Candice Hern (6 page)

And that only served to remind her of a different kind of shiver she'd felt that evening. Before she could stop herself, she was reliving every moment of Rochdale's kiss. It was wicked to have such thoughts. She ought to erase the whole experience from her memory and forget it ever happened.

As if such a thing were possible.

How her friends, the Merry Widows, would laugh if they could read her thoughts just now. For weeks they had been sharing intimate details of their love affairs. It had begun with Penelope, Lady Gosforth, who announced she had taken a lover during the winter she had spent in the country. Then Marianne Nesbitt had begun a quest to find a lover, and ended up having an affair with her late husband's closest friend. And then Beatrice, Lady Somerfield, had embarked on a clandestine affair with Lord Thayne that had blown up into a public scandal and precipitated tonight's messy little episode with her niece Emily. And Penelope had a new lover, as did Wilhelmina, the dowager Duchess of Hertford.

They all had lovers and talked about them in ways that made Grace blush to listen. And even though she made no secret of her disapproval, she
had
listened. She'd been shocked and embarrassed by most of it — all of it, actually — but deep in the most secret, private corner of her heart, she had wondered. Wondered what it would be like to experience what they described.

It was not as though Grace had no understanding of relations between a man and a woman. She had been a wife to Bishop Marlowe in every way, though the physical aspect of marriage had been difficult for her.

The bishop had been older than Grace by more than thirty years, but he had beena handsome man, tall and robust. Although she'd married him because her parents had demanded it, she had still been young and romantic enough to want a real marriage. She'd wanted to love and be loved, to touch and be touched.

Her young body had sought physical intimacy with his, and he gave it to her, but only insofar as he thought proper. In that first week of marriage when she was still dazzled by the fact that he'd chosen her, out of all the women he knew, to be his wife, she'd been over-eager. The bishop had rebuffed her when she kissed him too warmly. He'd been shocked when Grace had attempted to initiate lovemaking, or eagerly opened her legs to him, or arched her body up to his, seeking release. He gently chided her for giving in to such wanton behavior, so unseemly in a good Christian wife.

Mortified, Grace had stopped responding at all and laid still and quiet whenever he came to her bed chamber. He did his business quickly, in the dark, lifting her nightgown and nudging her decorously closed legs apart with his knee. He'd always given her a quick kiss afterward and apologized for troubling her, then returned to his own bedchamber. Under his kindly tutelage, Grace had learned the proper way for a wife to behave.

The bishop taught her to embrace modesty. He taught her that, because of their weak nature, women must constantly strive to keep under control those passions which, if unrestrained, would drive them into sensuality and licentiousness. "True feminine delicacy," he had said, "should recoil at anything that arouses the passions."

Grace had been a good student. She had become the perfect bishop's wife — modest, chaste, and reserved.

But when Rochdale's lips had touched hers tonight, something long dormant had been awakened. He had made her feel sensations she had once eagerly sought but now knew to be wrong. He had coaxed forth some of those warm sensations the bishop had taught her were anathema to the frail nature of female virtue.

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to have pushed him away. But Grace had been transfixed by what was happening, by the novelty of the experience. When she should have screamed
No!
a tiny part of her brain had whispered
Yes!

Guilt warred with fascination, tying her stomach into knots. Dear God, she was surely wicked, but she could not stop thinking about his kiss, about every movement of his lips and tongue and hands, about the taste of him, about the smell of him, about the pressure of his body against hers, and about how it all had made her feel. A good, virtuous woman did not dwell on such things. She felt sinful and soiled.

And unwittingly entranced by the memory.

She did not know how she was to face him again. How could she look him in the eye in the light of day as though nothing had happened? She could not pretend to have been unaffected by his kiss. He'd felt her response. She'd kissed him back, after all. He would look at her with mockery in his eyes and know her for a fraud. He alone knew her darkest secret: She was not a virtuous woman, not in her heart.

