When Marrying a Scoundrel (2 page)

Sadie sat at one of the windows, on a thickly padded bench with plenty of room to set her hat once she’d removed it.
Ahh
. She rolled her neck, sighing in pleasure as the tension eased.

She gazed out the window into the garden. The paths were well—but not too brightly—lit, allowing patrons to see their way while also providing concealing shadows. According to Vienne, there were all sorts of little grottos and hiding spots for lovers tucked along those pristine gravel paths. There were even buildings, concealed within the flora, with beds, which guests could rent for a romantic liaison. And it all looked no different than any other elaborate garden attached to a London mansion or great country house—not that Sadie had seen many of those. Only a few—those homes to which she’d gone, hired to read for a party of ladies.

But that was Vienne’s magic, the secret to her success. This entire club—won at a poker game no less!—gave every appearance of elegance and propriety, fashion and society, but Vienne could make anything her patrons wanted a reality. In fact, her friend took credit—not publicly, of course—for the marriage of Ruined Ryeton
and his duchess, a sensation that rivaled news that the Prince of Wales might have found his next mistress. Apparently Ryeton and his lady had begun a torrid affair under this very roof at one of Vienne’s masque balls.

Sadie envied Vienne La Rieux. Next to the queen, Vienne was the most powerful woman Sadie knew of, coming from humble and rarely spoken-of beginnings. She wanted to be like Vienne and have her own business to grow and cultivate however she wanted. And she would. Her investments had paid off, and tomorrow she was meeting with a man who represented her new landlord. They were to discuss her plans to open a tearoom. She was finally on the verge of seeing her dream realized.

Sadie sipped at her wine, luxuriating in the pleasant thought of having to answer to no one, and stared blankly out the window. So lost in thought, she did not hear anyone come into the room—until he spoke.

“Apologies. I thought this room was empty.”

Sadie sat up. “No apologies are necessary, sir. I was just leaving.” Time had gotten away from her. Surely she was due to return to work. She snatched up her hat and resecured it to her hair.

“That’s too bad,” came a low purr of a voice. “I wouldn’t be averse to such charming company.”

Sadie tilted her head. She knew that voice. Stepping away from the window, she drew closer to the gentleman, until she could see him in the low lamplight. As he turned to watch her approach, she could see that he was tall and broad shouldered with glints of gold in his short, thick
hair. Other than that, he was a shadow, backlit by the lamp. But he could see her.

“Christ Jesus,” he rasped.

She froze, heart pressed hard against her ribs. They were both beneath the light now, but she was afraid to look. Still, her chin lifted with a will that was not her own, forcing her to gaze up into eyes she already knew would be golden green and as beautiful as they had been on the day she’d looked into them and promised to be a good wife.

“Jack.”

J
ack Friday’s heart was trying to eat him alive. It was the only explanation for the sudden and terrible explosion of pain in his chest. It felt just like the time he’d gotten kicked by a horse as a lad. The doctor said he’d been lucky he hadn’t been killed. Jack hadn’t felt lucky, spending the next three weeks stiff, afraid to draw a deep breath, and purple as a plum from the ribs up.

He felt even less lucky now, and twice as battered.

He gazed into eyes that never seemed to be just one color, and were far too huge in a pale face. Her eyes and mouth always had been too big, her nose a little too long and tilted at the end. She looked older, even more oddly beautiful than the girl he’d fallen in love with. But less innocent than the treacherous bitch who’d left him without so much as a good-bye.

And what the hell was she wearing on her head?

“Do I know you, madam?” What a good liar he was, he thought as his fingers clenched into fists behind his back.

Her eyes dimmed and narrowed slightly. He’d hurt
her. Unfortunately, it gave him no pleasure. Still, hurting her should have given him some satisfaction after all these years of imagining just how this moment would play out.

In all his imaginings, never had she affected him so viciously.

