenly raised the pistol and fired a shot at the brightly flickering chandelier. The chain was severed and crystal and
brass crashed to the floor, plunging the hallway into blackness. Swiftly Mark turned and, with Emily fast in his embrace, urged her out into the night.

‘I
knew you’d come to rescue me.’

‘And are you glad I did?’

Emily sent her saviour a somewhat startled look. She had intended her vibrant declaration to convey her praise and gratitude, yet Mark’s response had sounded cynical. ‘Could you not tell how pleased … how relieved I was to see you?’ she demanded, rather piqued.

‘Given the circumstances it would have been ill advised to look disappointed. You might once have been betrothed to your kidnapper, nevertheless you have your reputation to consider.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Emily breathed fiercely. She had been feeling quite enervated by the day’s chaotic events, but now her temper was
stirring, sparking vitality into her. ‘Do you think I was pleased to find the Viscount had plotted to abduct me?’

‘I believe that once you would have been pleased to be the Viscount’s wife.’

Emily felt the full force of his trenchant blue gaze. Her chin went up, but her heart plummeted. Whilst she had been in captivity, Mark had soared so high in her estimation that she feared she might be coming to like him very much indeed. He had been her hero, the man on whom she had pinned all her hopes. She’d trusted he would bring everything right and, up until a few moments ago, he’d lived up to every expectation. In fact, so beguiled by him had she become, she had acknowledged that he stirred her heart … and body … in a way that no man had, even Nicholas …

Now he had ruined it all. He had just forced her to recall that recently she had been sure she didn’t like him. Suddenly she felt quite depressed … quite sad.

‘It’s true Nicholas and I were betrothed many years ago,’ Emily eventually said. ‘He now has a wife. I hope you are not hinting I might welcome the attentions of a married man.’

‘And if he were not married?’

‘It would make no difference,’ Emily returned immediately.

‘Devlin mentioned you were still
passionately
fond of one another.’

‘Well, he had no right to say any such thing! It is a lie!’ Emily choked. ‘I loathe him, and I don’t believe he likes me much either. If he had any kind of regard for me, he would not have wanted to treat me so abominably. Not that any of it is your business.’ Emily paused after that outburst, fiddled with her cuffs. ‘I have satisfied your inquisitiveness simply because you have gone out of your way to assist me today.’ Her voice was husky with emotion and spontaneous tears shone in her eyes. A hand sprang to her face to irritably dash the wet away.

As they had thundered towards London Mark had enquired if she were warm enough, if she wanted to make an early stop. Beneath his courteous consideration for her comfort Emily had sensed that he was in a brooding mood. She had anticipated an early interrogation, even a scolding for having put herself in jeopardy by going off alone with Riley. What she had not expected was this odd atmosphere that had erected a barrier between them. On the journey, when her attempts at conversation received a monosyllable in reply, she’d lapsed into quiet. She had at first imagined Mark was preoccupied with putting distance between the curricle and possible pursuers.
Emily now suspected the space he’d wanted to maintain was between them.

Since they had joined forces to solve the mystery of Tarquin’s disappearance, she had grown accustomed to those blue eyes smouldering at her in humour or desire. Now he was different; his attitude was unerringly polite but aloof. And she didn’t like it. She wanted soothing words and strong arms comforting her. She wanted his approval and his affection …

‘I’m sorry, Emily, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Mark pinched at strain between his brows, feeling churlish in the extreme at having let suspicion conquer courtesy. Since he had discovered Emily had been tricked into going with Riley, and for what vile purpose, he had been frantic with worry for her safety. Now, instead of cherishing the gift of her presence, and her safe deliverance, he was acting like a jealous buffoon.

Emily had endured more than enough already today, yet he had just added to her troubles. His hand slid to enclose quivering white fingers. ‘I had no right to say any of that, or pry into your past. Forgive me …?’

When Emily remained silent, Mark sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. ‘For hours I’ve been dreading what your captor might do to you, Emily.’ His
admission was quiet, almost diffident. ‘Devlin tried to make light of it all. He hinted you were a willing participant and had a secret life as his mistress … it maddened me.’ He passed a hand roughly over his face. ‘I’m a fool, I know, to suspect one word that bastard uttered might be the truth.’

