The Jealous Love of a Scoundrel (The Marlow Intrigues) (2 page)

~

“Peter.” Lillian’s fingers gripped in his hair as he pressed kisses against her neck and his fingers slid her wrapper from her shoulder. He kissed the skin he’d revealed when his hand massaged one breast, while his other braced the curve of her lower back with a gentle grip that made her feel protected.

That was why she loved him, because Lord Brooke was never rough, and his deep brown eyes glittered when he looked at her, and of course, he was generous. She had known a dozen relationships like this; Victor encouraged them. “It keeps your audience hoping,” he would say, “if one or two gentlemen are received and favoured.” But she had never felt like this with others.

Her fingers ran through Peter’s dark brown hair as he lifted her off her feet.

She wrapped her legs about his slim hips as he carried her to the chaise longue. Victor had installed it for this purpose.

The first time it had been used she’d felt embarrassed and awkward, violated, and it had been painful. It was never painful with Lord Brooke, it was heaven. From the moment she’d seen him up in the theatre box, watching her with wide dark eyes, she’d felt something. Then he’d been among the crowd of men outside her dressing room door and she’d known he was special. He stood a couple of inches taller than most, and his looks were aristocratic; she had known without knowing that he had a title.

He ought not to be here. This was not a place for wealthy gentleman of his standing; soldiers, shop owners and lawyers, perhaps, but not a Lord, and yet, as his friends had said, Peter liked to play in hell. He’d told her he’d come here on a whim. Their eyes had caught on the first night as he’d sat up in the box he’d now hired, and the two of them had been on fire since. She’d let him into her dressing room alone on the second night and no one else had been in since.

It was the first time she’d done this and not felt soiled or sickened afterwards—because Peter was so gentle, and genteel.

Perhaps in his world he was a scoundrel, but in hers he was an angel.

Her wrapper had come loose when he moved her, and now as he lay her down, his hands drew it open across her breasts and for a moment he just looked, his eyes full of approval, before his hands touched and gently showed their admiration.

She’d removed her costume and put her wrapper on with no clothes beneath it because she had seen him in the audience and known this would come next.

She’d met Monsieur Milligan, properly called Arthur Smith, in a small touring show. She’d gone to see it with her parents, and he’d called her forward to be his assistant for a trick, the audience had laughed, and she’d smiled and loved it. She had run away with Arthur, jumping onto his carriage with her single little bag of clothes, a naïve foolish girl, who thought the world exciting and applause far better than a da’ who wanted her to scrub floors, wash, and clean as a servant in a big house.

Then she’d come to London and learned that theatre managers were no better than madams in a whorehouse, and actresses deemed no better than whores. Her eyes had been opened as wide as it was possible to see. Yet she had made her choice to leave her family; there was no going back. 

But with Peter she did not feel like a whore.

He kissed a line down her stomach, slipping her wrapper farther aside. Her body undulated beneath his lips; she had learned how to please the men she entertained on this sofa. If she did not please them Victor had a word or two to say, and usually words which coloured the air blue. But with Peter, her actions were done without thought, they were done because he made her body cry out.

His fingers touched her between her legs and then slid within as he kissed her there too. So gently.

Her hips rocked up with the rhythm of his invasion, following his lead, as little sighs of breath left her throat. She was hot, and it was not only his gentleness it was his handsomeness too.

The movement of his fingers charmed her body entirely as they slowly drove her mad, and she gripped his hair as he sucked the place of treasure. She tumbled over into the little death, falling, her arms splayed and her legs limp, abandoned to pleasure as she spiralled through the darkness.

Material brushed against her naked skin when he moved over her, and her fingers reached for the buttons to release him from his trousers. She wished him within her. There was nothing forced or awkward or sordid in this. His hand cupped her head in a simple gesture that protected and treasured as she lifted her legs. Her thighs gripped at his hips, where there was now bare skin as he pressed into her and then began to move.

She rocked her hips up, joining with him, working with him, her eyes looking into the deep brown of his. It was so foolish to fall in love, and yet she’d had no choice in it. He had come into her dressing room with his charm and his eloquence and captured her heart.

She sighed as he worked within her and her hand fell to grip the flesh beneath his loose shirttails at his hips, while his hands gripped either edge of the chaise longue. His movement was forceful and intentional. That was the second thing she had known about Lord Brooke, without evening knowing, that he would be skilled at this. He had a look about him, a physical fitness and an expression of worldliness.

