A Season of Ruin (21 page)

“When Lord Atherton asks for your hand, Lily, I hope you will remember your only obligation is to yourself.”

“Yes, my lady. I'll remember,” Lily whispered.

Lady Catherine leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Good.”

Lord Atherton waited for her in the drawing room. He turned away from the window when Lily entered, crossed the room to her, and took her hands in his. “Miss Somerset . . . Lily. How lovely you look this afternoon. I thank you for seeing me.”

Lily studied him, searching inside her breast for any rush
of pleasure at the sight of him, any weakening of the knees or hitch in her breath that might hint at attraction, but aside from a detached appreciation for his handsomeness—and he
was
handsome, by any lady's reckoning—she felt nothing.

What's more, she sensed he felt little for her in return, for all his apparent tenderness as he gazed down at her.

“You can't be at a loss to understand why I'm here, my dear.” He dropped to one knee and raised her bare hand to his lips. “As I'm sure you realize, I'm sensible of your superior attractions.”

Lily felt her eyes widen. Her superior attractions? It was hardly the passionate adoration a young lady longed for from her betrothed.

So beautiful. I knew you would be, Lily.

“From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I determined I must make you my wife.”

Indeed?
It hadn't been
quite
the first moment he'd laid eyes on her, though, had it? She remembered their introduction well, and she did not recall now that she'd been overwhelmed by any signs of warm regard on his part.

Quite the opposite.

“I've come directly from a visit to Lord Carlisle, and he's granted me permission to request you do me the inestimable honor of becoming my wife.”

It was the perfect proposal—utterly correct, neatly and economically done. Two weeks ago Lily would have swooned. Not with love or passion, but with satisfaction. Two weeks ago, Lord Atherton on bended knee before her, asking with the utmost propriety for her hand, would have been all Lily could have asked for.

It's all right to take what you want.

Robyn's words from last night echoed inside her head. But was it really all right to take what she wanted?

Oh, it was too late! For weeks she'd led Lord Atherton on, had given him every reason to believe his proposal would be accepted. She'd toyed with him, a respectable gentleman.
She'd schemed and plotted to snare him, and now that he'd come up to scratch at last . . .

She wouldn't be a labeled a jilt if she refused him, but it was a near thing. Lady Atherton would be furious, and Lady Chase, as well. She'd accused Robyn of being selfish, but wasn't it the pinnacle of selfishness for her to refuse Lord Atherton, when she knew it might damage her sisters' prospects?

But to marry a man she didn't love—what could be more unfair to him, more selfish than that?

She looked down at him, on one knee before her, his bright blue eyes fixed on her face. She believed he was a good man; a virtuous man. He'd give her a peaceful, quiet life, and he'd take care of her.

Don't be afraid. I'll take care of you.

Lily drew in a deep breath. “My lord, I thank you for the great honor you do me . . .”

*   *   *

Bright morning light had flooded the drawing room when Lord Atherton arrived, but it had long since faded to twilight. Lily hadn't lit the lamps. Shadows played across the yellow-papered walls as the sun moved westward across the sky, but still she sat, watching the fire burn down to embers.

She'd been here for hours. She hadn't moved since she'd heard the front door close behind Lord Atherton.

Francis
. He'd asked her to call him Francis.

He'd made a formal offer for her hand, and she'd given him her answer. Even now, hours later, Lily couldn't quite believe her own reply. She'd known precisely what she'd say to him when he proposed, right up to the point when he'd actually uttered the words. She'd felt vaguely surprised when she heard her answer leave her lips, as if someone else had replied for her in a language she couldn't understand.

She'd expected Charlotte to descend on her as soon as Lord Atherton left, but strangely, Charlotte hadn't come. No
one had, not even a servant. She'd been left alone in the silent room to ponder whether she'd just made the most grievous error of her life.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

Her heart crashed against her ribs with wild hope one moment, then sank into her slippers in despair the next. The knots in her belly grew tighter with every minute that passed, and there was but one reason for it.

She watched the light until it disappeared entirely and dark gathered in the corners of the drawing room. Still, she didn't light the lamps, but sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, and waited for Robyn to come home.

As far as the ladies at the Slippery Eel went, she was one of the prettier ones. Dark hair. Clear white skin. Eyes? Robyn hadn't any idea, but it didn't matter. She had all the requisite parts—large breasts overflowing a flimsy gown, full lips, and from what he could tell by the feel of her against his lap, a shapely arse.

She'd do as well as the next for what he had in mind. A quick servicing; necessary, yes, but about as satisfying as cleaning one's teeth or polishing one's boots. He looked forward to it with about as much enthusiasm.

“You don't look happy, Sutherland.” Archie poured a few fingers of whiskey into a glass and held it out to Robyn. “Perhaps you need another drink.”

Robyn didn't reach for the glass. “What would you have me do, Archie? Dance a jig? I'm happy enough.”

Archie raised his glass to the doxy. “Not nearly as happy as you should be for a man with such a lovely and accommodating lady in his lap.”