Feeling reassured by the explanation for his bad mood, Emily twisted her wrist beneath his to clasp his palm. ‘I was so very glad you came for me, Mark,’ Emily stressed softly. ‘It was only the thought that soon you would burst in to rescue me that kept my spirits up.’ Her small fingers tightened reflexively about his as a wave of relief shuddered through her. ‘I prayed you would get my note in time and find clues to where Riley had taken me. Had I lost hope and trust in you, I doubt I would have found the strength to resist.’ Her voice trembled into silence and she stifled a sob with her knuckles. ‘I stabbed Nicholas in the leg with a fork to get free and was about to throw a candelabra at him when you turned up.’

Mark chuckled softly, raised her fingers to his lips and tenderly saluted them. ‘Devlin was never a match for you.’

The inflection in Mark’s voice made Emily sure he was not simply referring to her plucky attack on Devlin.

Gently, reluctantly, Mark disengaged his hand from fingers that felt temptingly sensual. He used it to grab his glass and take a swallow of brandy. ‘Drink your wine before it cools. It will revive you. We still have many miles to travel.’ He pushed her hot toddy closer to her on the table.

Emily rewarded him with a smile and gratefully toasted her cool palms on the steaming cup. Quickly she took a glance about at her cosy surroundings.

It had been impossible to safely travel on without allowing the horses to be rested and watered. They had broken their journey at this wayside inn on the Guildford Road. The saloon bar of the Rose and Crown had been crowded with boisterous locals so Mark had taken a private room for them. The landlord—a jovial fellow with a patch over one eye that lent him an incongruously piratical air so far inland—had shown them to the back parlour of the establishment. Whilst leading the way through the narrow corridors, he had apologised profusely that they could not have the best parlour, but that, he explained, had been taken earlier by a family on their way to Guildford. The other he had available was very nice, he’d assured them, and so it proved to be. It was small, but quite clean and tidy and adequately furnished. Once ensconced in wing chairs positioned
on either side of the glowing grate, Mark had assured her they would be back on the road within an hour and in Mayfair before midnight.

In truth, Emily had been grateful for the stop. Since they’d set out back to London at breakneck speed there had been no proper opportunity for much conversation to pass between them. After their recent fraught exchange, Emily wasn’t sure whether she would rather maintain this amicable quiet than have the answers to the pressing questions rotating in her mind. It seemed talking invariably led to bickering. But she knew they must talk, and at great length, for there was so much she needed to know.

What news was there of Tarquin? What would happen to Riley, and to Viscount Devlin? Mark had said Nicholas would pay and so he should. Such despicable behaviour deserved punishment. But a scandal? Please, no! Her parents did not deserve to be embarrassed by their foolish daughter as well as their wayward son.

Mark watched flitting emotions etch strain on Emily’s heart-shaped countenance. Wisps of fair hair had escaped from the knot at the back of her head to embellish skin made luminous by misty night air. Her eyes were languid with sleepiness, the lids low.

Mark needed answers to those questions that still pitilessly tortured him. The Viscount had schemed to trap Emily today, and she was genuinely angry over it. But had she once willingly been Devlin’s mistress? If so, would he have eventually again coaxed her into consenting to sleep with him?

Mark took a swig from his brandy, aware that he felt ashamed of the quickening in his loins. She looked desirable despite her ordeal, too beautifully vulnerable to be alone with a man who wanted her as much as he did. Despite their differences, he knew she trusted him, felt safe with him, yet he could not banish the lustful thoughts pricking his mind.

He suspected she was not as innocent as a genteel spinster ought to be. But how experienced was she? Had Devlin taken her maidenhead, or had his devilish plot been devised so he might finish what he’d started years ago?

Mark rose abruptly and strolled to the window. He struck a broad hand on the frame and looked into the blackness, his thoughts as hot as his loins. If he were to kiss her … and she were to melt against him as she had done before … what harm in that? They were miles from home and prying eyes, and if she were knowing and compliant … there were rooms upstairs …

‘Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?’ Mark asked abruptly. He shoved back from the window and paced to and fro to ease his rigid muscles.

‘I’m not hungry at all. I ate dinner with Nicholas …’ Emily glimpsed an immediate fierce light in Mark’s eyes at another mention of the Viscount. Quickly she added, ‘At first I thought it best to humour him as much as possible and accept his hospitality, while I waited for you.’ Inclining her blonde head, she brought her cup close to her lips and took a sip from it. She was obliquely aware of Mark’s jerky movement as he snatched up the decanter and refilled his glass.