He had been abroad, he told her. He associated with a fast set amongst his own people. They were rakes, rogues, and scoundrels. But a scoundrel with numerous hours of practice made a beautiful lover.

His head bent and his lips caught at her breast as his hips lifted up high, arching his back, as he fully withdrew, and then he pressed back in as deep as he was able to press. She cried out with the pleasure of it and so he did the same again.

That he did things to please her, touched her soul not only her heart.

As his hips moved, his invasions growing in pace and aggressiveness, he looked into her eyes, as if he dared her not to close hers and show him all of herself as she fell into the little death, but she could not keep her eyes open as she bit her lip and tumbled again. His strokes then were hard and swift, pumping into her with a desire to please himself too.

He broke with a loud victorious shout that the men outside her door must have heard. But that was what Victor wished, her audience to return tomorrow for hope that they would cry out in triumph. To Victor, this was simply the second part of her performance. To her, with Peter, it was bliss.

He knelt up, slipping out of her. He was fully clothed apart from his open trousers. She lay with her wrapper open; it only covered her arms.

“I wish to do something we have not done before Lillian. I wish to take you to a hotel tonight. Let’s find a bed where we might both be naked and indulge ourselves a little more.” There was something odd in his eyes, longing and a touch of sadness, but there was still the glint that said he liked what he saw in her with the same intensity she liked what she saw in him.

“What do you say? Will you come to a hotel with me?”

“Yes.”

Part Two

Peter rolled to lie on his back, his forearm resting on his forehead as the sheets stirred across his skin. They were tangled from his night with Lillian, and the entire room stank of sex. He had performed four or perhaps five times, certainly five if he counted the time at the theatre. She made him feel like a damned Greek god he was so virile in her company.

How could he lose her, and yet how could he keep her?

He’d come here to make a memory he might keep, if he could not keep her. He’d hoped that he’d burn out the flame which flickered in his chest for her. But he had not. He looked sideways. She was still asleep, her teal eyes hidden beneath soft eyelids as her dark eyelashes fanned across her skin, and her dark curls were unruly and wild all about her head.

Her slender, pale arm rose and lay across the sheet and her red lips lifted in a slight smile at some dream she must be enjoying.

Was she dreaming of him? He hoped she was, he hoped she kept this memory too and treasured it.

He got up from the bed carefully. It would be easier if she did not wake. He did not wish to face goodbye. He dressed himself quietly, looking at the shape of her body hugged by the tangled sheet.

She was the most beautiful, the most perfect woman he’d ever seen, and yet it felt like a sin to think it when there was Emily. He had avoided thinking of one when he was in the other’s company for weeks, and yet now, at the last, how could he not compare?

He withdrew a locket from the inside pocket of his evening coat, a locket he’d owned for a couple of weeks. He’d planned to give it to Lillian days ago, yet he knew when he gave it to her it ought to be a sign that this was the end, so he’d kept it in his pocket and kept coming back. But today was the last day. It had to be.

He lay it beside the empty bottle of champagne on a table by the bed. Memories of the taste of the champagne on her skin, and between her thighs, tumbled through his head.

The locket contained a lock of his hair, so she had something to hold and remember him by. But he wished for something of her.

One loose strand of hair lay on the white sheet beside her head. He took out his handkerchief, picked up the hair and wrapped it up carefully. A single hair would be easily hidden underneath a ring, and then he might keep hold of Lillian all his life.

God, how foolish. He was talking nonsense. Who had he become? He did not even know himself. He had never wished to hold on to a woman.

Why the hell must this happen to him now? Why, when he had a future he wished to seek? For years he could have kept a mistress and it would have hurt no one… But now.

Slipping his handkerchief back into his pocket, Lillian’s hair safely within it, easing his soul, he turned away. Perhaps he could have written Lillian a note to say goodbye, but he was too unused to goodbyes, the words were not within him, and she would be humiliated if someone else read the words aloud and that was the way she found out it was over.

Time would tell her it was at an end.

He went home first; o wash the scents of sex off him, and to change his clothes. Then with a heavy feeling, and guilt slashing through his chest, he walked to Smithfield’s. He should not have gone to Lillian last night. His conscience was not yelling at him, but growling like a rabid animal.

