Rogues Gallery (10 page)

In the next heartbeat, he changed his mind. If these were a mere betrothal gift, what did the man have in store for the future?

Lord Westbrook set the opened case on the desk between them. Sunlight slanted across the jewels, making them wink and dance in a riotous prism, driving Bernard to distraction.

He tore his eyes away from the small fortune. "What woman wouldn't be delighted at such a gift?"

Edmund nodded, as if gratified by the reassurances. "Bernard, I hesitate to mention this. In truth, I know I am sorely out of line. But," he faltered, "well, you are aware that I have no other family, having tragically lost my elder brother, my nephew, and my wife."

Edmund paused, his eyes pinched shut. Bernard could not help but feel a moment's sympathy for the man's multiple tragedies. Despite Marisa's parting words, her brother was not an unfeeling brute.

"And," Edmund continued, opening his eyes once more, "though I fear you will consider me a bit maudlin, I hope that you and I can share a similar warmth some day as my brother Charles and I had."

Bernard bobbed his head in agreement, yet he could not help but wonder what the man was leading up to.

Edmund reached once more into the desk drawer and extracted a costly timepiece. He hesitated for several moments and then slid it across the desk. "Please. Accept this as a wedding gift from me."

Bernard chuckled. "'Tis not I who is to be wed, my lord."

He lifted the silver pocket watch. It, too, made his breath catch, but this time he was more prepared. There were no finer timepieces in all of London. Bernard flipped open the lid, gazing at the white enameled dial in what he hoped was a disinterested fashion. He had wanted one of these for so long, but his meager allowance did not permit such extravagances.

"I wish you to have a gift, and it pleases me to give you one that presages the time that we shall spend together, once I am wed to your sister."

"You are much too generous, my lord. I cannot thank you enough."

Bernard tucked the watch in his waistcoat pocket. He was grateful to be absolved of responsibility for the loss of the Westbrook family heirlooms. Particularly since his sister had yet to pardon him for his supposed failings in regard to the gems.

"I thought we might travel to London soon," Edmund continued. "We can see the sights of course. I'm well aware of those things that most interest young men. But," he paused before continuing in a grave manner, "I know well the difficulties attendant to being a younger son, having endured the same fate for many years. I have some, ah, business to see to, and I would greatly appreciate your assistance."

Bernard's heart skipped a beat. An association with Lord Westbrook was tantamount to a royal favor. No man, particularly a younger son, could hope for a richer blessing. He would be privy to Lord Westbrook's inner circle, those men who invested their wealth in financial enterprises the likes of which he could only dream. Surely Lord Westbrook, or one of his cronies, would be interested in staking an ambitious young man such as him.

Bernard contemplated the unspoken proposition. He knew he had mere moments to give an answer and, once rejected, the bounteous offer would not be tendered again. He took another sip of brandy to mask his excitement. If only he had had these prospects several years ago, Lisette might have chosen him rather than the wealthy old reprobate she'd taken for a husband. Now Bernard had the opportunity to change his luck, and secure a fortune for himself.

Yet there was Marisa.

He did not wish her spirit to be crushed by their Father. Bernard had a great deal of affection for his sister after all. Hadn't he done his best to shield her from Father's unreasonable wrath over the years? On those occasions when she had insisted on facing it alone, Bernard had always consoled her afterwards. He was at a loss as to why she and Father could not get on, however.

Marisa's unjust denunciation of him as traitor still rankled. She could not win this battle of wills with Father, no matter how fervent her wish to avoid marriage to Lord Westbrook. That laughable threat about Aunt Althea—it had served its purpose and would go no further.

Why was she so resistant to Lord Westbrook anyway? He was quite generous, and solicitous, and able to provide Marisa with a lavish lifestyle other females would envy. In time Marisa would become resigned to her fate in a world ruled by men, a state of mind that all young misses in her situation finally adopted.

Besides, didn't he bear the worse fate in life? He was a man governed by other men, the ones who controlled the purse strings.

There truly was only one choice.

Bernard lifted his glass in salute. "My lord, you do me the greatest of honors."

