A Wager for Love (23 page)

Kitty stroked his hair tenderly with a new maturity. “No. Richard, do not blame yourself. Lavinia would not wish it. ” She sighed. “I own at first I thought Saltaire vastly romantic. But now …” she shivered.

Lavinia dismissed her maid, ignoring that good woman’s shocked expression at the sight of her mistress. Lavinia’s mouth tightened in a humourless smile. If she looked like that at the state of her gown, what would she think when she saw the rest of her?

She took off her cloak and flung it on the bed, staring at her expression in the mirror with distaste. Was this really her? This wild-eyed woman, with her hair all untidy, and the bodice of her gown ripped to pieces. The gown would be burnt as soon as possible. With aching arms, and her throat I tight with suppressed tears, she started to unpin and brush her hair. Until that night she had steadfastly refused to face the truth, but she could do so no longer. She had not wanted to displease her husband, not because she feared him, but because she loved him. The lump in her throat grew larger. How could she have been so foolish? When had it started? After their marriage or before? Perhaps on the fateful day she had first stepped into the Grosvenor Square house. And those kisses exchanged in the pagoda? Had she really needed Andover to tell her that her husband had taken his place?

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that at first she did not hear the soft footfall of steps outside the door, or hear the man enter the room. When she did look up and see him outlined there, powerful and menacing, her hand went instinctively to her throat. He leaned negligently against the door, arms folded, a wild, unrestrained look about him that set her pulses racing with instinctive fear. The green eyes glittered with brilliant intensity, scorching her skin as they rested on her, a steady flame glowing in their slumberous depths. She realised that his normal cool control was gone, and she shivered with a strange pre-taste of fear, her mouth dry.

“Saltaire.” It was scarcely above a whisper but he heard it.

“Yes-Saltaire,” he mimicked unpleasantly, the drawl faintly accentuated. “Were you expecting someone else? Your lover, Andover, perhaps?”

She could feel his suppressed anger, hear it in the cruel taunting edge to his voice that jarred on her nerves, sending alarm feathering along her spine. She had never seen him like this before, and the knowledge that he could be so dangerous caused her breath to come more rapidly, as she tried to still her fear. But it was too late. he had seen it, and acknowledged it with a faintly contemptuous smile, as he crossed the room with all the predatory grace of the hunter. Without knowing why, she shrank from him, the brush falling from nerveless fingers, her face tight with apprehension. Useless to tell herself there was nothing to fear and that it

was all a mistake.

Long fingers disdainfully flicked aside the torn lace to reveal swelling bruises. An expression of disgust appeared on his face that brought the blood storming to her cheeks. “No lover?” he sneered.

For a second anger drove out fear and she lifted her eyes to his. “No!”

Rough hands brought her to her feet “You lie!” Savagely he shook her until she felt she must faint, as if she were no more than a rag doll, every last remnant of control gone. His eyes were blazing down into hers as if they sought to plumb the very depths of her soul.

He released her momentarily, and turned from her, his voice low. “I warned you once, Madam, not to provoke my sleeping devil, but you chose to ignore my warning, now you must pay the price.’, Without any warning he pulled her to him with a force that brought the breath rattling unevenly in her throat.

“Saltaire, no.”

“No?” The word was a silky, menacing caress. His eyes rested sardonically on the small pulse beating wildly in her throat, his fingers trailing warningly against her bare skin. Lavinia closed her eyes, shivering under his touch, unwilling to bear any longer the savage intensity of the look he was turning upon her, and knowing her very response betrayed her more than any words. “Frightened?” His voice was a drawling parody of tenderness.

She shook her head in denial, unable to speak.

“No?” the mocking smile flashed. “Then you should be, Madam wife, you should be.”

“Saltaire, please, you are mistaken,” she cried despairingly, her eyes imploring.

“Oh no, Madam,” his voice was laced with malice, faint but yet clearly discernable. “You are the one who made the mistake.” His voice dropped, dripping with menace, “I did warn you, My Lady, the account is long outstanding, and now I intend to take payment in full.”

