The Jealous Love of a Scoundrel (The Marlow Intrigues) (3 page)

And now he ought to be at home in bed. Or sitting in his library drinking brandy. Or looking for Harry and Mark in the clubs. He ought to be anywhere but here.

But he was here.

Whatever the hold that Lillian Hart had over him, it had pulled him back again.

He gripped his head in his hands. He’d found his way to her dressing room and sat within it alone, waiting, sitting on the chaise longue where they had enjoyed their happy interludes. He had not gone in to watch the show because he was not in the mood for the satire.

He stood up. He was impatient. His conscience roared, while something else inside him urged. He opened the door and went out in the narrow, whitewashed hall. He could hear the audience even from down here. He found his way to the route he knew she would take when she slipped through the hatch under the stage, and waited.

A gasp echoed down the corridors from the auditorium. Milligan must have just sliced off her head.

Peter’s arms folded over his chest as he leant a shoulder against the cold, stark wall. His temple rested against it too. What was wrong with him? He’d always been able to take or leave whores. They had been nothing special. But then that perhaps was all it was; Lillian was special. What other woman had eyes the colour of teal, and what other whore gave her all to sex as though she truly cared?

He sighed. He could hear the casters of the bed being spun about on the wooden stage. He straightened up.

Lillian burst through the door that led from under the stage, gripping her paper posy, her white dress floating about her.

He blocked her path.

“Peter! I have to get to my place.”

“I know.” He gripped the back of her head, his fingers clasping in the wild dark curls, and pressed his lips on hers, then his tongue into her mouth. Her free hand came up and touched his cheek as her tongue briefly brushed against his. But then she pulled away and turned and ran, with a laugh and a smile thrown across her shoulder.

On the way here, he’d called at the Covent Garden Hotel and booked a room there; he did not wish to return to the Bristol Hotel and draw attention to them.

He went to her dressing room and laid out her clothes. He would help her dress and help her hurry and they would enjoy themselves in the comfort of a bed, not in her cramped dressing room.

“Peter,” she declared when she came through the door. “You must not delay me when I am on stage, I will be in trouble with Arthur and Victor if you throw me off my performance.”

Sod Milligan and the bloody theatre manager, he did not care what they thought. “Come here, let me help you change. I am taking you to a pretty room and a comfortable bed.”

She reached to her side and began untying the ribbons. Between them they had her out of her costume and back into her clothes in moments, despite his hands trailing to places they ought not to go.

He kissed the back of her neck. Then she turned.

“I have not said thank you yet. How awful of me. I loved my gift, it was beautiful. I did not put it on, though, because I wished you to put it on for me.”

He had left the gift there with no intention of ever coming back. She would never have worn it then.

“Here.” She went to her dressing table and took it from a drawer, then held it out to him, a tiny silver heart dangling on a thin silver chain. The back of the heart was glass and beneath the glass was a short lock of his hair. It would rest against her skin—always.

She turned her back and raised her hair. He lifted the locket over her head and lay it about her slender neck. Her nape had the perfect feminine curve. When he’d secured the catch, he leant down and kissed her there.

She faced him, her red lips parting in a smile that shone in her eyes as her fingers pressed over the locket. “Thank you. It is truly beautiful. I will keep it on, always.”

In his mind Peter saw the element of her act, where Milligan slid on the ring and then it flew off back into his hand. Earlier Peter had placed a ring on Emily’s finger pledging himself to her.

Yet this was no sin. He was not married, not yet. 

~

Lillian rolled over on top of him, knocking Peter to his back as she laughed. The sheets were tangled about them, and their clothes were strewn across the floor. She liked being in a bed with him. She liked that he was naked too. She straddled his hips.

He’d purchased supper for them and champagne and port too, and the remains of their feast was scattered about their room. She grasped his half-drunk glass of port and let it trickle onto his chest.

“You will have us thrown out for staining the sheets.”

“I do not intend to waste it on the sheet.” She licked it up from the lines of ridges and hollows defined by the muscle beneath his skin. He gripped her thighs. Then as she licked lower, he gripped her hair. He’d always liked touching her hair. The tight curls seemed to fascinate him.

She kissed his tip.

“More port…” he jested, reaching for the glass.

She laughed too, but she took it from his hand. Yet instead of pouring it, she dipped her tongue into it, then leant and circled her tongue about his most sensitive flesh. Then she took a sip from the glass, held him in her hand and gently released the liquid, letting it run down.

“You are being cruel to me, Lillian.”

“I am being very good to you.”

