The Passionate Love of a Rake (2 page)

Jane’s gaze swept the spectacle of the Duchess of Weldon’s spring Ball. The room was flooded with shimmering, spinning colours as she watched the dancers, the debutantes in white muslins, and their mamas and chaperones wearing every shade of the rainbow and beyond. Gentlemen punctuated the spectacle in formal black, crisply starched white cravats and silk stockings; their only show of frivolity, the glinting embroidery on their waistcoats.

It was a beautiful sight, and all the glamour was reflected in shards of light, spinning and flickering from the crystal prisms of glass dangling from the chandeliers above, and from mirrors which lined the ballroom above head height. The orchestra played a merry country tune, and the dancers bounced and stepped in time, skirts swaying. Laughter, chatter, and the sound of their footsteps filled the stifling air.

Jane had never been to a ball in London until recently. Access to the splendour of this society ritual should have been hers by right as a duchess, but Hector had preferred small, crude affairs for entertainment. He had not held balls, nor attended them, and so, nor had she.

It all appeared surreal to her now, a place of dreams. Yet she’d existed in this world of illusion for over two weeks. It was Violet’s everyday life. Jane was still overawed by it. She wished for her friend’s air of confidence.

For the past two weeks, Jane had studied Violet’s every movement, longing to gain both town polish and society’s approval. To date, they had eluded her. Of course, wearing black did not help. She should not even be on the social round. She ought to be at home, tucked up in bed and reading a book, acting out the role of deepest mourning. But if she obeyed that unwritten law, then she would be at the mercy of Joshua.

Besides, Violet, the model on whom Jane was moulding her own image, did not give a whit for society’s conventions, and no one seemed to pay any attention to Violet’s blatant misdemeanours. Violet’s favourite saying was, “Society’s rules are only there to be broken.” She put no store at all by them and persistently urged Jane to just put off her blacks and face the indignation, weighting her argument by pointing out Jane was now a wealthy widow and she need not pander to the
ton
’s condescension
.
Violet also said it was only the women who’d care. The men would not give a damn. They would be too busy being intrigued by another merry widow entering the fray.

Jane was not that brave. Yet she did not doubt Violet’s perception. Everywhere they went, men glanced sideways, implying their interest.

Jane had not come to town to become embroiled with another man though. She had come to town to escape one. At least that, to date,
had
been successful.

“Jane, dear, I know you do not wish to dance while in mourning; would you care for cards?”

Violet’s words stirred Jane from her reverie. She turned to her friend and smiled. “Truly, Violet, I do not mind at all if you wish to dance. I am quite happy to sit it out alone.”

Violet’s sole purpose in life was bringing men to her heel; she kept them on an invisible leash. She’d had numerous affairs, and made no secret of them. Jane thought such things too
risqué
.

Yet observing Violet’s intrigues had stirred new emotions in Jane. She noticed the muscular turn of a man’s calf and his broad shoulders and slender hips far more than she had before.

“Lady Rimes, you will, of course, allow me to take your hand for the waltz.” Lord Sparks, a third son, a very attractive man, a little older than Jane, bowed over Violet’s hand.

Jane turned to gaze at the gathering dancers, ignoring the caressing forefinger she had seen him slip inside her friend’s glove beneath her wrist. Jane knew Lord Sparks. He was one of Violet’s long-standing flirts and a man of excessive qualities according to her friend’s indiscreet descriptions.

His attention turned to Jane.

He had an unabashed beauty and an impressive figure. The dancing glimmer in his eyes made Jane blush. She dropped a slight curtsy. He took her hand, but his grip was formal, not testing any of convention’s boundaries. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to see you again. I hope you do not mind if I steal your friend away for a while?”

Matching his broad smile, Jane answered, “How could I possibly deny either of you? Of course I do not mind.”

“You are very kind, Your Grace.” He bowed, then turned to Violet and extended his hand. “Lady Rimes?”

Violet took it and let him draw her away, sending Jane a jovial smile over her shoulder, as if to say she would not be long.