Yet what was done was done, and today was his new leaf. He would be good. He would do all he ought to, to please Emily and her family. That was what she deserved.

When he climbed the steps, it was probably eleven; they were likely breaking their fast.

His heart pulsed hard in his chest when the door opened. “Is Mr Smithfield home?”

“He is, my Lord.”

Peter swallowed as the butler walked away. The staff were used to him calling; they were not used to him asking for Emily’s father, they would know, as Smithfield would, what he wanted to say.

Of course Drew had never done this; he’d stolen his bloody bride away and set the world spinning behind him. Peter had been forced to do his courting with the strictest supervision to avoid any risk of him playing the same game. But then why would he? He was eminently suited to Emily, she was untitled, and she may come with a reasonable dowry but Peter had a pile of his own money; he did not need hers. Drew had been fortune hunting.

“Lord Brooke…” Smithfield appeared from the dining room where Emily was probably eating. He smiled profusely.

Of course he did; he was gaining a title for his daughter and a wealthy son-in-law. For a man who had worked his way up in society it was a coup.

“Mr Smithfield.” Peter lifted off his hat and swallowed again.

The man raised a hand to lead the way to the small room which served as a gentleman’s retiring room at night and his office in the day.

Peter swallowed. His palms were sticky with sweat. The butler had not returned to take his hat and so he gripped it before him, awkwardly.

He cleared his throat as Smithfield looked at him expectantly.

He must say the words. He wished for this. “I have come to ask for Emily’s hand in marriage, if you will agree to the match, sir?”

Smithfield’s lips parted in an even wider approving smile. “You need hardly ask. You have been calling here for so long I do not doubt your constancy at all.”

Constancy. The word pierced through Peter’s chest, and he coughed again as his throat dried further. Images of Lillian lying in the bed back at the Bristol Hotel, played through his mind. 

“….I do not think we need to discuss financial things. Emily has her dowry, but obviously you are well set up.” 

One hand let go of his hat, closed then opened as Peter took a breath.
This is what I want.
“I have your permission to speak with Emily then?”

“You do indeed, Lord Brooke.”

Smithfield stepped forward and gripped Peter’s hand with both of his. “Congratulations.”

“Emily has not said yes yet.”

“She will, Lord Brooke.”

“We ought to be on first name terms now surely. Please call me Peter.”

“Peter, very well. I will have Emily come to you here.” Smithfield nodded, shaking Peter’s hand firmly.

When Smithfield left, Peter walked across the room and set down his hat on Smithfield’s desk, then shook out his hands and walked to the window. He looked down at the street. His hands gripped behind his back as his heart thumped out a heavy drumbeat. This is what he wanted. He wanted children. Since the moment he’d held Drew’s son in his arms he had wanted his own. Nothing he’d done in his life made him feel proud. Since school, he and Drew had lived life wildly, and then in their youth, Mark and Harry had joined them, and the four of them, a band of brothers, had taken on the world with a passion for badness and debauchery… Then Drew had found a wife, built a home, and begun a family, and Peter had seen himself for the overgrown bloody boy he was. It was time to grow up.

Dammit, he should not need to make excuses to himself for why he was here—he should stop visiting Lillian.

He sighed and turned around as the door opened. Emily came in.

“Papa said you wished to speak with me here.”

“Yes.”

She was as different to Lillian as it was possible to be, and yet she was beautiful in a different way. Emotion tied up in a knot inside him.

He crossed the room and took both of her small hands in his. She was a petite woman in every sense.

He’d approached her in the beginning to provide a screen for Drew to seduce his chosen wife, and then Peter had begun courting Emily simply because she was kind and gentle, a genteel woman, and pretty. It had been amusing in the beginning, something different, nothing more, and then once Drew had stolen her friend away, Peter had been banned from all association. But when Peter had seen Drew’s son, George, and envied his friend, the only woman who had come to mind when he thought of creating children and a home to bring them up in, was Emily. Even now, that was who he saw—the mother of his children—a perfect wife.

This was right.

He gripped her hands gently, his gloves a layer between her skin and his.

