Tender the Storm (12 page)

"George?" muttered Rolfe, and batted her hand away.

"My husband," retorted his companion.

Rolfe opened one eye. "I thought you were separated."

"He wants
a reconciliation
." Amusement coated her voice.

"Damnation!"

In one smooth movement, Rolfe threw back the bedclothes and rolled to his feet. Unashamedly naked, he stalked the room, retrieving the garments he had practically torn from his person a scant hour before. The woman watched the play of candlelight on Rolfe's sleek, muscular torso, and a soft purr caught in her throat.

"Don't worry, darling," she crooned, "George was never known for his punctuality."

"I'm not worried." The response was muffled. Rolfe was pulling his shirt over his head.

The lady dragged herself to a sitting position and artfully arranged the covers so that her up-tilted breasts peaked over the edge of the sheet. Her green eyes widened. Her lips pouted. She ran her fingers through her short titian ringlets, arranging them into a reasonable semblance of order. If Rolfe cared to glance in her direction, he must surely be struck by the picture she presented.

Rolfe looked straight at her. "Where are my boots?" he demanded.

"Try under the bed, darling." Her tone was dulcet. It was through sheer force of will that she managed to restrain herself from gnashing her teeth.

The Honorable Mrs. Roberta Ashton prided herself on her strength of will. In her short liaison with Rolfe
Brockford
, the marquess of Rivard, she'd had more need of it than she'd had in the previous thirty years of her life. Not that the lady looked her age. With her high-breasted girlish figure and translucent complexion, she could easily pass for a woman a good five years younger, if she had a mind to. It so
happened
that she had a mind to.

"You have only to say the word, Rolfe, and I'll send George packing."

In the act of pulling on his boots, Rolfe stilled. He half-turned in his chair, and gave her a long level look. "Now why should you wish to do that?"

An angry flush spread from her throat to her hairline. This was not the answer she wanted,
Her
little ploy was meant to bring the marquess to heel. She knew, of course, that she was not the only woman in his life. He had never pretended otherwise. But she was the only woman of any significance. To her knowledge, Rolfe had never remained as constant in his attentions to any woman as he had to her. It was this thought which had given her the confidence to force his hand. She was coming to perceive that she had acted prematurely.

"I see," she said carefully, and reached for a silk negligee which was spread on a chair beside the bed. She slipped her arms into it, and came to stand beside Rolfe. He was shrugging into his coat.

"You are jumping to conclusions, Rolfe. I didn't say that I was returning to my husband. Nothing could be farther from my mind." She touched a hand to the lapel of his coat and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle.

"You should give it some thought," he answered seriously.

She stiffened. "So that's it!" she exclaimed.

His eyebrows lifted.

"Off with the old love and on with the new?"

"What does that mean?"

"The opera dancer?
The little brunette in the chorus?
Your eyes never wavered from her all evening! Is that why you were as hot as coals for me tonight? You must think I'm a veritable innocent if I don't know when a man is making love to me but thinking of another woman!" She could scarcely believe that she had betrayed herself by voicing the ugly suspicion. If she didn't find her control, she knew she would lose him. "Forgive me, please? It's . . . it's been a wretched month without you." She gave him a tremulous smile. "I'm jealous of any woman you look at. Can you blame me? Not only are you the most eligible bachelor in the whole of England, but the women who are eager to share your bed are legion."

"Oh, legion!" he drawled.

"Darling," she wheedled, "don't you love me a little?"

"About as much as you love me, I should say," he answered softly.

The snap of her teeth almost gave her away. Recovering quickly, she soothed, "If you only feel a fraction of what I feel for you, I shall be well satisfied."

"Look, I do have to go. Do you mind?" Rolfe took a step backwards and her hands fell away from his shoulders.

"Shall . . . shall I see you tomorrow at the
Devonshires
' do?"

"What about your husband?" He was scanning the room to see if he had left anything.

"Darling, I've already forgotten him."

Before she could think of a way to detain him, he was striding out of the room. She ran to catch up with him and halted with one small hand on the bal
ustrade.
"Will
you be at the
Devonshires
' party?" Her eyes followed him as he descended the stairs two at a time.

When he reached the marble foyer, he glanced in her direction. After a slight hesitation, he answered, "I'll be there."

As he made his exit a frigid draft fanned the flames of the candles in the silver candelabrum which was set on an elaborately inlaid commode. The front door latched gently at his back. The lady turned aside and entered her chamber. The slam of her door reverberated ominously throughout the house.

