The Making of a Gentleman (18 page)

Julien ran a hand through his hair. “You may not have a choice, Brother. She’s an independent woman. Perhaps she wants to marry this man.”

“She wants me.”

Julien laughed and shook his head. “You’re far more confident than I ever was with Sarah.” His eyes narrowed. “What exactly happened last night?”

Armand pushed through the French doors out into the cool sunshine of early December. He could smell colder air on its way. Perhaps snow in a few days. He scanned the garden and the walls. “We made love—at least that’s what she called it.”

There was a choking sound behind him, and he looked over his shoulder to see Julien stopped in midstride, his expression one of disbelief. Perhaps Felicity was right about not telling his family. Too late now.

“I hope to God that does not mean what I think it does.”

Armand shrugged, and Julien pressed a hand against his eyes. “Damn it, Armand. I was afraid of this. I hoped it hadn’t gone that far.”

“It’s against The Rules.” He was scanning the perimeter again, looking for any changes since yesterday.

“Hell, yes, it’s against the rules. A lot of rules—not just my rules. What if she’s pregnant?”

Armand glanced at him. “Pregnant?” he struggled for a moment to place the word. “You mean like Sarah?”

“Yes. Like Sarah. How do you think she got that way?”

Armand had not really thought about that. Was Sarah with child because she and Julien had done what he and Felicity had last night?

“Hell, Armand, what kind of books did you read as a kid? You were always reading. Bastien and I thought you knew everything.”

Armand thought a moment, but he couldn’t remember reading any books about making love. He couldn’t remember much at all about the books he had read, except there was one about wolves…

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. She can still marry St. John or—”

“She’s mine.” Armand gave him a hard look, stepped forward until he was nose to nose with his brother. “I will have her.”

Julien threw out his hands. “Fine. Fine. How the devil did you become so bloody stubborn?”

“She’s mine, and I will have her. We marry today.”

Julien ran a hand through his hair. “She hasn’t even agreed—“

“She will.”

“Even if she does, a marriage today isn’t possible.”

Armand walked away, calling over his shoulder. “Make it possible.” Then he grumbled to himself, “Rules.”

***

Felicity shivered. She wasn’t certain if it was the cool morning air or the fact that she couldn’t get the shocked look on Armand’s face out of her mind. Why had Charles done this? Did he want the money now? Did he think, after what he read in the papers, he could get more?

“I know what you must be thinking,” Charles said. Beside her he kept up a jaunty pace, his ebony walking stick striking the cobblestones with a measured thump, thump.

“Do you?” she said, her voice as measured as his pace.

“Of course. You’re wondering why I came here this morning, what motive I could possibly have for revealing our betrothal.”

“It did cross my mind. I was prepared to ask for an advance—”

Charles gave her an abrupt look. “You have been saying that for weeks, and yet I stand here, empty-handed.”

“It’s a delicate negotiation, and I have not been in the position for even a month. I needed the timing to be right.”

He stopped, gave her a hard look. “Was it right last night? I read that the comte left Lady Spencer’s with you slung over his shoulder. Perhaps when he was carrying you away, you might have begun those
delicate negotiations
.”

“I can explain that,” she began. But really, could she?

He waved a hand and began walking again. “I don’t need your explanations. I saw it all quite clearly this morning. The comte thinks you’re his. Well, you’re not, Felicity. You’re mine.”

“No, I’m not.”

He turned abruptly and grabbed her arm. “Oh, yes you are. Legally, you belong to me.” There was no smell of alcohol on his breath, and his soberness worried her.

“No one would force me to honor that marriage contract,” she hissed.

“Will they really need to force you? I can walk down to the
Times
right now and ruin you, stir up the scandal broth around the Valères even more. They’d have to turn you out. And then what other option, but marriage to me, will even be open to you?” The threat was clear. He would be certain she had no other options. “You don’t think the comte would actually marry you, do you? You, a lowly vicar’s daughter?”

She turned away, and he grabbed her arm. “I hope he does want to marry you. They’ll pay through the nose to make this marriage contract go away.”

She would die of shame before she allowed Armand to pay Charles for her. She didn’t want Armand to know—anyone to know—that she had agreed to pay Charles to free her from the marriage agreement. That she had been forced to do so because her father had betrothed her to a drunk, a liar, a gambler. It was… humiliating. She wanted to leave her father—herself—some dignity. “I’m not going to marry the comte.”