“Yes.” His agreement came on a sigh.

She took another sip and taunted him again. Then she licked up the liquid with long strokes from his root to his tip.

He sighed.

She took another sip, and let it drip, drop by drop, onto him. His muscles tensed with every touch on his skin. She licked it up again, and then knelt up and drank the last of the port in the glass, then returned the glass to him empty.

He laughed. But his laughter stopped when she moved still farther down the bed, gripped him in her hand, and…she kissed him first, then opened her mouth.

He gripped her head, his palms on either side as she moved, absorbing him, caressing with her tongue and using her hand to consume him too.

His hips lifted as he rocked up against her and his hands gripped her head and helped her move in the same rhythm. He was sighing, repeatedly. Then suddenly her head was gripped more firmly. “Lillian, stop.” He pulled her up, tumbled her backwards onto the bed and pressed his tongue into her mouth as his knee came up and parted her thighs, entwining their legs.

He broke the kiss, then rose, kneeling over her, before gripping her thighs and hauling her down so that she was positioned with her thighs draped over his, and then he leaned over her and invaded her. She squealed at the force of his thrust.

His dark eyes glittered, and he pulsed into her as though he wished to teach her a lesson, that he was all she would ever need, as though he wished to fill her and make her feel so complete she would never want this again with another man.

Her fingertips touched his chest. It was such a novelty to see him so fully and gloriously naked. His back arched then bowed as he moved, his flat stomach creasing and yielding. Her fingertips slid to his stomach. Then, as though he thought her too conscious, he bent and kissed her, pressing his tongue into her mouth.

She focused on his kiss and his movement within her, letting her feelings absorb her thoughts.

He pulled away and concentrated on filling her again, his movements long, swift and harsher, striking against her pelvis, telling her body to give in to him. She gripped his shoulders as her body jolted, again and again, the locket he’d bought her swayed at her neck. She reached above her head and pressed her palms against the board at the top of the bed.

“Oh.” The hard sigh came from her lips. “Peter,” she said into the air as she fell to pieces.

He gripped her arms and pulled her up so she sat astride his lap, impaled. Her arms wrapped about his neck, holding on as he gripped her hips and lifted her up then brought her down. She panted out a breath with each stroke, her fingers curling in the back of his soft hair. “Peter,” she breathed into his ear as she broke again. He pressed up into her thrice more and broke, his hands slipping to her back and clutching her close, holding her tight. Her arms about his neck gripped tighter too.

When he fell back onto the bed, with her on top of him, she laughed. He refused to let her go, he did not even withdraw from her but kept her on top of him, as though she was his blanket, and she lay her head on his chest and fell asleep.

Part Four

Peter’s thighs gripped his horse, slowing it from a canter to a trot. He lifted and fell in the saddle, his toes pressing down into the stirrups. He did not ride up to the front door but gripped his reins and guided his horse about the house to the stables.

It was still early to be calling. He’d left Lillian asleep in the bed they’d shared for a night and gone home to wash the guilt off his body. Then he’d asked for a horse. He needed to speak to Drew, to someone who would talk some bloody sense into his head.

The horse’s iron clad hooves rung on the cobble as he rode into the stable yard. Two grooms appeared as he slipped his feet free from the stirrups, then he lifted his leg and swung down from the saddle to land on the ground.

He hoped Drew was here, and he hoped Drew was free to talk.

Leaving his horse in the care of the grooms, Peter walked around to the front of the house. A footman opened the door and bowed. “My Lord.”

Peter was well known here.

“Is Lord Framlington at home?”

“He is, my Lord, he’s in the nursery. Would you care to wait in the drawing room?”

“Yes.” No, he would rather go to the nursery. Seeing George, his little godson, would remind him exactly why marrying Emily was right.

He followed the footman upstairs and dutifully waited where he was put, his hands gripping into fists. Lillian would make a good mother too; she would have energy and laughter and love to offer a child. Her face hovered in his mind’s eyes, the image of her as she’d crashed into the little death. He sighed and looked down to see his hands tremble. Emotion was a turmoil of feelings within him.

He was doing wrong.

He shut his eyes. He must have his solicitor draw up an agreement for Lillian, he would need to ask for her silence and he would offer her an annual income to seal the conclusion of their affair… In case there was a child.

He had to stop this.

Drew, come down here and talk sense into me.

“Hello, Uncle Peter.” It was Mary who came through the door first, she was carrying George.

Peter turned. “Hello.” He crossed the room to look at George more closely. The child had grown remarkably. He’d grown each time Peter came.

