The Dangerous Love of a Rogue. Jane Lark

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СКАЧАТЬ held her son on her lap, and had been amusing him with a wooden rattle while Mary’s mother sat on the same sofa, with Mary’s youngest sister, Jemima. They’d been studying a picture book.

      They all looked up.

      “What is it Finch?” Kate asked.

      “A letter for Miss Marlow,” Mr Finch intoned.

      “Mary?” Her mother looked in Mary’s direction, a question bright in her eyes. Who?

      Mary stood, heat flaring in her cheeks. She received letters regularly from a variety of friends, and her cousins, but they came with her father’s and John’s post.

      She took the letter from the tray, her skin glowing.

      Mr Finch turned to leave.

      The writing was unfamiliar. But… Surely not…. It was large, bold strokes. She broke the blank seal and looked at the bottom of the page.

      D. F.

       Drew Framlington.

      Her heart pounded against her ribs.

      Her family had noticed her absence last night. She’d told them she had gone to the retiring room. Even so her father had admonished her for not telling her mother. They had warned her of rousing unnecessary gossip.

      Kate had interjected then, saying she’d experienced such things and would not wish them on Mary.

      By the time they’d come home, Mary had been thoroughly chastened, and been made to feel painfully guilty. She’d cried herself to sleep, then woken barely an hour later, thinking of the things she’d let him do, and what he’d said.

      Holding the letter she crossed to the window.

      “Who is it from?” her mother asked.

      Mary glanced back. “Lord Farquhar.” Daniel, one of her friends, she’d known him since her come out, her mother knew him too.

      Her mother smiled with a fond look, before turning her attention back to Jemima and the picture book.

      Mary longed to take the letter up to her room but that would look odd. Instead she sought seclusion on the window seat, slipping her feet from her shoes and then lifting them on to the cushion before her.

       My dear Miss Marlow,

       Has any man told you what a treasure you truly are?

      The rogue, he actually referred to her fortune in a pun. She smiled, more amused than angry.

       What I would give to make you mine, you cannot imagine. I am yours, a hundred times over. I adore you. Your ebony hair and your alabaster skin. Your eyes, as blue as a summer sky, or an azure sea, so pale they are like ice. They make me shiver when you turn your gaze upon me, turn it my way often and forever, Mary dear. Make me yours, make me love you. If love is what you want, bring me to your heel. I will come. I will beg for you if that is what you wish, only never turn your smile away from me, that is what I live for, to see your perfect smile.

       And your lips, I have not yet spoken of those…

      It was nonsense of course, all nonsense, and it went on and on, profoundly expressing her beauty and his adoration, while not once claiming to love, but pleading for her to give him the opportunity to fall in love. It begged her to tame him. It asked her to show him how. Then he finished it all with a silly poem.

      When she folded it and lifted her gaze, a smile curved her lips.

      He’d not been deterred by her dismissal yesterday. That gave him credit. He was more serious about choosing her than she’d thought. He could have simply transferred his attention to another wealthy woman.

      “What did he say, Mary?” her mother asked.

      Mary looked across the room. “He is gushing, Mama.” It was becoming far too easy to lie. She rose from the window seat, and slipped her shoes back on.

      Her mother smiled. Her sister-in-law Kate looked up and smiled too.

      “Are you interested in Lord Farquhar?” her mother asked, with a curious look.

      Mary laughed. “Heavens no, but it is flattering.”

      “Let me see!” “Let me read it!” Her sisters cried.

      “No!” Mary clutched the letter to her breast as they rose and rushed over.

      “It’s personal,” her mother admonished. “Helen, Jenny, sit back down and leave your sister alone.”

      Fortunately her parents were not in the habit of reading her post. They trusted her.

      A sharp pain cut deep into Mary’s chest.

      She did not deserve their trust anymore.

      She’d been beyond foolish last night. She would have lost her family’s respect forever if she’d been caught with Lord Framlington. She would have been utterly ruined. She would have had to marry him.

      But, then, surely, his discretion was another point in his favour. Even his letter did not contain anything which would force her hand.

      Last night he could have had what he wished, her hand in marriage, her money, if he’d arranged for someone to discover them.

      Surely that he had not arranged it – that he would not act without her consent – meant he was honourable despite his reputation. Then he must also – to some degree – care for her.

      “May I take this letter up to my room, Mama, so I can put it in my travelling desk?”

      “Of course, sweetheart.” Her mother gave her another fond look.

      Mary fled the room with sinful, wrong notions, spinning in her head. If only she knew his address she might write back.

       No! No! I have finished with this foolishness.

      * * *

      Fate played an odd game on Mary at the Fosters’ ball; as Mary stood talking with Miss Emily Smithfield, Lord Farquhar asked Mary to dance the first set.

      She accepted with a shallow curtsy, smiling at him, then glanced back to give Emily, who invariably ended up the wallflower once more, an apologetic smile. Emily was the shy type, too quiet, but as she had only come out this season, she was still finding her place in society.

      Mary looked back to see if Emily had found another companion to speak with, and caught her mother watching. The look in her eyes resembled the one in the drawing room that morning. Her father’s eyes glistened in the candlelight when she looked at him.

      They thought she carried a torch for Lord Farquhar and he for her.

      Mary turned away.

      Lord Farquhar carried his torch for her good friend Lady Bethany Pope.

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