Uncaring that her voice was thick with tears, she begged him to release her. She tried to step back but it was too late, she was caught up against him, his arms tightening round her like steel bands. As if his touch released a spring coiled within her, she struggled against him, choking back the threatening tears. No use pleading for mercy; he had none. Terror raced through her veins. When she had dreamed of being in his arms, it had never been like this. His dark head blotted out the flickering light as his lips descended on hers in a kiss deliberately brutal, and devoid of any trace of tenderness. It stripped from her the last vestiges of her pride. Sobbing, and her senses reeling, she struggled, despair washing over her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, until at last sick with exhaustion and fear she went limp in his arms, no longer caring what he did with her. In that second the quality of his kiss changed. His lips were no longer harsh, but soft, stirring her sense in a way she had never imagined possible. Against her will she felt her own response, the merest tremor of her lips, instantly suppressed, but not before he too had felt it. He raised his head for a second, his expression enigmatic.

“So,” he drawled softly.

Her face was white, etched with the shock of the brutality of his embrace. She would have fallen but for his supporting arms. Through swelling lips she murmured, “I hope you are now satisfied, Sir. You have made your point.”

“Satisfied? Oh no, my dear, that I am not. That was but the first part of the lesson.”

Before she could divine his purpose, his mouth was on hers; she could taste the wine on his breath. Once again she knew the strange rapture of those moments in the Pagoda. She trembled convulsively as a fierce wild tide of delight coursed through her, licking along her veins like fire, uncaring that she was clinging to him as though he represented life itself She knew she should resist, should push him away, but she could not. Her traitorous body revelled; in the strength of his arms, swaying closer to him when he would have moved away, consumed with a longing to prolong the embrace. It seemed to her as though she were devoid of the power to do anything but cling helplessly to him, battered by the storm of emotion that threatened them both. His eyes glittered feverishly as he held her to him, his kisses drawing from her a response she had not known herself capable of, until there was nothing else in the world but him.

“Oh God.”

Lavinia heard the words, thick and despairing, as though from a great distance, as Saltaire tore his lips from hers. Instantly shame flooded through her, whilst her husband stood before her, his arms dropping to his sides, a grim cynical look on his face. “Tell me, my wife,” he asked mockingly, “How do my kisses compare with those you received from your lover in the Chinese garden?”

The whiplash of his words brought her head up sharply. “You should know, My Lord,” she said coldly through bruised lips.

“Well, well, Andover told you, did he? He is cleverer than I thought.” One long finger traced the line of her jaw, watching her flinch with detached interest. “Tell me,” he drawled laconically, “Am I right in thinking I have suffered a most unfortunate lapse of memory? I refer, my sweet, to all those kisses we have supposedly exchanged. Come now,” he taunted, “Surely you have not forgotten them already? What was it you said?” he mused. “Ah yes, I have it, we have kissed a hundred times and every one more pleasant than yours.” He waited, amusement spiked with malice, whilst she looked on, her sensibilities lacerated and her pride in shreds. Whatever had prompted her to say that? Despair lent her an agility she had not known she possessed.

“What should I have said?” she whipped back. “That my husband married me to win a wager, and ours is merely a marriage of convenience.”

“I had not realised you felt so strongly about it.”

She struggled to rectify her slip. “It was you I was thinking of and not myself,” she managed at last.

“Was it now?” he breathed, his eyes dropping to her trembling lips and lingering there in a manner which made her uneasily aware of her frail defences.

“I am in your debt, My Lady.”

“Perhaps then we can consider the matter of my debt paid.” She emphasised the last word slightly.

It was a mistake. Anger hardened his features. “Paid? Oh no, you are mistaken. That was but the first instalment.”

Clenching her hands, she willed herself not to betray her feelings, but even knowing he was watching her, she could not quite prevent her apprehension showing.

“Come, I fancy you did not find it quite as distasteful as you would have me believe.” His gaze was purposefully assessing.

A rich tide of colour mantled her face. Never, never in her whole life, she thought wretchedly. would she ever forget the humiliation of this moment. Was it not enough to taunt her with her careless words in the pagoda,. must he parade before her the shame of her response to his kisses as well?