“Pete.” Drew came into the room, stepped forward and gave Peter a hard, masculine embrace, then let him go. “We did not expect you.”

“I came on a whim. I hope you do not mind me descending on you.” He smiled at Mary.

“Of course we do not. Here, take George. You must have a cuddle, everyone who calls must have a cuddle.”

“And do not worry, he is fed and changed,” Drew jested.

Peter held out his hands and took the child. He was much heavier than the last time Peter had held him, and more aware. He looked into Peter’s eyes and seemed to try and read what he saw.

“D. D.”

“He wants to go down,” Drew stated with a grin.

“What?” George was no longer a baby, he was nearly a year old, and Mary was showing with another child.

“Here.” Drew took George and the boy smiled at his father. Drew set George’s feet on the floor, and George stood. Then Drew’s hands slipped up his child’s arms and George was balanced on his feet, gripping his Papa’s fingers.

“Good Lord, the next time I come he will be riding a horse.”

A bark of laughter left Drew’s throat as he glanced up with a look of pride etched into every feature of his face.

That was exactly the look Peter wanted to own. He’d felt it last night as he’d stood with Emily on his arm… Yet he felt it too when he watched Lillian walk on to the stage. His heart ached.

“He can catch a ball too, if it is rolled to him. He is going to be a cricketer,” Drew announced.

“He is going to be clever and naughty, like his father,” Peter answered.

Drew gave him a twisted smile.

“George.” Peter bent, picked him up, and tossed him high. George had loved to be tossed in the air two months ago when Peter had last called, and indeed he still did. He giggled. It was such a perfect sound. A sound that could heal all ills.

Peter tossed George a couple more times, then set him on his feet to test out this new phenomenon. George’s little hands gripped firmly, clasping like fists about Peter’s thumbs as he balanced on unsteady legs.

Yes. I want a child. I want to feel as Drew does.

“I cannot believe you have been here for more than ten minutes and not told us your news. I presume it is why you called,” Mary challenged.

He smiled, awkwardly, a knife thrust of guilt jabbing into his stomach.

“Emily wrote to me. She has asked us to come to town for the ball to celebrate your engagement.”

Peter nodded; it had all been agreed with his sister, Hayley, at the Stimpsons’ ball last night. Hayley was to host it, and she had told him she was determined even to drag their father from his hiding place in the country. Peter did not think he would come, and yet he knew for certain his father would be pleased with his choice of bride. He had never worried too much over bloodlines, but standing—Peter’s wife had to be a woman with a good reputation. She could not embarrass the family as his mother had.

“I am glad she’s told you, but then I have no news to share.”

“And you have come all this way. You will stay for luncheon, won’t you?”

“Yes.” He wished to speak to Drew in private, yet he could hardly just drag Drew away, Mary would know something was wrong and she might tell Emily.

“I’ll tell cook, and have a maid run up to the nursery and fetch George’s ball so he can show you how clever he is.”

Peter looked to the ceiling, thanking the Lord as Mary walked from the room.

He looked at Drew. “May we sit for a moment? I need to speak with you.”

“Need… Is something wrong?”

“Everything feels wrong. I am a wreck. I have never been so muddled and mixed up in my life. You may tell me I am a fool and call me wrong-headed and insane, and I will agree.”

“Over what?” Drew took George from Peter’s hands and sat on a sofa. Peter occupied the chair beside it.

“I have given you good advice in the past. I need some in return.”

“Then tell me why? What is it?”

“I have been seeing an actress, regularly, it is not a one off thing. It is like I am addicted to her, I cannot keep away from her.”

“You proposed to Emily yesterday.” Drew’s response was low and aggressive, and his eyes looked his disapproval.

“I know, I do not mean to play her false, yet, you should see Lillian. Harry and Mark have seen her, they would tell you. She is not like other women.”

“What of Emily? That is who you should be speaking of, and if you have no intent of settling with her, then leave her alone. Why did you propose?” George gurgled on Drew’s lap. “Emily is like Mary; these women deserve more than to be played with, and Mary will hate you if you do this.”

“I am not saying…” Damn, he did not even know what he was saying, he had just needed a friend to speak honestly with. His hand slid into his hair as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“What do you feel for Emily?” Drew pushed.

Peter breathed out a long breath, searching the emotion inside him. “Love.” Was it possible to have such intense feelings for two women?

“It cannot be love if you would bed an actress.”

“I am not lying, I have feelings for them both, but they are very different women and my feelings are different for them. When I am with Emily, I wish to be faithful, yet when I am away from her, I cannot keep away from Lillian.”