“My mistake,” she murmured all cool politeness, but the faint lilt of her voice soothed him even as it cut. She hadn’t lost as much of her Irish as he had, and the cadence of her words reminded him of home and happier times. “I thought you were someone I used to know.”

He met her gaze—shades of cold blue, green, and gold. Faerie eyes, he used to call them. Witch eyes, others said. “I can honestly say, madam, that you and I do not know each other at all.” He said it without flinching because he had to, and because he wanted to see if he could hurt her again—just a little.

His wife—the frigging harpy—nodded stiffly. “Obviously. Excuse me, sir.” Then she brushed passed him with a rustle of skirts, so close that he had to lean back to avoid being hit in the face by her foolish hat. He should knock the ridiculous thing right off her head, but a gentleman wouldn’t do that to a lady, particularly one he supposedly didn’t know.

Then again, no
lady
would try to take a man’s eye out with her headwear, or manage to jab him in the ribs with a spitefully sharp elbow without so much as an apology. But then, he’d known Sadie O’Rourke wasn’t a lady when he fell in love with her, and he’d paid the price ever since.

Still, she smelled damn good. Jack breathed a lungful of her before cursing silently. He didn’t turn when he heard her pause in the door, but stood there—still and not breathing, choking on his wife’s sweet vanilla scent.

No, she wasn’t his wife. She was Jack Farrington’s wife, and that useless bastard was years dead. He’d died the day he came home to find his wife gone without having left so much as a forwarding address. Oh yes, and that the money he’d sent to her had been put into a bank account with his name on it. She hadn’t touched a penny of it.

So, technically, he supposed, the woman who had just tried to decapitate him with her hat was his widow. If he really wanted to split hairs, she wasn’t
his
anything. That boy didn’t exist anymore and neither did that girl. And if that were the case, then there was absolutely nothing wrong with him taking advantage of all Vienne La Rieux offered, including a private suite should he find a lady who captured his interest.

Sadie had walked out on him, after all.

With that mission in mind, Jack left the cozy room. He couldn’t remember why he’d gone in there in the first place.

Back in the ballroom, the party was as hot and as loud as it had been a quarter hour earlier, only now he had purpose burning in his belly and nothing else mattered.

He snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. It was a far cry from scotch, but it would do for now. He downed it in one cheek-bulging
gulp, grimaced, and then stole another glass from the same footman. The man smiled slightly when Jack raised the new glass in salute and then dispatched it in the same manner.

“Would you care for another, sir?”

Jack glanced down. He already had an empty glass in either hand, but then the footman offered him a full glass in his white-gloved hand, while offering his now empty tray with the other. “I can take those for you, sir.”

“Good man,” Jack replied with much more sincerity than the situation warranted as he took advantage of the man’s willingness to oblige. “I thank you.”

The footman bowed smartly. “My pleasure, sir.”

Jack nursed his drink as he moved on through the crowd. As much as he wanted to get completely smashed, it wouldn’t do to fall down drunk at Vienne La Rieux’s establishment the night of their first meeting—Trystan would have his head if he did. So, he sipped the tart, fizzy stuff and waited for a little numbness to kick in.

He hadn’t returned to London to confront his past, though it seemed his past had been waiting for him. The only thing that would make this evening worse would be if his grandfather walked through the door.

“You look like you would prefer something stronger,” came a coy voice from his left.

Jack lazily turned his head, his lips readily curved into a flirtatious smile. Beside him stood a woman, a few years younger than he, with dark hair, rich green eyes, and a body she knew how to display to its best advantage. This was a woman with no expectations other
than her own pleasure, and no promises other than his. His favorite kind of woman, then.

“That obvious, am I?”

Full lips pulled into an easy grin. “Only to someone paying attention.” As she spoke, she brushed the tips of her fingers across her throat and upper chest, drawing his attention to the creamy swells of two marvelous breasts. It was meant to tantalize and it did. It was like offering a dog a bone, of course he was going to be interested, but whether or not he wrapped his jaws around it was another story.