Tears fell down her cheeks as Grace crawled under the covers and buried her face in the pillow. She wept for all the wickedness in her that even the bishop had never been able to fully eradicate. She wept for her treacherous body, which had betrayed her so thoroughly. She wept for briefly wanting a man she detested.

Finally, Grace thought of her friends and about all that they had said to make her wonder. She no longer wondered.

She knew.

* * *

Rochdale was thoroughly pleased with himself as he rode toward Portland Place. After last night, the seduction of Grace Marlowe could proceed according to plan. That kiss had told him all he needed to know: She wanted him. She might not like the idea and would certainly deny it, but she wanted him.

Having taken her measure, he knew he must tread lightly with her if he was to win the wager. He could not simply pounce. Grace Marlowe would require wooing. And so, when he kissed her, he had tried to keep it simple, slow and gentle, to keep her calm and relaxed. She had not closed her lips tight, as he'd half expected, but had tentatively accepted his mouth, allowing it to move over hers, to nibble and nip, to taste and explore. When he'd finally breached the inside of her mouth, he'd been pleasantly surprised by her response. Her tongue had been real and warm and shy as a bird's. And surprisingly arousing.

For a brief moment before she'd come to her senses, pushing at him like an avenging fury, Rochdale had discovered the passionate woman beneath the prim exterior. Even if there had been no wager, he'd be eager to unleash that passion. He doubted the old bishop had provided her with an outlet. The poor woman probably had years of untapped passion bottled up inside and ready to explode. And, by God, he would be there when it happened.

Afterward, he would collect his fine new gelding from Sheane and be on his way.

In the meantime, though, he would take things slowly. She was skittish. This business of seduction was too new to her. She had to become accustomed to the idea, so he would not rush her. He would take his time, and he would enjoy every minute of it.

Rochdale dismounted in front of Grace's house. Portland Place was a broad boulevard, the broadest in London, and not conducive to an army of street urchins ready to hold one's horse for a coin. Fortunately, the entire length was lined with an ironwork fence, so he simply secured the reins to it. He crooned in the horse's ear to assure her he would not be long, and opened the gate.

Rochdale had done his research and knew that Bishop Marlowe had left his widow a tidy fortune. Marlowe had come from a wealthy family, and had made more money in a year as Bishop of London than many people would earn in a lifetime. The children from his first marriage had inherited a great deal of property. His widow had been left this grand house on Portland Place as well as enough cash and investments to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life. Grace Marlowe was a rich woman, and her home reflected her wealth.

He straightened his coat, tugged down his waistcoat, and rang the bell. A pretty red-haired maid in starched apron and cap opened the door. He flashed the smile that had won the trust of many a housemaid and said, "Lord Rochdale to see Mrs. Marlowe." He handed her his card.

"My lord," she said, and bobbed a curtsy. Her eyes had grown wide and she looked flustered. No doubt she knew his name. His reputation would be well known even among the servant class, who were generally bigger gossips than their employers.

Since she seemed reluctant to let him in, he said, "She is expecting me," and stepped past her into the entry hall.

Rochdale glanced about him with approval. Most of the homes on Portland Place had been built by Robert Adam in the last century, and this house appeared to have been decorated by him as well. Or at least in his style. All was classical coolness in pale blues, mint greens, and soft grays with cream-colored ornament. The plasterwork ceiling was magnificent. The room might have been designed with Grace in mind, the coloring and refinement of decoration were so perfectly suited to her. Like a delicate Sèvres bonbonnière to hold Grace, the sweetmeat, inside. Through a screen of columns at the far end of the hall he could see a staircase, but the housemaid indicated a different direction.

"If you will wait in here, my lord, I will see if Madam is in."

She led him into a small anteroom off the hall, clearly meant for uninvited visitors or tradesmen. Rochdale didn't mind the slight. He was in Grace's house, prepared to collect his kiss and further chip away at her resolve — one more step toward winning Sheane's gelding, and that was all that mattered. The maid bobbed another curtsy and left him alone.

