A Whisper of Desire (11 page)

“Sebastian has a point,” added Hadley. “What of Maitland's reputation?”

Marisa's head was reeling. “Are you suggesting that Maitland pretend he prefers the intimate company of men, and that our rushed marriage is a cover for his real preferences?” A wave of horror swept through her.

Maitland reached out and took her hand. “My reputation will survive. As soon as this is over, and we have what we need to ensure everyone's safety, the rumors, because that is all they will be, will die down.”

She swallowed back a cry of outrage, ashamed at the selfishness sliding through her veins like poison. It wasn't only his reputation. What would people think of her? Would they think her brother had forced her to marry his friend to save his reputation? Would they pity her for being married to such a man?

He squeezed her hand. “I haven't said I'd do it. This decision must be made together, because I cannot act out this charade without you.”

Before she could answer, Sebastian said, “Who is going to play the love interest? You can't go to the club alone; no one will believe that.” He laughed. “Although it could be fun to watch. I'm sure Maitland wouldn't want for company for long.”

“I will be there. I will endeavor to keep Angelo occupied, but I can't go every time Maitland is on the premises or it will look suspicious.” Arend looked at Maitland with one eyebrow raised. “Shall I tell them of our idea?”

Maitland ignored him and looked at Marisa. “You'll be my love interest. We shall dress you up as a young lad—”

“Oh, no. I'm not having my sister being exposed to that sort of danger. It's not fitting, it's scandalous.”

“Can you think of another way to expose our enemy? I would have thought that now you are to be a father, the safety of us all was paramount. We are no further ahead. Angelo is the only lead we have.”

“You're such a bastard, Arend. To use my wife and child to make your—”

Marisa quietly spoke up. “But he's right. How many more lives are to be stamped on, ruined, destroyed by her? If this saves Helen from…well, if it stops anything else evil happening to those I love then I will do anything, risk anything to stop her.”

Silence followed her quietly determined words. Maitland was filled with mixed emotions. Pride at her bravery and stance to help those she loved, and sorrow that she viewed their marriage as the ruination of her life.

He let go of her hand, and, needing a moment to gather himself, he rose and refilled the men's glasses. He rarely allowed his inner feelings to be put on display, and thanks to years of training, no one in the room suspected how much her words had speared him.

He tried to rationalize her point of view. They were only recently married, and while he'd been ready to find a wife, she'd thought herself in love with Rutherford, and instead of her dream match, her heart had been broken. She would come around.

Once he'd retaken his seat he suddenly had the urge to retract his offer to take on this role, because Sebastian was right, it would be dangerous. To his mind Sebastian was wrong on one score. Marisa was now his responsibility, not Sebastian's.

“It's been a long night, gentlemen, ladies. I'd like to discuss this in private with my wife.” He turned to Arend and added, “You'll have our answer tomorrow.”

“No. It's not only your decision.”

“It is now,” he said to Sebastian. He uttered quietly but firmly, “She is my wife.”

It was only Beatrice's hand on his arm that stopped Sebastian from rushing to his feet. Anger scored Sebastian's features and he kept darting wounded looks at Marisa.

Sebastian seemed to be angrier at Marisa's lack of response. He stood, stalking to the door, throwing it open with a bang. “This is not over,
Your Grace.
You and I will be discussing this on the morrow.” He calmed down enough to wait for Beatrice. She stopped and squeezed Marisa's hand as she passed.

“If it's any comfort, I'd do it if I were not with child.” She patted her stomach. “I want my child to be safe.”

Marisa stood and hugged her before Beatrice preceded Sebastian from the room.

Hadley flopped in his chair with a large sigh. “I'm not sure I disagree with Sebastian's concerns. I've been to the Top Hat with Grayson. Angelo's security is second to none. It's hard to get in and I suspect could be just as difficult to get out.”

“You and I will pay Angelo a visit tomorrow night and scope out the establishment for escape routes, et cetera.” Arend added, “I want to try one more time to appeal to his monetary soul. I'll offer an obscene amount of money and see if he bites.” Arend rose to take his leave. “I suspect he's enjoying the power more than he needs money at present.” He looked at Maitland. “That's why we need you.”