Edmund tugged at the buttons on his silk embroidered waistcoat, impatient to join the naked woman in his bed. Despite his earlier promises to himself, he could not wait any longer. The morning spent with Marisa, combined with his thoughts about their future together, ensured that his desire was at an unbearable level.

He glanced at Daphne, her plump breasts tempting him beyond endurance. He saw her glance at the front of his tan breeches, and then a satisfied smile spread across her face. He tugged the rest of his clothing off, discarding it in a pile for his valet to handle later.

Much, much later.

He strode to the bed, his excitement nearly too much to contain. While he knew it was Daphne in his bed, his body could only concentrate on Marisa—having her body wrapped around his, plunging deep into her, repeatedly. The lust surged through him, nearly unmanning him.

"Wait," he bit out as Daphne reached for him. "I must do something first."

He opened the wardrobe and retrieved the cloisonné tray. He returned to the bed, setting the tray on the mahogany table nearby.

"What is that?"

Edmund almost ignored her question. He usually prepared himself before Daphne was allowed into his bedchamber, but today he had been too eager to relieve his anxiety, as well as his lust.

He lifted the ivory pipe and attached the ceramic pipe bowl to the stem. "It is a means to prolong my pleasure," he answered.

"Oh."

He turned toward her. "Our pleasure."

She returned his smile, clearly grateful to be in his good graces, and his bed, again. "How does it do that?"

He lit the chased silver lamp, and then placed a pill of opium in the pipe bowl. "It ensures I shall not spill my seed for quite a long while."

Edmund lay down on the bed, positioning the pipe bowl over the lamp. The drug soon vaporized, and he inhaled deeply. The sweet fumes swirled around his face, and he closed his eyes, succumbing to thoughts of Marisa. Her skin had been so tender, so delicious, when he had helped her from her chair in the library that morning. He managed to refrain from licking his lips as he imagined his mouth covering every inch of her delectable body.

"My lord?"

Edmund's loins stiffened at the idea of Marisa, naked, awaiting him in his bed. He needed her, and soon, before the delay became unbearable. Until then, Daphne would have to serve his needs, as proxy for the female he truly desired.

He sucked on the pipe once more, gulping to fill his lungs with the pungent smoke. It seemed he needed more of the substance than usual to calm him while he waited for his wedding night.

He set the pipe down and turned to Daphne, his hand outstretched. She hurried to his side, and began caressing his chest, and then his stomach. At his body's enthusiastic response, her face lit up with triumph, and she eagerly commenced her expert stroking lower down. Edmund closed his eyes, reveling in the slow steady rhythm, the feel of her smooth hand sliding up and down.

"Oh, God," he moaned. "Marisa."

Her hand stilled.

"There is no need to cease." Edmund clamped his hand on hers, recommencing the gratifying up-and-down motion she had so abruptly halted.

"You said her name," she whined, her lips protruding in a pout.

"She is to be my bride," he retorted, annoyed by her interruptions.

"But you're making love to me!"

Edmund reared up, rage flashing through his entire body. He struggled to find the words to hurl at her for ruining his pleasurable lassitude of moments before. He had neither the time, nor the inclination, to assuage a housemaid's bruised feelings.

Why must she insist on being so intrusive, so selfish?

He slapped her, knocking her across the mattress.

"My lord!" she shrieked, her hand flying to her reddened cheek. It would no doubt leave a large bruise. Too bad he had removed his signet ring earlier.

Daphne turned to dash from the bed, but Edmund was quicker. He gripped her ankle and yanked, hard, and she was on her back again. Her chest heaved, and tears spilled down her anguished face.

"My lord, please," she sobbed.

He wanted to bury himself in Marisa, and fill her womb with sons. Instead he had to satisfy himself with this silly cow. The unfairness of it made him howl with fury.

He wrenched her legs apart, ignoring her cries of protest. He thrust himself inside her, holding a vision of Marisa in his brain, but his mind would not maintain the illusion. He could feel his erection fading. He thrust harder, fighting off his panic, focusing on Marisa's face, her elegant, innocent body.

One last push, but he knew it was impossible to continue.

