Chivalrous Rake, Scandalous Lady. Mary Brendan

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СКАЧАТЬ She’d been a naïve young débutante under the spell of an older, more experienced man. He’d known exactly how to tease a response from her on those nights she’d allowed him to take more liberties than any young innocent ought. Had her papa known what he’d done to her beneath intoxicating moonlight on midsummer evenings he’d have called for his pistols. She recalled the whispered cautions from envious young friends when Marcus had invited her to step outside for a little air at the Cranleighs’ ball: He’s a rake…a terrible flirt…tell him no…he’ll break your heart. In the event he had, but she’d had no one to blame but herself and circumstances had forced her to lick her wounds in private.

      At seventeen she could have been married to the dashing heir to an earldom. Instead she had yielded to her conscience and gone dutifully back to Essex and to Robert Burnham, whereupon she’d had her loyalty tossed back in her face. But by then it was too late to contact Marcus and humbly say she’d changed her mind. She’d known him only a matter of a few months but during that time she’d learned enough about his character to understand he’d refuse to be her second-choice husband.

      Within a week of returning home she was thankful she’d not written to him, abasing herself with pleas and promises and the laying bare of her soul. She’d had a letter from her cousin Maura describing the latest tattle doing the rounds. It had concerned Marcus and a new opera dancer who had been the toast of Drury Lane. It seemed to Jemma that for many months after that first awful communication every letter she received from her cousin contained a fresh tale of Marcus Speer’s debauchery.

      Finally Jemma had accepted that he hadn’t fallen properly in love with her, as she had with him. He had never told her he loved her, and now she knew why that was—for him it had been just an infatuation and he’d settled too quickly on her to fill the role of his wife. She’d thanked her lucky stars she had not married a man who would doubtless betray her with a string of mistresses before they’d reached their first wedding anniversary.

      A dispiriting truth had then settled on Jemma: Marcus would never come, in true romantic style, to Thaxham House and rescue her from her sorrow and loneliness. He would, at some time, be an Earl, but he wasn’t the noble hero of her wistful dreams.

      As though Marcus could guess at her memories his mouth tilted into half a smile and a smouldering grey gaze was slanted at her softly skewed mouth.

      ‘I thought it was neither here nor there to you what I said to your guardian.’ His smile deepened as she looked away with a regretful frown. She’d been so lost in her private thoughts that she’d forgotten she’d announced herself uninterested in the outcome of the heated meeting he’d had with Theo. ‘I said nothing to your cousin that could be repeated to a demure young lady.’

      ‘In sending those letters Theo acted outrageously and without my knowledge or consent.’ Jemma’s voice was hoarse and forceful, her cheeks burning. His mocking levity made it clear he considered her far from demure. If he was hinting at her wild behaviour at seventeen, he’d a right to his scorn. But she wouldn’t have him think her a brazen hussy now because she had designs on trying to steal him from his fiancée. ‘Do you believe me?’ Jemma gazed earnestly at him.

      ‘Why should I?’ Marcus enquired casually. ‘From past experience I would say you hardly inspire me to put trust in you.’

      It was out! The first heavy hint from him that he had not forgotten or forgiven how she’d led him on like a common tease. Annoyingly she felt spontaneous tears start to her eyes. She swung her face aside so he might not see them.

      Marcus slanted a look down on the top of a bonnet from which tumbled an artless array of thick chestnut curls. He felt the embers of desire within him become hotter. She looked little different to how she had as a teenage débutante. Perhaps her figure was fuller and her face slimmer, honed to classical perfection. But her little gestures, the tone of her voice, the success she’d had in rousing him, enticing him—those bittersweet things seemed the same. She was beautiful, spirited…and he realised with some irritation that he still wanted her.

      Marcus dragged his eyes from Jemma’s alluring presence as a familiar sight at the edge of his vision drew his attention. Beneath his breath he cursed. From the moment he’d read Wyndham’s astonishing letter this afternoon, thoughts of his mortally ill uncle had been pushed to the back of his mind. Now he could see a carriage bearing the Gresham crest slowly patrolling the street as though the coachmen were searching for someone. He knew they were looking for him. Dr Robertson had sent for him earlier than he’d expected and he’d been away from home when the message had arrived. He’d told Perkins, his butler, he’d be visiting Wyndham and would be no more than one hour. The coachmen had doubtless been despatched to Hanover Square to find him.

      A feeling of deep remorse washed over him, yet still, to his shame, he felt reluctant to quit Jemma’s side. Abruptly he removed her arm from his. ‘I think we must continue this conversation another time, Miss Bailey.’ He executed a curt bow. ‘Unfortunately I have pressing matters to attend to.’ With that terse farewell he forced himself to take two crisp backward paces so a space was immediately between them. A moment later he’d stepped past and was striding towards the carriage, raising a hand to hail it as he went.

      ‘Indeed, there is no need to talk further about any of this, sir.’ Jemma felt mortified to be so abruptly abandoned. But he was moving with such speed and purpose she could tell that the sharp words she’d sent after him had gone unheeded. A knot of sorrow tightened in her stomach. She had a feeling that if they’d continued walking and talking just a little longer perhaps they might have gone their separate ways more contentedly than they’d come together. As it was, nothing about the situation had improved. Pulling her bonnet brim low to shield her hot, watery eyes, she plunged her hands into her coat pockets and moved swiftly on.

      Chapter Four

      Marcus paused on the threshold to his uncle’s bedchamber to dart an astonished enquiring glance at the physician. A glimmering hope that his uncle had made a miraculous recovery was dashed as Dr Robertson slowly shook his head. The prognosis was the same despite the fact the Earl of Gresham was once more conscious and propped up on a sumptuous array of satin bolsters and pillows.

      On one side of the bed, ensconced in an armchair, was an elegant, elderly lady. Marcus had expected Mrs Paulson would still be here. She had been sitting quietly embroidering in the very same position when he had quit the sickroom earlier that day. He gave her a nod and a wonky smile, hoping that it adequately conveyed that her constant presence pleased him.

      Victoria Paulson had been his uncle’s mistress for three decades and was a similar age to Solomon. At times Marcus had wondered whether, if the couple had come together sooner in life, when Victoria was young enough to bear children, she might have given Solomon a son. They would then have married to legitimise the union and the child, and the course of his own life might have taken a very different turn.

      Having pressed Solomon’s hand and returned Marcus a hushed greeting, Victoria rose from her chair and left the gentlemen alone.

      Solomon’s exhausted smile for his nephew was curtailed as a cough rattled out of him. On hearing his master gasping, a servant sprang forwards, thrusting out a beaker of milk. Solomon flapped feebly at the fellow. ‘If you’ve got nothing stronger to offer me, then go away,’ he wheezed and tugged a burgundy velvet coverlet against a chest that was pumping erratically. ‘Might as well let me have a brandy,’ he threw peevishly at Dr Robertson. ‘Ain’t as if it’s going to kill me.’

      Dr Robertson relented, gesturing to the footman to carry out his patient’s request. At that Solomon found enough energy to weakly grin and brush together his dry palms.

      Marcus СКАЧАТЬ