Charles sneered. “What you mean is he doesn’t want you.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked abruptly. “I said I’d give you the money, and I know you don’t want to marry me. You never even looked twice at me.”

“But I’m looking now.” He gave her a slow, steady perusal that made her skin crawl. “And I like what I see. I like the comte’s whore, and I think I’d like a taste of what you’re giving that idiot for free.”

“He’s not an idiot.”

Charles laughed. “Did you hear him back there? He sounds like a five-year-old.”

“You underestimate him.”

“Yes, I am quaking in my boots.” He released her and made his way to a bench, propped one foot on it. She stood uncomfortably nearby, feeling the weight of the seconds tick by. With Armand, she was used to silence. Much of the time there was never a need for words between them, though it was her job to make him use them. But with Charles, the silence dragged on ominously.

“If, after last night, the Valères weren’t already going to let you go, they will now.”

“You made sure of that.”

“I did, didn’t I? But you won’t go quietly. You’ll demand a hundred pounds to keep your silence.”

“Keep my silence? About what?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “About what Society already suspects. The comte de Valère is a monster. He carried you off, raped you, beat you—”

“That’s a lie!”

“Shut up! That’s what you say, but Society will never believe it, especially not when the wounded fiancé makes a statement confirming you’ve been assaulted and ruined.”

She shook her head. “No—”

“Yes. Demand the money and give it to me. Then we’ll get you another position. Your connection with the Valères must be worth something.”

Felicity gaped at him. “You’re mad.”

He leaned close to her so she could smell the perfume he wore. “I’m shrewd.”

“This ends now, Charles. I won’t be your pawn anymore.”

He smiled as though this was what he expected. He looked at his fingernails. “I’m shrewd, and I’m ruthless, Felicity. Do you know what will happen if you don’t do as I say?”

She opened her mouth to say she did not care and then closed it again, afraid when she saw the look in his eyes. There was something in them she hadn’t seen before. Or maybe she had never been willing to look closely enough.

“Did you see the papers this morning?”

Confused, she shook her head. Bile was rising in her throat, and her heart was thumping wildly against her chest.

“Then you didn’t see the notice about the woman they found dead. A friend of yours, believe it or not.”

Felicity’s head swam. What was he talking about? Charles truly was mad. “Friend of mine?” She had no friends in London. “You make no sense.”

He grinned, stroked the handle of his walking stick. “Don’t you remember Celeste?”

She shook her head. “No. I…” But she did remember. The demirep Charles had been with on Bond Street.

“Ah, I see you do remember.” He smiled again. “She was found dead yesterday morning. Stabbed.”

Felicity felt a chill crawl up her spine. She shivered and looked away. “That has nothing to do with me.” Oh, God. She prayed it had nothing to do with Charles.

“Doesn’t it? They’re calling it a crime of passion. Jealousy is a form of passion.”

Her head whipped around, and she stared at him open-mouthed. “Jealousy? I wasn’t jealous of that-that woman, and I didn’t kill her.”

“Of course you didn’t.” He flicked the tip of his walking stick, and she saw the blade glint. “I did.”

She was falling. The world was spinning. Desperate for purchase, she reached out and grasped the back of the bench to steady herself. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the seat. In the distance, somewhere far away, she heard Charles laughing.

“Shocked you, did I?” His face swam in front of her.

She could only stare at him, unable to speak.

“Would you believe it was an accident?” He chuckled, speaking almost to himself. “I didn’t think so. I’m afraid I have a bit of a temper.” Now his gaze lashed onto Felicity’s. “You do not want to see my temper, Felicity, which is why you had better do as I say. If you don’t, I’ll have you charged for the murder of Celeste.”

She almost laughed. Almost. “Me? Murder that woman? Don’t be ridiculous!”

He didn’t smile. “But you did murder her, Felicity. You were jealous because she stole your fiancé away. Dozens of people saw you confront the two of us on Bond Street. The night before last you decided to retaliate. You came to my flat, found her there, and murdered her. Then you got that idiot comte to help you dispose of the body. Only… the body has been found.”

She couldn’t breathe. A weight was pushing down on her lungs, and she couldn’t move it. She whispered, “No one will believe that.”