The woman giggled, then leaned across Robyn, snatched the glass from Archie, and held it playfully against Robyn's lips. “Here you are, pet. Have a little nip. This'll cheer you up.”

Robyn jerked his head aside, ignoring the woman's pout. “No, thank you. I don't want any.”

Archie took the glass from the girl and placed it carefully on the table. “Ah. Here's the question of the season, Sutherland. What the hell
do
you want?”

I want to touch you . . . now. Please, Robyn.

“What difference does it make? I can't have it, so there's an end to the discussion.”

To Robyn's irritation, Archie laughed. “You sound like you did when we were lads, teasing Alec for some toy or treat. You've not been thwarted in your desires much since then. Good for you, isn't it, to want something you can't have?”

If only it were a toy or a treat, or something equally meaningless. If only it were as simple a matter as
want
and
desire
, but neither word did justice to what he felt for Lily. He'd need an entirely new language to describe this want, so deep it had become a part of him.

It wasn't just her body he wanted, though God knew he burned for her with a desire so intense, it scorched him. No, he wanted
her
. In the cruelest bit of irony imaginable, he wanted her so much, he'd been unable to take her last night.

Robyn Sutherland, the wickedest rake in London, unable to take a women who'd lain under him, trembling with desire. A woman he wanted more than any other. The
only
woman he wanted. She'd cried out for him, and he'd sent her off to bed as pure as he'd found her.

Or nearly so.

It was awful, this new kind of want. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Lily. He wanted her to be happy—to have whatever she wanted, even if what she wanted was Atherton.

Even if what she wanted wasn't him.

Archie swallowed the whiskey he'd poured for Robyn. “Can't imagine what it is you want that's proved so elusive.”

She'd be engaged by the time he saw her again. Was doubtless engaged even now, and the whole family celebrating the betrothal.

Robyn picked up the empty glass and held it out to Archie. He wouldn't be going home anytime soon, so he may as well get sotted. “No, I don't suppose you can.”

Archie poured some whiskey in the glass and handed it back to the doxy. She took it, and this time when she held it to Robyn's lips, he drank obediently. “There you go, pet—drink up.”

“You can have your pick of the ladies here at the Eel.” Archie spread his arms wide and whiskey sloshed over his glass onto the carpet. “You could have had Miss Bannister, as well. She wanted
you
—she only settled for me after you wandered off.”

“Is she everything I thought she'd be, then?” Robyn asked without interest, hoping to change the subject.

Archie grinned. “And more. Very satisfactory, indeed, which leads me to ask once again, what is it you want, Sutherland? You don't want Louise Bannister, and you don't appear to want this charming young thing on your lap.” Archie tilted his glass toward the doxy in another sloppy toast. “So what, or
whom
, do you want?”

Lily's arms twined around his neck, her breathless sighs; her hot mouth pressed against his bare chest, white breasts tipped with the sweetest nipples he'd ever seen, hard and eager under his tongue . . .

I want you. Harder. Faster. Show me how to touch you.

“Oooh!” the doxy squealed. She shifted on his lap to fit her generous arse more tightly against his burgeoning erection. “He
does
want me, don't you, pet? Come on, then, love—take me upstairs.”

Robyn hadn't the heart to tell her the promising swell she felt had nothing to do with her, but neither did he want to
join her in one of the private chambers upstairs. He couldn't tup some doxy whose name he didn't recall when he could still feel Lily arching against him—could still hear her cries as she came on his hand.

Dear God
. Was he to become a monk, then? He didn't relish that prospect, but for the first time in his life, he couldn't simply replace one woman with another.

How many nights had he spent in the Slippery Eel with a glass of whiskey on the table before him and a doxy in his lap? He looked from one end of the room to the other. The scene was utterly familiar. The same red tufted settees with the same half-clad women draped over them, the same eager gentlemen and the same drunken laughter. He'd spent countless nights in this room, each of them indistinguishable from the last.

But it wasn't the same, because
he
wasn't the same, and he couldn't stand to sit here another minute as if tonight were just like any other night he'd spent at the Slippery Eel. Everything had changed. To try and go back to how it had been before was impossible, like trying to put spilt whiskey back into a glass.

He had to get out of here.

Robyn tried to disentangle the doxy's arms from around his neck. “I don't think so. Not tonight.”

Archie gave a wise nod. “I think, my dear, our friend here has been crossed in love.”

The doxy resisted Robyn's efforts to free himself from her grip. She clung to him like an octopus, her tentacles wrapped with determination around his neck. “Aww, come on then, pet. A fine young handsome buck like you? I'll do you right.”

Robyn rose from the settee with the doxy still in his arms.

She gave an excited squeal. “That's it, pet—you won't even remember her name after Nellie's done with you.”

If brute force couldn't get her off his lap, perhaps gravity could. Robyn walked around the table, leaned over Archie,
who was still seated on the settee, and dumped the woman into his lap.

The doxy's squeal of anticipation turned to a shrill protest, and Archie didn't look any happier than she did. “Sutherland, what the
devil
—”

Robyn didn't linger to hear the rest of Archie's harangue. He was out the door before the doxy regained her feet, but once he stood alone on the street outside, he realized he hadn't anywhere to go. He couldn't go home yet.