Hadley rose too. “Shall we meet at White's tomorrow night before we attend the Top Hat?” On the affirmative, he bid farewell to Marisa, and with Arend they left, closing the door behind them.

Maitland drained the remaining whiskey in his glass and rolled his shoulders. He was tired, and if he was tired, Marisa must be exhausted.

He put down his glass, and upon rising he held out his hand. “Time for bed, I think.” As Marisa started to object, he added, “It's late. We are both tired, we had little sleep last night, and it's almost morning. Let's discuss this tomorrow when we have our wits about us.”

When she put her tiny hand in his he made a silent vow. He would protect her. He had promised her the safety of his name when they married. The best way to protect her would be to keep her away from Angelo and his club. That said, he also understood the rationale for forcing Angelo's hand. Marisa would be safer if they could find the enemy sooner rather than let her strike at them again. He was faced with an untenable decision.

“I want to do this. I won't change my mind in the morning.”

Her words rang with stubbornness and determination.

As they walked up the stairs side by side, he replied, “I'm not discussing this now. I want to explain what the role will involve before you agree.”

He could almost hear her curse under her breath, and her hand trembled in his.

“Such as?” she insisted.

He remained silent, refusing to be drawn into a conversation. When they reached her bedroom door, he turned her hand over and tenderly kissed her palm. “Good night. It's almost four in the morning. Shall we say three o'clock tomorrow afternoon, in my study?” He didn't wait for her reply. He merely opened her door and gently pushed her inside before closing her in and retreating to his room.

When they'd arrived home from the ball, he'd sent word to Gilbert dismissing him for the evening. It was almost another half hour by the time he'd divested himself of his clothes, but he did not break his routine.

He settled by the glowing embers of the fire and began to read. One chapter must be read every night. His marriage would not, could not, change the methods he used to enforce his self-discipline.

Tonight as he read the words, when he got to the end of a sentence he had no idea what he had just read. Instead, what filled his head was Marisa's statement in the drawing room. The idea that she thought this marriage ruined her life crushed him. Pangs of guilt ate at his soul. Perhaps his solution of marriage had been selfish.

Tonight at the ball she certainly hadn't been the gay, carefree, full-of-life young lady she had been at the beginning of the season. He hated the idea that she was unhappy.

He sighed and for once put the book down before he'd read a chapter. He pushed himself from the leather wing chair and strode to the windows of his master suite. Shoving the heavy velvet draperies aside, he looked down into the dimly lit street and prayed he hadn't made a terrible mistake in marrying her.

Not terrible for him, but terrible for her. She wanted something from him that he could never give. His heart clenched in his chest at the thought of causing her pain.

It suddenly dawned on him that even when De Palma was caught, Marisa's life would not change. He still would not be able to give her what she really desired—his heart.

The hunt for their villainess was his way to repent for his father's sins, but it did not change who he was. It would not change their marriage.

The idea of becoming like his father was what had kept him a virgin for so long. It seemed he would now make Marisa pay for the weakness flowing in his blood.

Society had gossiped about his sexual exploits—or non-exploits, as the case had been. He'd been twenty when he at last lay with a woman, and only because he had decided to marry her.

The Libertine Scholars had tried to dissuade him from matrimony at such a young age, Arend accusing him of thinking he was in love just because he'd slept with a woman. Looking back, he realized Arend was partly right. He had loved Priscilla, but he hadn't been in love with her. He'd simply been scared that since he'd had a taste of coitus the only way to avoid spiraling into a fit of sexual deviancy was to marry Priscilla and have sexual relations only with his wife.

His father had ruined that plan.

Many in society thought him an odd fish, and with a few well-placed rumors it would not take much for society to believe he preferred men.

While staring into the dark he tried to ignore the hum in his body. His wife, the woman who last night scorched his sheets, filled his head. He remembered her breathless cries and the way she gripped him when she came.

The sudden thought brought a rush of warmth to his loins. The one flaw in his plan to marry, and especially to marry a woman as beautiful and as sensual as Marisa, was her response in his bed.

Her passion was intoxicating. A hellion by day, and to his dismay, a hellion by night, he thought with a smile. His smiled dimmed. Why had he not thought his choice through? Like most men, he'd assumed a “lady” would be more subdued between his sheets than women in the profession. Marisa's enthusiasm surprised him.