“Won’t they? I think the public will gobble it up.” He made slurping motions with his tongue. “A jealous fiancée, a mad comte, a dead whore. The press will adore you.”

“But you can’t prove it.” Her voice rose, sounded a bit hysterical.

“Do I need to? You’ll be stuck in Newgate, locked away. Perhaps you’ll eventually be exonerated. Or perhaps the magistrate will find witnesses. They might find the bloody knife buried in the comte’s garden.”

“Charles—”

“You’ll be hanged at Tyburn. What will you tell the crowd gathered there, Felicity?”

She glared at him, loathing welling inside her. “I hate you. I—”

“Oh, that won’t garner you any sympathy.” He smiled. “Now you know my terms. Do you accept?”

She swallowed. “Charles, I can’t do this.” She hated the pleading sound in her voice. “I can’t threaten them. Give me time, and—”

“Time is up. I will be back tomorrow. You have a choice to make,
darling
.” He stroked her cheek, and she shivered with revulsion. “Get that money from the Valères or spend the rest of your days in Newgate. Either way, the comte, your lover, is ruined.”

With that, he turned and walked away from her, leaving her standing alone among the leafless tress and brown grass.

Armand sat on Felicity’s bed, studying the frilly night clothing she had left on the coverlet. It was white and flimsy, with decorative patches that had holes. Armand thought the holes were intentional, because he had seen his mother with handkerchiefs that had this sort of small netted material along the edges. He held the night dress up, wondering what she would look like wearing the garment.

Just then the door opened, and he heard a gasp. “You’re here.”

He set the night dress down and studied Felicity. She was still wearing the blue outer garment, and underneath it was a lighter blue dress with a flimsy white ruffle covering her neck and throat. Her cheeks were red, probably from the cold outside, but her hair was still smooth and straight. It shone in the afternoon sunlight that filtered through the drapes he spread wide. He would have opened the windows, as well, but he was afraid she would be too cold.

She looked at the door, where her hand still rested on the knob, and then at him, and he could see the uncertainty in her face. Being here was breaking a Rule—he knew that.

He also didn’t care.

“Close the door.”

For once, she didn’t argue. She closed the door. She stood looking at him for a long moment, and then she began to unfasten her outer garment, her fingers shaking slightly. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” She tugged the garment off her shoulders and shook it out before walking to the clothes press and opening it. “I didn’t expect to be away for so long. We went for a walk.” She folded the garment and placed it on a shelf. He could see from her slow, deliberate actions she was upset. St. John had upset her.

“You and your husband talked.”

Slowly, she closed the door of the clothes press, her back to him. “He’s not actually my husband. He and my father made an agreement.”

Now he was off the bed. He snatched her arm and spun her to face him. She made a sound of protest, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak. As far as he was concerned, she had spoken far too much already. “Why didn’t you tell me? I want you to be my wife.”

She closed her eyes.

“No.” He shook her. “Do not treat me like a child. I know The Rules, but because I choose to ignore them does not make me a child. You will be my wife.”

“I wish that were possible,” she said quietly.

“It is possible. I told Julien, and he agreed to make the arrangements.”

She blinked at him, obviously surprised.

“So you can forget that Rule.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“No? Why not? Because St. John came here this morning? He has nothing to do with us.”

“But he does, Armand.” She shook off his arm, and though he did not want to let her go, he released her. “My father and he made an agreement. I want to make it go away, but… it’s complicated.”

“And so you will marry St. John.”

She put her hands to her eyes, rubbed them. “No. No, I won’t, but now that he knows you and I are… connected, he will make things difficult for me. For us. I think it’s best if I leave. I don’t want to cause your family any more scandal.”

“The Rules?”

She nodded.

“You did not care about The Rules last night. None of them mattered when I had my mouth on your breasts and my hands on your hips. It didn’t matter when you were laid bare beneath me.”

Her cheeks had turned a dark shade of red at his words, and he knew he had hit a mark. “What is that called,” he asked, “when your cheeks turn red?”

“Blushing,” she said, lifting a hand to touch them.

“Why are you blushing, Felicity? Have you forgotten what happened between us? Have you forgotten that we made love?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten, and you are right to be angry with me. I shouldn’t have done that with you.”

“I wanted you to. I want you again.”