He'd try to be happy for Lily tomorrow. But not tonight.

The door to the Eel slammed behind him and Archie joined him on the street. “Bloody hell, Sutherland—” he began, but the look on Robyn's face must have surprised him into reconsidering his words, for he paused, cleared his throat, and then asked easily, “Where to, then?”

Robyn shrugged. “No idea.”

“Shall we just walk until an amusement presents itself?”

Robyn shrugged again. He didn't care much what they did, as long as they avoided Mayfair. If he saw Atherton, he'd likely slam his fist into the man's smug face. “I suppose.”

They hadn't made it more than four blocks when a commotion outside one of the gaming hells caught their attention.

“Ah,” said Archie. “I do love London. Always a brawl or some other amusement to be had.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the hell across the street, where a riotous crowd of aristocrats and common rabble stood together, all drunk, shouting and laughing over some antics taking place within. “Shall we?”

In Robyn's current mood, a riot seemed just the thing. “By all means.”

They crossed the street and stopped at the entrance to the hell. A rough-looking man with a hat pulled low over his face leaned against the door.

“What's all the fuss, my good man?” Archie asked him.

The man spat on the ground at his feet. “Some bleedin'
cove inside losing all his blunt at the tables. Foxed, he is. Other coves is tryin' to drag 'im away afore he's cleaned out.”

“Sounds like a typical night in Merry Old London. You don't suppose it's Pelkey?” Archie asked, turning to Robyn.

“Wouldn't be the first time, would it?”

Archie began to push his way good-naturedly through the crowd. “Step aside, gents.”

Robyn shoved a few sweaty, gin-soaked revelers to the side and made his way into the hell. He half hoped one of them might shove him back, but even the more dangerous-looking patrons seemed to prefer to steer clear of him tonight.

Archie pointed at a crowd of men around the hazard table. “There.”

Robyn watched as the dice tumbled down the baize and hit the wall, followed by a roar of either glee or commiseration from the onlookers. He couldn't see who threw the dice, but they continued to roll at an alarming rate, as if the man who tossed them was determined to lose a fortune.

“I doubt it's Pelkey,” Robyn said. “He doesn't do anything that quickly.”

Archie grinned. “No. Let's see who it is, then. Perhaps we can help his friends get the poor bastard out the door.”

They set to pushing and shoving at bodies again until they cleared a space at the end of the hazard table. The man who threw the dice had his head down as he watched them skitter across the baize. Robyn caught a glimpse of fair hair, then the dice hit the wall, the man raised his head, and Robyn's eyes locked on his face.

He froze.
Jesus
 . . .

Next to him Archie drew a sharp breath, “Good Lord! Isn't that . . .”

Atherton.

Robyn stared, speechless. Questions buzzed through his brain like a swarm of insects, each indistinguishable from the next, except for one.

If Atherton was here, then where in the world was Lily?

Archie stood stuttering beside him, still trying to piece it together. “Atherton! But—but he doesn't gamble. Does he? I thought the man was a model of restraint and rectitude.”

Robyn hadn't thought so—he'd known there had to be
something
unsavory about Atherton. But gaming? He'd never heard even a breath of gossip about Atherton having a fondness for the tables. Though if the man stayed away from the fashionable gaming houses and only frequented the hells, he could hide it easily enough, at least for a time.

He watched Atherton gather the dice tightly into his fist to prepare for another throw, but Robyn didn't intend to stand by and watch while Atherton lost his family's fortune at hazard. He turned away before the dice could hit the table.

He needed to get to Lily.
Now
.

He heard an angry shout behind him. He paid it no mind, but shoved back through the mass of sticky male bodies. He'd gained the street when he heard another shout, Archie this time, a warning, but before Robyn could turn, a heavy weight slammed into his back. He pitched forward and his forehead met the street with a hard crack. He tried to move, to rise to his knees, but whatever had hit him remained on top of him, preventing him. Hard fingers clawed into his hair and jerked his head back, but before his attacker could slam his skull into the street a second time, the heavy weight was jerked off Robyn's back.

“Bleedin' 'ell. That's not right, that's not,” said a disgusted voice.

A second later Robyn was able to rise to his knees. Something warm trickled into his eyes. He reached up to brush it away, then looked down in astonishment to find his hand covered in blood.

An explosion of vile curses erupted next to his ear, then Robyn felt a hand slide under his arm to help him back to his feet.

Archie.

“Robyn. Christ, that looks bad,” Archie said in an unsteady voice. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into Robyn's hand. “Hold it against the gash.”

Gash? What gash?

He hadn't time to ask before Archie rounded furiously on someone who stood behind them. “What the
bloody hell
do you think you're doing?”

“I'll tells you what he did,” said the same disgusted voice Robyn had heard before. It was the man with the cap he and Archie had spoken to before they entered the hell. “He knocked this swell to the ground when 'is back was turned, he did. I thought you nobs fought gentleman-like, but that weren't sporting, were it?”