“Were you paying attention to me?” His tone teased as he shifted his body closer to hers. “I’m flattered.”

She grinned—good teeth—and offered her hand. “And I’m Lady Gosling.”

A bit of wit as well. Normally she’d be exactly what he was looking for—exactly what he needed. But tonight…tonight he wasn’t all that hungry.

Still, there was no harm in trying to work up an appetite, he allowed, and he took her slender hand in his own and lifted it. His lips brushed the knuckles beneath her glove, and her fingers tightened around his just enough to give encouragement. The lady wasn’t shy, that was for certain.

“Jack Friday,” he replied with a slightly arched brow. “At your service.”

Lady Gosling chuckled, a husky, seductive sound. “Have a care, Mr. Friday, at the promises you make a lady.” Her eyes gleamed as she gazed up at him. “Someone just might take you at your word.”

He ran his thumb over the tops of her fingers. These little appetizers of flirtation were doing their job. “I am readily taken, my lady.”

She moved closer—a small, gliding step that brought her close enough for him to smell the subtle expense of her perfume, floral with a hint of spice. “Are you?” she murmured, gazing at him through the thick fringe of her lashes. “How readily?”

At that moment? Getting cheap horn from her words and blatant availability. Then Jack realized that Sadie might very well still be in attendance. In fact, she might be watching him at this very moment. The notion didn’t deflate his libido as it ought to have. Instead, he was filled with a perverse need to shag Lady Gosling senseless—preferably in front of witnesses, who might then take out a page in the
Times
devoted to his prowess so that all of London would know that he, Jack Friday, and his magnificent cock could satisfy any woman.

And then all of London would know that there would have to be something wrong with a woman who walked away from a man such as he. A deficiency of some kind, perhaps.

“Lady Gosling,” he began lowly, roughly, and beyond all pretense of polite flirtation, “I find myself wondering what it would feel like to slide my—”

“Monsieur Friday! There you are.”

Being doused by a bucket of iced fish heads couldn’t have ruined the moment any better. Neither Jack nor Lady Gosling pulled back from one another—but he did release the lady’s hand. Mutual frustration was evident in one
last shared glance before their hostess joined them.

Vienne La Rieux was a cool but elegantly lovely French woman with ivory skin and shimmering red hair. She was shrewd and didn’t suffer fools. Jack liked her—or he had before she ruined his plans for the evening.

“I’ve been looking everywhere
pour vous
,” Vienne chastised in an accent so much stronger than the one she’d exhibited in their meeting earlier that day that he wondered if it was forced. “My dear Lady Gosling, you will excuse us,
non
?”

For a moment, he thought the lady might protest, that the promise of screwing him would give her the courage to spit in the eye of decorum. He was wrong. Lady Gosling nodded in tight-lipped defeat, cast him a rueful glance and glided away, hips swaying ever so gently like the proverbial ship that has sailed.

Jack sighed and turned to face his tall, willowy hostess. “Did you have need of me, Madame La Rieux?”

She tossed her hand into the air. “Of course not! I simply could not stand by and watch you fall prey to that wolf of a woman.”

Jack arched a brow. “Not even if I offered my throat willingly?”

Vienne’s eyes were pale blue, sharp and clear as glass. “It was not your throat you offered, and fangs are fangs,
monsieur
.”

Jack winced. “You’ve made your point, and I’ll thank you not to say another word about fangs or where they might go.”

Her long neck tilted, inclining her head to the side as
she smiled slightly—smugly, Jack thought. “As you wish. May I introduce you to someone far more interesting than Lady Gosling?”

Both his eyebrows rose.
More
interesting? Was Madame La Rieux trying to find him a lover for the night? Or was she playing at matchmaker? It hardly mattered, it wouldn’t be good business to refuse, and he was still frustrated enough to look for satisfaction elsewhere.