He saw her catch her breath, swallow, and then bite her lip. Interesting that words could have such an effect on her. He had always assumed touching alone could generate this reaction. Perhaps he had dismissed words too easily.

“I w-wanted you, too, but it was wrong, considering my betrothal to Charles. It was wrong because I should have known being seen with you might bring him here.”

“But you still want me.”

“Yes—no. I-I have to think what to do. I can’t think…”

He was beside her again, his hand taking hers. “You think too much. The answer is easy. Do you choose me or him? That is the question I need you to answer.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but this time he would not release her. “Perhaps I choose neither. Perhaps I don’t want to marry. I love you, but that may not be enough.”

“You love me?” Armand squeezed her hand. In his memory, he had heard these words only a few times, and those were from his mother. The only other time was once when Julien and Sarah did not know he was in the room with them. Julien had whispered to Sarah, “I love you,” and then had kissed her. “Then we should be married,” Armand said now.

“People don’t marry for love alone, Armand. There’s more than that. And it isn’t enough this time.”

“Why?”

She shook her head, looking suddenly so sad. He grasped her arm. He wanted to keep her close, make her happy. “Does your Charles love you?”

She laughed. “No.”

“Does he care about you?” He tugged her hand, drew her close so he could feel her press against him. “Does he make you feel the way that I do?”

“No.” She sighed the word.

“Then give yourself to me.” He bent, put a hand on the back of her neck, and kissed her. It was not a gentle kiss. He did not feel gentle today. He knew what he wanted, and he would have it. He would take it—whatever she would give.

His mouth slanted over hers, his tongue invading her until she moaned and wrapped her arms about his neck, pulling him closer. And then her tongue was imitating his, and he almost forgot about wanting to win and just allowed himself to feel the pleasure of having her body crushed against him, her mouth hot on his, and her scent in his nostrils. She ran a hand down his shoulders and put her palm on the bare skin at the base of his throat. Her other hand was under his untucked shirt, gliding over his chest, down to his belly. She brushed over the waistband of his trousers, and he jerked back.

“I want you,” he said, ripping the little white ruffle away from her neck and chest. “Tell me you want me, too.”

He bent to savage her neck, kissing it, finding the tender places that made her moan. She brushed her hand over the hand length of him, and he reared back again. “Tell me you want me.”

“Armand, I don’t think we should—”

“Lies. Your words are lies. Your body does not lie.” He pulled at her sleeves, pushing them down until the roundness of her breasts was exposed. He lowered his mouth, ran his tongue over the swell, dipped into the valley.

“Tell me you want me.” His hand was loosening the fastenings at the back of her gown, shoving it down so he could push her undergarments aside. There was the sound of material ripping, and then she was once again bare before him. In the light of day, he could see she was as pale as cream. Her nipples were dark and stood out like hard berries. He touched them, rubbing his thumbs over them, and her head fell back in pleasure.

He moved her backward, toward the bed, and eased her onto it. Pausing for only a second, he ripped his shirt over his head then freed his erection. She watched him through lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling, and he pressed bare skin to skin and put his mouth on hers again.

Her mouth was so sweet. He could not get enough of it, and she met his kisses with feverish ones of her own. His hand was under her skirts, trailing up her leg, past the knee, touching her thigh until he reached the vee he sought.

She was hot and wet, and his fingers slid easily inside her. “Tell me you want me.” He looked down at her, her cheeks red, her eyes dark blue, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breaths. He did now know if he felt this love she spoke of, but at this moment, it was the closest thing he could understand to it.

“I want you,” she murmured. “I want you, Armand.” He slid his finger in and out, and she bucked against him. “I need you. I love you. Oh, hurry!”

And then he was inside her, and he forgot all about winning, because she was his.

***

Every part of her was on fire with need. She needed his mouth on her mouth. She needed his hands on her breasts—they ached for his touch—and she needed him inside her. Blissfully, he
was
inside her. She realized now she was still slightly sore from the night before, but her need was so great she could forget the slight discomfort. He was moving within her, his chest grazing hers, his mouth against her ear, and she wanted to scream
more.
She did not think she could ever get enough of this—of him.

“Felicity,” he whispered, and she pulled him closer even as the pleasure began to crest. He moved again, sending her crashing over, and she called out and rose to meet him. She could feel his release, as well, feel him swell inside her, and then go still. She dug her fingers into his back and pulled him close.