Drew sighed and then stood up bouncing George in his arms. An angry growl slipped from his throat. “I thought you wished for a wife and children. You have made Emily believe in you. You have been courting her for a bloody year almost.”

Peter’s hands fell and he leant forward, gripping his hands together. He had seen Drew this confused, battling his demons, fighting against his past and for his future. What the hell was Peter’s future? He wished for a child. If he had children with Lillian, how the hell could he feel proud of them and himself when they must be hidden away? Yet need they be hidden?

“What if I choose Lillian? What if I had an actress for a wife and was faithful to her—”

“You’d be a laughing stock, and you’d lose the income from your father. He would never stand for that.”

“I have the inheritance from my mother’s side. It is still plenty to live upon. I have the house, I—”

“You would seriously consider that then, throwing Emily aside for this woman who has probably slept with dozens of men. Who would probably never be faithful to you. Who is probably using you. If you have been giving her gifts, she is most likely selling them. That is what these women do.”

Peter shook his head. He had never asked her how many men there had been. But actresses were no better than whores. The first night he had gone there, a stagehand had been waiting outside his theatre box to usher him down to her door, encouraging him to want a little more from the performance.

How many other men?

It was not a question he wished to think of.

Yet he knew without doubt Lillian was faithful. It was in her eyes and in the way she touched him. She thought only of him, there was a dedication and commitment in her touch, and now she wore a little piece of him, his hair about her throat, against her skin. Even now when he was away from her that was there.

He swallowed against a dry throat.

“Your father would never speak with you again, and you would embarrass Hayley and Lord Lowther. They would not welcome an actress into their home. Nor would anyone in society.”

“As if I care what society will think. I do not give a damn. You know I do not. The only person I am worried over is Emily, I know it may seem as though I do not love her, but I… I have feelings for her too. They are just softer—”

“And lacking sex, it is probably simply the addition of sex which pulls you towards the actress.”

Peter nodded. Perhaps it was, and yet he’d slept with hundreds of women, and he had never been pulled back to the same one over and over again, with feelings inside him that cried out when he was unable to be with them. He’d never felt like this. Yet he’d never felt what he felt for Emily before either, he had never known a good, kind, genteel woman.

He shut his eyes. Emily was the woman who fit into his world, who would carry and love his children, who would stand beside him at balls, who would visit his father with him. Who would lie in bed and open her legs for him and let him love her while she looked at him with gentle adoration and a tender smile.

He thought of Lillian using his glass of port, and Lillian with her dark, short mass of ringlets splayed across the white pillow in the Covent Garden Hotel, her teal eyes glowing with the aftermath of sex. Yes, it was perhaps just an emotion inspired by sex.

“George, here is your ball.” Mary rushed back into the room. “Sit him down, Drew, and let me roll it to him and show Peter how clever his godson is.”

Peter stood. “I am sorry, Mary, I forgot something in town, I need to get back. I said I would take Emily out driving in the park with me this afternoon.”

Drew stared at him, looking for a decision. Peter smiled. It would be Emily, of course it would be Emily. It could not be Lillian.

~

Emily gripped her reticule in her lap and watched the street ahead. Peter had called and asked her to ride with him in his curricle about the park. It was the first time she’d been allowed out alone with him. But they were engaged and besides there was a groom standing on the plate behind them; they were not breaking any rules. She looked at him and smiled. But he was staring straight ahead.

He was out of sorts today, quiet, when she had never known him quiet. They had ridden about Hyde Park speaking only odd sentences, and when she’d tried to begin conversations, he had not worked to carry them on.

“Has something upset you? You seem very sullen, Peter.” When she was high with jubilation… She was still excited. She had hoped he would discuss dates for the wedding, but she had not liked to push. “You are worrying me.”

He looked at her then, a closed lip smile twisting his lips. He had not once given her a full smile today.

“I’m sorry, I am a little melancholy. It is something personal. Business. You must ignore me. I am being an oaf, bringing you out and then boring you with my solemnity.”

She gripped his arm and slid closer to him. They were in a street, not alone, it could not harm. She lay her cheek against his shoulder. “What may I say or do to cheer you?”

His head turned. “Just that.” He pressed a kiss onto the top of her bonnet. “You are a good woman, Emily.”

“And you are a good man.”

“You should not say that. It is not true. You should know that before we wed. I have never been good in my past. But I will be good now.”

“You have always been good to me.”

He looked ahead and became silent once more.