Cursing the driving sleet, Rolfe turned up the collar of his greatcoat and struck out towards Piccadilly and his club in St. James. He was too keyed up, too restless, he decided, to go back to the big empty house in St. James Square. In a day or so, he would go down to Rivard Abbey. The thought should have filled him with pleasure. He cursed again, and wondered why the release of sexual tension left him strangely dissatisfied of late.

He must be tiring of his mistress, he decided. The thought amused him. It hardly seemed possible. Roberta Ashton was everything a man could possibly want in a mistress. Beneath her ethereal beauty beat the heart of a voraciously passionate woman. She was experienced and knew how to appease a man's desire as well as rouse it. And if she occasionally showed symptoms of a jealous nature, he had no real quarrel with that. What woman didn't? It was an annoyance men learned to tolerate.

That she was a married lady and moved in his own circles did not weigh with Rolfe. To his knowledge, the marriage was virtually over. It wasn't only that

George Ashton was a complacent husband. He was almost in his dotage. His grown children by his first marriage were older than his wife. The poor clod had mistaken the character of the dowerless young beauty
who
had latched onto the wealthy widower in her first season. He'd soon wakened to his mistake when his wife had taken a string of young lovers. Ever the gentleman, George had retired to the country, permitting his wife to go her own way.

Damn! He hated these games women played! She'd thought to make him jealous! Jealous! Her ploy was so patent that a callow youth could have seen through it. It was she who was the jealous one, as she'd proved by her reference to the little opera dancer.

She could not have been more mistaken in her assumptions. His attention had been fixed on the girl simply because she reminded him so forcibly of the child he had conveyed from Rouen to Coutances. Fleur Guery. He'd promised himself that he would look her up once he was back in England. He'd been back for over a week, but there had been little enough time to find her direction. There had been a succession of interminable meetings with
Titeniac
as Rolfe related some of what he'd observed in France. He'd never undergone such a thorough interrogation and had wondered what it might mean.

One thought led to another. He was almost at King Street before he realized he'd been so lost in reverie that he'd gone the length of St. James Street without turning into his club. Shrugging philosophically, he allowed his long strides to carry him forward.

The house in St. James Square was as fine as any to be found in the whole of London. Nevertheless, Rolfe was toying with the idea of putting it up for sale. There was no doubt that in the last number of years, the square had lost caste. Most of the nobility and gentry had moved westwards to Mayfair. Their places were being taken by rich
cits
, or worse,
gaming dens and select
bawdy houses. Behind those imposing facades, God only knew what depravities were being committed. Even to walk the length of King Street was an undertaking in itself. Ladies of the painted frailty with their retinue of liveried servants were very much in evidence. Not that Rolfe minded for himself. But his mother was scandalized by the incessant comings and goings in the square at all hours of the day and night. She was angling for a move to Mayfair. The most persuasive argument that she had put forward to date was that should her son marry in the near future, his bride's innocence must be corrupted by the iniquities which were so blatantly perpetuated in and around St. James.

Wedlock.
As he nursed a glass of fine French brandy before the blazing grate in his bookroom, Rolfe let the thought revolve in his mind. Again a feeling of restlessness swept over him. That he could not put his finger on the source of his dissatisfaction irked him excessively. Until less than a month before, he had not been plagued by such vague feelings of discontent. He had a full life. He wanted for nothing. He was seldom bored. How could he be in his line of work? Danger and boredom were, in essence, irreconcilable. On the other hand, wedlock and boredom were bedmates, if
ton
marriages were anything to go by. Perhaps it was boredom he craved?

From contemplating wedlock, Rolfe's thoughts turned to his nieces. Spoiled little brats, he thought affectionately. The unspoken words immediately
brought to mind the picture of another little girl, Fleur Guery, with her huge doe eyes and solemn little face. Something about the child must have captivated him. Scarcely a day went by but his thoughts were drawn to her.

Stretching out his long legs, he crossed one booted foot over the other, wondering why it was he could not seem to put her out of his mind. His mistress, he knew, would be mortified if she knew that his thoughts dwelled more on this one slip of a girl than on any other female of his acquaintance. Frowning, he set down his glass sharply. A moment later, he took himself off to bed.

Behind their high, stone walls, some of the great Georgian mansions on Piccadilly gave every indication of being fortresses, or jails. Devonshire House, in particular, had the most forbidding appearance of them all. That it possessed one of the finest views in the whole of England counted for nothing to the
Devonshires
' guests. Only the servants who were domiciled in the attics had an unobstructed view across the walled screen to the pleasant aspect of Green Park, on the other side of Piccadilly.