“Lead on,” he said, and offered her his arm.

Vienne led him across the ballroom. They stopped twice so that she might introduce him to someone of importance before continuing on to a brightly swathed tent with a line of people in front of it. It looked like something a sultan’s harem might reside in, and Jack couldn’t help but imagine a plethora of half-naked nubile young things at his disposal. That would put a tick in Sadie’s eye, wouldn’t it?

A beautiful woman, obviously of Indian blood, looked up as they approached. She smiled at Vienne. “You have perfect timing. I haven’t let another guest in just yet. Go on in.” And then she smiled at Jack as well—not the least bit flirtatious, but open and friendly. Jack returned the smile, letting her goodwill knock him off balance.

That was his first mistake. His second was following Vienne into that damned tent. Because the moment he stepped into the jewel-toned cave, he smelled tea and vanilla and his heart stopped.

There was Sadie, in that ridiculous hat, standing beside a small table draped in fabric. He didn’t have to look to know that there was a teapot on the table, or a small bucket
half full of discarded leaves softened by milky tea.

She was reading leaves. Goddamn leaves—in this place where he was expected to conduct legitimate business. And she had the nerve to look as though there was nothing wrong with it! She just stood there and stared at him with a serene expression on her cursed face. She didn’t even look ashamed. At least ten years ago she’d had the grace to be embarrassed, but not now.

And all Jack could think about was that day a decade ago, in a setup not nearly as posh as this, with Sadie looking so shame-faced as a man talked about fraud and threatened to summon the authorities…

She’d learned nothing, apparently.

Vienne was oblivious to the tension in the room as Jack and Sadie stared at each other. “Jack Friday, I would like to introduce my good friend Sadie Moon. Sadie has a brilliant gift for turning tea leaves into pound notes.” Beneath the wide brim of her hat, Sadie flinched. Jack tried hard not to sneer in satisfaction. “Would you like your fortune told, Monsieur Friday?”

Vienne looked so pleased to offer him this treat that Jack found it difficult to refuse her. But a glance at Sadie’s impassive face cured him of that. “No, thank you, madam. I do not believe in divination.” He looked the girl he once loved in the eye, and saw nothing of her there. The pain gave him the strength to add, “I believe we make our own fate.”

Sadie smiled—seemingly unaffected by his words. “You certainly seemed to have made yours, Mr…. Friday, was it?”

His jaw tightened. “Indeed, Miss, or is it Mrs. Moon?”

“Mrs.,” she replied. Her jaw was clenched.

“Interesting name.” He was all mock interest. “Is your husband here tonight?”

Vienne was paying attention to them now, evident by the crease between her brows. Her head turned toward Sadie, who said frostily, “My husband is dead.”

To which Jack tilted his head and asked, “Is he? How unfortunate for you.”

Sadie stiffened, but she met his gaze directly. “On the contrary, sir. I do not consider it a misfortune at all.”

“Neither, do I suspect, would your husband,” he retorted with a bitter grin. And then, before he could say anything else that might add to the horror on Vienne’s face, or the pallor on Sadie’s, he turned and stomped from the tent.

Somehow Sadie made it through another two hours, but when midnight struck, she told Indara to send the rest of the crowd away. She had a splitting headache and was in a foul enough mood that she didn’t much care if her patrons made a fuss or walked away angry. Nothing could make her look in another bloody cup.

She started to gather her wares but Indara stopped her. “I will see to this. You should go home. You do not look well.”

Sadie would have laughed had she not feared a slight chuckle might turn into the cackle of a lunatic. No, she probably did not look well. Lord knew she didn’t feel well.
She gave her friend a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Thank you. I believe I will go home.” The two of them shared a pretty little stucco terrace in somewhat fashionable, yet affordable, Pimlico. It was quiet and Sadie had the most luxurious bathroom there. She wanted to submerge into a tub of hot water and not come out until she was every inch a prune.