‘Very wise …’ he eventually said with barely a hint of irony. His empty glass was replaced abruptly on the table.

‘Are you still angry with me?’ Emily asked quietly. She gave him a sweet, tentative smile. ‘I know I have put you to a lot of trouble. I know it was rash to go with Riley. Actually, it was a stupid risk; I know it now I have had time to think sensibly on it. But I honestly thought Tarquin might be in peril.’ She traced the rim of her cup with a slender finger, watching the movement as she said, ‘I was terrified my brother might die all alone … cold and hungry.’
Her soft lower lip was nipped between worrying teeth. ‘I didn’t know what to do; that was why I came to try to find you at your home.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘I hoped so much that you would be there to counsel me.’ She finished what was left of her mulled wine, then made a rueful admission. ‘That’s not quite true. I didn’t want your advice; I wanted you to take away the burden of it all and deal with it for me.’

‘And I would have done that, I swear, Emily,’ Mark vowed huskily. ‘I’m not angry with you. But I am angry with Devlin and Riley, and with your dolt of a brother who brought about this fiasco. I’m angry with myself too.’

Emily would have interrupted at that point, but Mark gestured for her silence. ‘Let’s not speak of any of it again tonight.’ A long finger moved on her cheek, teasing back a stray curl that spiralled close to her mouth. ‘You’re safe and that’s the most important thing.’ He tilted up her face so she must look at him. ‘You’re tired and overwrought, as is natural considering what you have been through. And if that were not enough to get you immediately back to Callison Crescent, there is your family to think about. We must get you home, and hope you have not been missed.’ A frown corrugated his brow beneath
a fall of dark hair. ‘Heaven only knows what excuse will satisfy your parents if they have noticed your absence.’ Mark gently urged Emily to her feet and, fetching her cloak, courteously placed it about her shoulders. ‘If you are ready, it’s high time we set again on the road.’

‘Mr Hunter?’

Mark halted immediately on hearing his name barked in a cultured female voice. He turned his head. What he saw caused him enough dismay to make him swear beneath his breath, although his expression altered not one iota.

Emily was positioned slightly in front of Mark, and her slender frame had tensed statue-still for she, too, had recognized those haughty tones. Even before Mark’s low curse reached her ears she knew she was once more that day in awful trouble. Her stomach lurched, and she pressed a hand against the wall to help support her on legs that felt boneless.

‘I thought I recognised you, sir.’ Mrs Violet Pearson emerged fully from the doorway of the Rose and Crown’s best parlour. She pulled her shawl tight about her scrawny arms to ward off the chill. But her inquisitiveness had been roused far too much for her to yet go back inside and seek the warmth of the blazing logs.

When her son, Bertie, had gone upstairs to bed in a sulk, he had not properly closed the door behind him. Violet had cast a purposeful look at Mr Pearson, but he had contrived to nod off in the chair at that precise moment. Violet had thus stomped to perform the office herself rather than tolerate the draught. Just for the once she was glad that her husband and son could be lazy and inconsiderate for, as she put a hand to wood to push the door shut, she had spied something very interesting indeed in the corridor.

A lady and gentleman, glimpsed through the aperture, had seemed familiar to her. For the fleeting moment she had them in her sights Violet had been instantly put in mind of another kind of familiarity: the kind shared by people in love. Not that Violet had experience of such sweet intimacy with Mr Pearson, but she conversely relished the bitterness the lack provoked.

Violet was sure she could scent a rat … or rather a scandal, for although she had not got a good view of the young woman with Mr. Hunter, she had got a peep at golden hair curling beneath a bonnet. She also recalled seeing a classic profile and an enviably curvaceous figure. Few women could boast such remarkable attractions, and grace of movement. Naturally, she would never let on to the chit, or her
mother, that she thought her pretty. So
could
it be Miss Emily Beaumont?

Violet knew that Mark Hunter and Tarquin Beaumont were chums, so there was a connection of sorts between Emily and Mark. But it seemed remarkably odd that the two of them might be at an inn, halfway to Guildford, at ten of the clock at night. Perhaps Miss Beaumont was with a relation who was elsewhere in the building … or perhaps she was not …