To give her fingers something to do, Jane applied her black lace fan in a swift sweep beneath her chin and looked up at the call of a new arrival. The footman positioned at the head of the stairs, rapped his staff on the wooden floor and announced the guest whose name was swept away by the tune of the Venetian waltz flooding the room. Yet when the imposing male stepped forward, Jane’s heart stopped, as did the movement of her fan.

Lord Robert Marlow, the eleventh Earl of Barrington, was the last person on earth she wished to meet. Or perhaps – her heart set up a wild and anxious rhythm – he was the person she most wished to. But not like this, not in her blacks, when she did not look her best.

Blushing and lifting her fan a little, hiding the lower half of her face, Jane set it back into motion, cooling her hot skin and peering over its top, unable to tear her eyes away from him. She had not seen him for years, not since they had both been young, innocent and naïve. He looked different, more confident, stronger, more handsome too, and taller, and broader.

He surveyed the gathering from his vantage point at the top of the stairs as though he assessed and judged everyone.

She’d considered this meeting thousands of times in the years since their last and she’d pictured herself armoured in sophistication, someone he would respect and admire. Yet, now, she felt completely the opposite: unworthy and unsure.

The gulf he’d left in her life ripped open wider. He was magnificent – she insignificant. If he’d been attractive as a nineteen-year-old youth, he was a demigod as a man in his late twenties. His physique was muscular, yet lean and athletic.

His hand rose and swept long fingers through his chestnut-coloured hair, swiping a loose lock from his brow. A gesture she had seen him do a hundred times as a child.

Still, he did not move, just looked, watching, appearing self-absorbed.

His confidence had not been there in the zealous youth, full of adventure and expectation.

She felt tears in her eyes and an ache in her chest, inspired by the
could-have-beens
and
if-onlys
which had haunted her throughout her married life.

It was a long time since Robert Marlow held her dear. In the intervening years, he’d toured the continent, establishing a reputation in the vices of a gentleman. His prowess in the sexual arts was renowned. He was no longer the young man she’d adored. He was a very different beast, one whom she’d no experience or knowledge to understand.

When he’d returned to claim his father’s estate a few years ago, his reputation had endured. He was one of, if not
the most
, profligate rakes in the
ton
.

She’d never been able to stop herself seeking his name in the gossip columns of the papers Hector left lying on the breakfast table.

Robert’s gaze passed across the dancers and reached towardss her. Jane turned, covering her face with the fan, hiding. She needed to regain command of her wits.

Her feet led to the refreshment room, where groups and couples stood with glasses in their hands, and servants hovered around the tables bearing the giant bowls of punch and orgeat. The sweet scent of almond and orange blossom permeated her senses as a footman held out a silver tray and offered her a glass. She refused, waving a hand and walking on towardss a door in the far wall.

She knew it opened into the hall. She would go to the ladies’ retiring room. She was in no state to face the ghost of her past when she had yet to master the demon of her present.

“Oh!”

As if summoned, when she stepped through into the hall, the very man she had come to the capital to escape was there, blocking her path.

“Jane, are you going somewhere? Perhaps I could accompany you?” He posed it as a question, but she knew he meant to give her no choice, as the oppressive size of the current Duke of Sutton, Joshua Grey, her stepson, presented a solid barrier.

She stepped back so she could look him in the eye, rather than face his cravat, and used the moment to assess her situation. Two footmen stood by the front door, and the hall was a thoroughfare for a number of gossiping women, passing to and from the retiring room.

She met the silent, venomous anger in Joshua’s eyes and swallowed her inner panic. “I do not recall giving you permission to use my given name, Your Grace.”

“I did not ask your permission, Jane.” His fingers gripped her elbow, and although she discreetly tried to pull away, his strength was beyond hers. There was nothing she could do but follow his lead, unless she kicked and screamed, and she did not wish to make a fuss; it was better for appearance’s sake that her fear went unnoticed. Joshua would not attempt violence in a public place.

Would he?

He drew her through an open door beside them, into the shadows of the Duke of Weldon’s library. Then he shut the door and pressed her back against it, his hands gripping her shoulders, his thumbs and fingers incredibly close to her neck.