“Armand.”

There was nothing but the two of them in that moment. No Charles, no one hundred pounds, no looming scandal and prison. It was just the two of them, and she wished she could stop this moment, so it would always be this way. But gradually, the fog of pleasure subsided, and the world intruded once again.

Armand levered himself on his elbows and looked down at her, his cobalt eyes so impossibly dark she thought she could lose herself in them. And the look he gave her. No man had ever looked at her that way—probably no man would again. “You’re mine,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “Mine.”

She sighed and struggled to get out from under him. He rolled to one side, and she shoved her skirts down and tugged her bodice up. Outside the room, she heard the footsteps of a passing maid. Curses! She could only imagine her embarrassment if anyone should find them now. Had she even locked the door?

“Armand,” she said, turning to him. She had to draw a breath quickly. He was so impossibly alluring. He sat naked and unashamed, his body surprisingly muscular for someone who had been imprisoned for so long. His hair was down about his shoulders. She longed to run a hand through the tangles and put them to rights. But that would ruin the dissipated look of him. And with his smoky eyes, his full lips, and the stubble on his jaw, he made quite the picture. Any woman would swoon.

She must be strong.

“Armand,” she said more firmly this time. He looked at her and smiled lazily. It was the kind of smile that made her want to fly right back into his arms.

But she would not do that.

“I understand you want to marry me.”

“Julien will arrange it. Then you’ll go to Southampton. You will be safe there.”

But she wouldn’t be safe in Southampton. Charles could find her there. His accusations could find her there. She had never been a coward, but her every instinct told her to run from Charles, to hide somewhere he would never find her.

And that meant leaving Armand. “I can’t think about marriage right now,” she told Armand. But the more she looked at him, the more she wished it were possible. What would it be like to wake up every morning beside this man? To have those cobalt eyes look at her like that every night? To touch that body whenever she wanted…

Best not to think of that.

He was scowling at her. “Are you telling me no?”

“Yes.”

He rose, put his hands on his hips.

“Really, you should put some clothes on,” she said, turning away so she would not be distracted. “I’m not saying no, I’m saying I need time to think. So much has happened, and so soon. I need time to gather my thoughts and consider my options.” She needed to think of a way to escape Charles, a way out of this mess. She would not allow him to hurt Armand. Charles could hurt her, but she would protect Armand.

Armand was behind her, his hands on her arms. Was he still naked? Of course he was! How was she supposed to have this conversation with him if he was naked? “You think too much, Felicity. You talk too much. You want me. Admit it, and we will be married.”

“I do want you,” she said because it was so obviously the truth. “But I must have time to deal with Charles and our betrothal.”

He nodded stiffly, his jaw tight. “I’m not going to beg you.”

“I would never ask you to. All I am asking is for time.” Time to think of a plan, a way out.

“And what if we don’t have time? Marius and his son will be back. They know I am the key to the treasure. They will not stop until they have it.”

“Marius? Is that the small man’s name?”

He looked momentarily surprised, as though the information was new to him. Perhaps it was. “Yes. I-I just remembered. The son… I cannot think—”

“That’s all right. You’ll remember, given time. And if you have their names, you can go to the magistrate. Those men can be locked away.”

He shook his head, and the look on his face made her feel as though she were a child. “Do you think it’s so easy?”

“I don’t know, but I do know your brother is a powerful man. Perhaps there is something he can do.”

“There is something
we
will do. We will face these men and kill them.”

She blinked and took a step back. “I don’t think—”

“It’s the only way for me to be free. When they return, Julien and I will kill them. But I want you and ma mère and Sarah far away.”

Felicity looked down and noted her hands were twisted together, and she was wringing them. “Have you told the dowager and the duchesse you want us to leave?”

“No. But I’ve made my decision.”

Of course he had. Why worry about consulting others? That was just a social grace he had no use for. “Then I suppose I had better make up my mind soon, as well.”

But her mind had been made up. She stayed in her room all night, grateful the family left her alone. She paced the floors until the wee hours, trying to think of a way out of her predicament. Neither of Charles’s ultimatums was agreeable to her: accuse Armand of rape or face Newgate and a murder charge.

She might run, but would she have to hide forever?