"This is all your fault!" he screamed, rolling off her, throwing himself onto the bed.

Daphne seized the opportunity to make her escape. Edmund grabbed her arm, and flipped her onto her back once more. In the next instant, he was astride her, not even remotely aroused by her ample naked flesh beneath his.

He wrapped his hand around her throat. "Do not say a word of this. Do you understand?" He squeezed his fingers. "Not a word, ever, to anyone."

The maid's eyes bulged with terror, but she managed to rasp out, "Yes, my lord."

"Now be gone." He waved both hands at her. "It is past time you return to your duties anyway."

Before he could don his robe, Daphne was gone from the bedchamber, the door slamming behind her.

He turned at the harsh sound, and the opium pipe caught his eye. Perhaps he should avail himself of the medicine while it was so convenient. He needed to erase not only the ghastly memory of his body's betrayal, but the apprehension that once Marisa was finally his bride, he would be unable to consummate their union.

Edmund re-lit the lamp and gulped the pipe's intoxicating vapors. He would summon Marisa to the drawing room, on the pretext of discussing the particulars of the masquerade. An afternoon in her proximity was certain to restore his faith in his procreative abilities. Perhaps he could even steal a kiss or two as further assurance of his virility.

He exhaled and closed his eyes, stretching out on the bed. A woman with flame-red hair, her belly full with child, joined his reveries. An ethereal Marisa reached toward Edmund too, diverting his attention with the promise of a nursery filled with heirs.

Edmund succumbed to the blissful visions, eager to chase away his earlier terror.

***

M
arisa halted at the base of the staircase, sagging with relief. She was alone in the vestibule. She cast a sorrowful glance at the massive carved door, but did not dwell on the freedom that existed just beyond it. It was a remote possibility after all.

Unlike the one she clutched in her hand.

She tiptoed to the demi-lune table containing the salver for mail to be franked and sent on its way. Her heart bounced about as she mentally recited the desperate plea for help she had penned to Eliza, "her very last hope", the woman happily wed due to Marisa's recent assistance.

Marisa uttered a silent prayer for success as she extended her hand to place the precious missive on the engraved silver tray.

"Miss Dunsmore?"

Marisa nearly yelped, snatching her hand back as if scorched. She whirled and came face-to-face with Edmund.

Her heart sank as she caught sight of his puzzled expression. It was clear he could not understand why she was not in her chamber recovering from the ordeal of planning her betrothal ball. At that moment she wondered the very same, for the megrim she had feigned was now a reality.

She lowered her hand in an attempt to hide the incriminating letter in the folds of her white muslin dress.

"Oh! My lord." She pasted a weak smile on her face.

He stepped closer, concern replacing the puzzlement.

Marisa retreated a pace.

"Miss Dunsmore. I thought you were to be resting this afternoon."

Though there was nothing she wanted more at that moment than the safety of her bedchamber, locked away from this man's suffocating proximity, she bristled at the underlying tone of command in his voice.

"I was, but I began to feel somewhat better."

He had managed to close the distance between them while she fumbled for a plausible excuse. Marisa's heart fluttered in panic. There was barely enough room for her to draw breath without coming into contact with him. Edmund reached his hand toward her face, as though to offer comfort.

Marisa's hand flew up to ward off his unwelcome touch.

Unfortunately, it was the one clutching her plea for deliverance from a lifetime of this man's caresses.

He plucked at the vellum, a frown creasing his forehead. "What is this?"

"Oh, 'tis nothing of any importance," she said, tightening her fingers about the letter. She could not let him learn of her last opportunity for liberation before it became reality.

Edmund tugged on the paper once more. His eyebrows lifted when she refused to give way.

"My lord, I meant to distract myself from the megrim by dashing off a little note to a school chum." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to relate the tale of the highwayman, while it was fresh in my mind."

"You can give it to me, then," he said with a smug look that made Marisa shiver. "I have just penned a letter to my solicitors. I will see to it that both are sent today."

"That won't be necessary." She yanked on the paper until it was finally out of his grasp. She pretended not to see his expression of surprise as she placed both hands behind her. "There is no rush."