Afternoon sunlight poured in from the two windows facing Portland Place, picking out bits of gilt in the ceiling and over-door decoration and in the moldings. A fine landscape — a Ruisdael, if he was not mistaken — was given pride of place over a marble fireplace, and several smaller paintings were hung on the wall opposite the windows. It was an elegant room. Even the few pieces of furniture were of good quality. If such care was given to a small anteroom that was probably seldom used, he could only imagine what the rest of the house was like.

Rochdale removed his hat and placed it on a table, then dragged his fingers through his hair to give it the disheveled look he preferred. He was going to kiss Grace, and he might as well make himself attractive for her. The too-long hair that fell in waves over his brow and ears gave him a slightly disreputable look that most women found irresistible. They might pretend to prefer the perfectly groomed and polished gentleman of the
ton
, but what they really wanted was the uncivilized rogue. And Rochdale aimed to please.

There was also the added unruly appeal of a purple bruise under his left eye, a souvenir from last night's farce, along with a cut over his eyebrow. Damn that puppy Burnett. He had a surprisingly powerful right. The young fool had knocked Rochdale clean off his feet. It had been worth it, though, for the staggering good fortune that had brought Grace Marlowe with him. What was a bruise or two if it meant expediting the resolution of the wager with Sheane, bringing Albion into his stable?

He had begun to study the paintings, figuring he was in for a long wait, when he heard footsteps on the marble floor of the hall. He turned just as Grace reached the anteroom door, wearing a simple pink dress with long sleeves and a ruff of lace at the neck. Her hair was pulled into a twisted arrangement at the back of her head, held together with a large comb. She paused in the doorway, gray eyes flashing, and lifted her head so that she seemed to look down upon him, even though he stood taller.

"Lord Rochdale."

He swept her a bow. "My dear Mrs. Marlowe, you look surprised to see me. I told you I would call on you this afternoon, did I not?"

"I had rather hoped you'd forgotten about that."

He flashed a smile. "On the contrary, I have thought of little else." He'd been holding a small bouquet of pink carnations and ivy, and he held it out to her now. "Will you accept these as a token of my appreciation for the pleasure of your company last evening?"

Grace stepped into the room but kept her hands at her side and did not take the flowers. A flicker of uncertainty gathered briefly in her eyes, as though she wanted to reject the flowers but knew it would be rude to do so. For a long, silent moment her indignation almost visibly faded in and out while she stood still as a statue. Good manners won the day at last, however, and she reached out and took the bouquet. "Thank you. They're very pretty."

"And match your dress. What a clever fellow I am, eh?"

She lifted her elegant eyebrows as if to challenge that statement, but did not. "I appreciate the gesture, my lord, but I am afraid I have guests and must return to them. Thank you for —"

"Ah, but there is something else. Surely you have not forgotten why I have come?"

She glared at him without comment. She had not, of course, forgotten. The way she maintained her distance, he was certain she remembered exactly what to expect.

"I have brought something else for you." He reached into an inside pocket of his coat and brought out a tiny book, no bigger than a deck of playing cards, bound in white leather. "Please, take it."

She hesitated a moment, then placed the flowers on a nearby table and took the small volume he offered. Her fingers touched the gold embossed lettering on the cover.
Holy Bible
. She stiffened slightly, then looked up, her face set into a stern mask. "It's lovely."

"Open it to the page marked by the ribbon."

Clearly she did not wish to do so, and she continued to stare at him owlishly. Perhaps she already knew what she would find. In fact, he would be astonished if she had not pulled out the family Bible the instant she'd returned home last night.

"Go ahead," he said. "Read it. I believe you will agree it is most interesting."

She stared at him so long he thought she might refuse, but she finally opened the volume to the marked page. Her eyes scanned it, then closed, as though unable to face the truth. Her face paled, and he realized she had not in fact checked her own Bible. She had not known the truth. Had she been so confident? Poor self-righteous little prig. She was in for a set-down.

"Read it," he repeated. "Proverbs sixteen, verse eighteen."

"I have done so." She did not look up or open her eyes.