“Did you think you’d escaped me, Jane?”

No, she’d known it was only a reprieve. “I have no need to escape you, Your Grace. I am merely visiting a friend.” The defiance in her voice was entirely at odds with her racing heartbeat, and he knew it; the pad of his thumb caressed the pulsing vein in her neck. But she refused to let fear paralyse her. She had endured enough years of this. She would not suffer any more. She would not give in.

His gaze dropped, descending to her cleavage.

She felt her breasts press against the low neckline of her gown as she snatched a sharp, deep breath. But before he had the opportunity to react, she stole the chance of his distraction and twisted free, slipping beneath his arm.

She could not escape the room; he stood before the door. Instead, she backed away, watching him all the time, setting about ten feet between them.

“Jane.” His voice was conciliatory and coaxing. “When will you accept you shall never win, and give me my inheritance?”

“Never. And
you
must accept
that
, and leave me alone!” she hissed.

“No, Jane?” His white smile breached the low light of the dark room. “Perhaps there are ways I could persuade you.”

Her heart stopped and her mouth dried.

“I have always found you attractive, you know. I understand a little of my father’s obsession. Perhaps I will let you keep some of his fortune if you are good to me. Would you be good to me, Jane?”

No.
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back as cold sweat dampened her palms. “I would die before I let you touch me.”

“Do not give me ideas, Jane.”

A shiver ran up her spine. “I would rather sleep with a hundred men than you!”

She had gone too far. Like a whiplash, he moved forward, snatching for her as she tried to dodge his grasp and run about him. She failed. He caught her upper arm in a vice-like grip and drew her body hard against his chest. His arm was like an iron bar as it wrapped about her waist, and his other hand grasped her jaw, anchoring it, forcing her face to turn to him. His teeth nipped her lower lip, then her neck.

“If I want you, you will not deny me,” he whispered in a threat by her ear.

She tried to hide the shiver which ran across her skin, but she knew she failed, and fear constricted her chest, trapping the air so her breaths were shallow.

He pulled away a little, the white of his eyes glimmering in the darkness as his glare reiterated the threat. “And even if I do not want you, I’ll not let another have you. So, if you have come to London to seek a protector, you’ll find none. I will make that certain.”

He thrust her away, his grip releasing her so fiercely she fell to the floor, landing on her derriere with her hands at her sides. She looked up, hating to be so disadvantaged. He leaned over her. “Do you understand me, Jane?”

Oh yes, she understood. She understood she had never wanted anything more than to take every man in town to her bed except for him. Impotent and unable to find a single word in retort, she was left to watch as he turned away and strode out the door without looking back.

Her limbs trembled, and her heart still thumped a tattoo in her chest as she stood up. She brushed the creases from her skirt and fought for calm, then touched her hair, checking for loose pins. It did not feel too disturbed; she could fix it upstairs. At the door, she held still a moment, regaining her poise and catching her breath before she left the library. When she stepped out, she let herself show nothing but fashionable disinterest, denying that anything had occurred.

She crossed the hall and climbed the stairs, refusing to look for any reaction in the faces of the footmen who must have speculated on what had gone on in their lordship’s library.

In the haven of the ladies’ retiring room, Jane took a deep breath. Luck was still not on her side. She had prayed it would be empty; it was not. Three women sat under the attendance of their maids, and Jane needed to maintain the illusion of self-control.

“Your Grace?” Violet’s ever attentive and highly skilled lady’s maid stepped forward.

“Gail, please check my hair. I lost a pin or two I think.”

“Sit here, Your Grace. No need to worry, it is easily fixed.”

No need to worry?
Jane had not hidden her distress as well as she’d thought then. In the mirror, she saw her skin was excessively pale, and her eyes were bright and still dilated with shock. The maid unwound the curls then reset and re-pinned them.

“Did you see the Earl of Barrington?” the woman next to Jane whispered to her friend. “He’s such a stallion. I heard Verity took him to her bed. I wish he would ask me.”