She'd actually initiated her deflowering and seared him with her demanding, untutored responses, so much so that tonight he'd used the age-old excuse of tiredness, grasping at a way to shore up his restraint. Just the memory of her skin beneath his was making him hard and throbbing.

He was about to push away from the window when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He turned slowly, and the woman who haunted his thoughts was standing there in another silken garment that sent his blood rushing south.

She slipped the garment from her shoulders and it slid down her body to pool at her feet. His eyes feasted on her nakedness, and it was only his years of self-denial that ensured his feet did not take a step closer.

With her head held high, she moved closer. “I want to talk, and even if we don't—make love—I want to share your bed tonight and every night,” she added in a rush.

“We can't always get what we want; you of all people should know that. I suggest you turn around and go back to your room.”

“Why, you're still awake.” She looked down his body to where his robe displayed the effect she had on him. “You appear to be very much awake. So much for being tired.”

To his horror, a smile that spoke of sex broke on her face.

“You vowed before God to obey me. Please go to your room, Marisa. We will discuss your behavior in the morning.”

She moved closer like the serpent in the Garden of Eden. “One thing you best learn. I don't like being told what to do unless I'm naked in your bed—with you.” She all but purred. “In your bed I concede to your experience.”

God, she was glorious. How unfair was that? How was he to resist when faced with a hot-blooded woman who was unafraid to challenge him?

Without another word she turned away from him and walked to his bed, sliding beneath the sheets while he stood moot and aroused.

“I will accede to your wishes and not ask to discuss the plan to bring down Angelo for the rest of what is left of the night, but I will be sleeping in this bed.” She smiled seductively and drew down the sheet, exposing her breasts. “At the moment, I'm not very sleepy.”

“Unfortunately, I'm very tired,” he uttered, as he scooped her negligee from the floor while trying not to feast on her breasts. He moved to the other side of his bed, as far away from temptation as possible. He stood undecided, his body screaming for him to get in the bed and take her, while his brain was calmly explaining how his self-control was hanging on a cliff by a strand of cotton.

Before he'd married he'd decided on a conjugal schedule. Relations once every third night was permissible. He should be able to keep his urges satisfied while maintaining a sense of propriety. To his dismay he'd never considered his young, proper, inexperienced wife would initiate sex or demand to sleep in his bed. He was in a decided pickle, the irony of which was that most men would give their last breath to be in his position. But long ago, having seen the blood that flowed in his veins, he understood that he was not most men.

He was his father's son.

He tried to forget the incident in the barn when he was sixteen but never could for long. He suppressed the memories and focused on his current situation.

He dropped the flimsy silk garment on her exposed breasts and saw the first sign of insecurity flash across her beautiful face. “I don't mean to hurt you, Marisa, but it would be best if you went back to your own suite.”

“You really want me to leave?”

He hated himself. He could see her eyes begin to well with tears. He ran a finger down her cheek. “I really am tired, my sweet.”

“Then I'll simply sleep here, with you.”

“You know if you stay in this bed we are unlikely to sleep.”

Her smile was back. “So you
do
desire me.”

Too much.
That was the problem. “You're a beautiful woman.”

“Beatrice shares Sebastian's bed every night.”

Ah, now he understood. She was comparing their marriage to that of her brother's.

“No one knows what goes on behind couples' closed doors. Couples behave differently, depending on the basis of their relationship. Unlike Sebastian, I prefer to sleep alone.”

At the word “alone,” more tears filled her eyes as she whispered, “I want to be a good wife, but I don't know what you want from me.”

He scooped her into his arms and began to carry her back to her room. “We have only been married for a little under two days. It will take time for each of us to settle into married life. Give me time. I've not had a wife before.”

“I've never had a husband before,” she promptly replied.

As he laid her on the bed and drew up the covers, he added, “I imagine other men are quite envious of my good luck in securing your hand in marriage.”

As he made to leave she grabbed his hand. “It's not only the plan I wish to discuss. I want to hear about Priscilla.”

“There is nothing to tell.”

Marisa's heart hit her stomach. His demeanor changed the minute he heard her say Priscilla's name. Her courage deserted her. “As you say it's late. We shall talk tomorrow.”