“You are mistaken, Sir.” It was a pitiable attempt to regain her dignity and they both knew it.

He laughed a soft mirthless sound. “Oh no. Madam, you underrate me. However, if you wish it, doubtless I could prove the matter to our mutual satisfaction.”

She bit her lip, and flinched as though he had hit her. “No.” It was an instant and vehement denial and she knew immediately that she had betrayed herself. She was no match for this man and never would be She waited, frozen eyes watching, but he made no move towards her, and somehow that hurt more than all that had gone before. To know herself desired, no matter how fleetingly or for what purpose was one thing, but to know herself scorned was another.

“Disappointed?” There was a hidden undertone of mockery in the soft velvet of the word, which she resolutely ignored, resisting the temptation to run to him and beg him to take her back into his arms. At last, unable to bear the silence any longer, she turned her back to him so that he could not see her distress. For a moment she thought she caught a soft footfall, and felt the warmth of his breath on her neck, but when she turned he was standing by the door, remote and unapproachable. “Well, Madam wife, I shall leave you to your dreams. I trust they may be happy ones.” His face twisted unpleasantly, and then he was gone.

Never in her whole life, she thought, had she experienced such utter and abject misery. Her thoughts rioted in confusion, tears welled in her eyes, but she dashed them away with an impatient hand, railing against the weakness of her own body, but unable to repress a small pang of longing that he would come back, take her in his arms and give her the love for which she craved.

Was this love then? she thought bitterly to herself. This wild untamed clamouring of the senses, against which there was no defence; this strange bone-melting desire to give oneself up completely. In her youthful daydreams she had never imagined anything like this, nor visualised for herself a man such as her husband. Saltaire. She tasted the name, shivering with renewed tension. She looked at the bed. Sleep. She felt as though she would never sleep again. Restlessly she paced the room trying to come to terms with the new sensations that threatened to obliterate the old, calm Lavinia for ever, leaving in her place this frighteningly vulnerable woman. At last she flung herself onto the bed in an act of self-revulsion. How could she love him when he so obviously did not love her? When he despised and reviled her. What had happened to her spirit and her pride? In that moment she knew that even were he a hundred times worse than he was, she would still love him, and with that knowledge came the tears she had not shed before.

Andover was eating his breakfast when there was a discreet tap on the door. He laid down his fork and motioned to the footman to open it. Ordley burst in, obviously in high spirits. “Ah, good, you are up, Andover. So what is all this I hear? You have routed Saltaire by all accounts.”

Andover eyed him calmly, “Really, Ordley, such excessively high spirits and at this hour in the morning. It is too much. There must be some madness in your family, first Saltaire and now you, and both before noon,” he added plaintively.

Ordley sat down cheerfully. “Don’t go putting me off Andover. I want the whole. Why, I had scarcely put a foot inside the coffee house this morning and the whole room was abuzz with it.” He chuckled. “I am sorry I missed it. Poor Saltaire, to find you practically on the point of flagrenco delecto. A new role for him, I vow. Still, it is nothing but what he deserves, and as for the silly chit …”

He was so engrossed in his own delight that he did not see the sudden tightening of Andover’s mouth, nor the ominous look in his eyes. The Marquis crumbled a piece of bread, speaking gently. “You will oblige me, Ordley, by refraining from mentioning the lady’s name in such a fashion.”

“What?”

“Please close your mouth, Ordley. You have a distinct resemblance to a fish. And if I were you I would make a point of keeping my mouth closed.” He peered a little closer at the gawping Ordley, “A cod, I believe.” He chewed reflectively for a few minutes.

“Dammit, Andover, can you never be serious?”

“Serious?” The Marquis raised one haughty eyebrow. “You do not think it serious to be told you resemble a cod? You surprise me, Ordley, for my part I would feel it most serious.”

“Oh the devil fly away with you, Andover, that was not what I meant at all.” The Viscount gave him a disgusted look. “If you are in a skittish mood, I have no time to parley words with you, I’m for White’s.”

The Marquis, apparently having satisfied his appetite, leaned back lazily. “I hope your, er, expedition does not include informing all and sundry of this gossip?”