Her eyes were brown, a rich radiant colour, and as he looked at her the sunlight caught in her light brown hair and gilded it with an auburn tint. Warmth flowed through his chest, and then a burning sensation of guilt. When he was with Emily he wished only to be with Emily, and yet when he was with Lillian…

He must forget Lillian.

“I am sure you have guessed why I came.”

She smiled. She had such a pretty smile.

“Emily, I have admired you for a long time, as you know, and… I wish you to be my wife.” If he was doing this he supposed he ought to do it right. He lowered to one knee. “Will you marry me?”

“Oh.” It was a slight breathless sound of excitement. Emily was so timid and unsure of herself. She would become a perfect lady. “Thank you.” It was an odd thing to say, but it was absolutely Emily, she behaved as though she had no expectation of life, or herself, she was as self-denying as he was self-obsessed. She would be good for him. She would calm him down, help him to behave as he ought, and she would be a wonderful mother.

“Yes.” Her smile broadened, catching like a little stitch through his heart. “I will marry you. I would love to be your wife.”

He rose to his feet in a rush. The door had been left open for propriety’s sake but he was betrothed, he did not think it would matter. He gripped her nape and pulled her lips to his; they were cool and gentle and unassuming. She had known nothing of the physical act. He had kissed her only twice before. She’d been too strictly chaperoned for any regularity in captured kisses, and he was probably the only man who had ever kissed her.

He pulled away and held her gaze. Entirely charmed. He had as much affection for Emily as he did for Lillian—it was simply different. His feelings for Emily were warm and tender. What he felt for Lillian was dark, wild, and desperate.

That was the old person he’d been. Emily was a part of who he wished to become.

“May we tell my mother?”

~

Emily turned, holding on to his hand.

He gripped her hand tighter and pulled her back around. “Wait a moment. I am not finished, Emily. Do not become a desperate female with me now. You have never been that.”

She laughed at his jesting. She adored his easy sense of humour. It was that which had drawn her to him first. No, that was a lie. A burst of humour left her throat. She had fallen for his looks and his title too.

“Here, Emily.” He withdrew a ring from his inside pocket, then lifted her left hand, selected her third finger and slid a diamond engagement ring onto it.

She breathed in, tears clouding her vision, then lifted her hand and looked at it in the light from the window. The stone was flawless.

She glowed inside when she looked into his brown eyes.

He had finally asked her. She had sensed that he would for weeks, and Mary had kept hinting that Peter had spoken to Drew, but he had not come, and now here he was, and he had asked.

She was to be Lady Brooke. Oh. That was daunting. Yet he must think her worthy of it.

“Come, let us tell Mama.” She caught hold of his hand, and pulled him behind her, hurrying him.

“Mama,” she said, feeling the brightest she had ever done when they entered the dining room. “Peter has asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, how…“ Tears flooded her mother’s eyes and silenced her. She had told Emily she was so proud that someone of Lord Brooke’s status had been courting her, and now Emily was to be a lady. “I am so thrilled.” She came across the room, and when Emily released Peter’s hand, her mother gripped it. “I welcome you to the family.”

“Thank you.” Peter bowed slightly, as eloquent as ever. Peter had a wit and enthusiasm for life that was contagious, and he was intensely clever; he could turn a conversation to anything he wished. He had charm, and he had charmed her. How wonderful it was to have found a man as perfect as Mary’s Drew, and as she was Mary’s friend and he was Drew’s they might stay close and become a set.

Her hands gripped together at her waist as she watched him speaking with her parents, his gloved hand lifted and swept back his hair from his brow when he said something.

He was to be her husband. Lord Brooke…

She wished to tell Mary, and yet Mary was at home on Drew’s estate, miles out of town. Emily would write her a letter when Peter had gone.

“Emily,” he turned and smiled at her, “are you going to the Stimpsons’ ball this evening?”

“We are, yes,” her mother answered.

“Then may I escort you?” He looked at her father. “You may all ride in my carriage, if I collect you from here.”

“Of course, Peter, that is very kind of you.”

Part Three

A long breath left Peter’s lungs. This was madness. He was mad. Emily had begun suffering with a headache at the ball and so she and her family had cut their celebrations short and he’d taken them home. He’d done everything he ought to at the ball. He had been solicitous, and he’d stood at Emily’s side as numerous people had come to congratulate them, he should have been revelling in it, revelling in the smile of jubilation on Emily’s lips.