Conspiring with a Rogue (8 page)

Her patience gone, Whitney reached out and hauled Sally down beside her before the duchess had even stopped fumbling with her taper. “It’s about time,” Whitney grumbled.

Sally set her candle on the table beside Whitney’s, then turned and patted her on the leg. “Darling, I’ll allow your foul mood. Peter told me about the colossal mess Mr. Wentworth made of gaining admittance into the Sainted Order.” Sally smirked at her. “Though I find the story amusing, I must tell you, my mood is stretched to the blacks. Peter thinks you, or rather Mr. Wentworth, a rather odd man. I daresay I would even go as far as to say Peter was entertaining suspicions against Mr. Wentworth’s real intentions for wanting to become a member of the Sainted Order.”

Whitney cringed at Sally’s words. “I was afraid of that. He gave me rather odd looks in the carriage ride here.” She bit her lip. In truth, Peter had silently glowered at her for eight blocks. She suspected the duke was rather angry at Mr. Wentworth. It had, after all, taken an enormous amount of cajoling on Sally’s part to talk Peter into helping Mr. Wentworth in the first place. Peter had not been overly eager to risk his membership in the club he sometimes used to gather information on where men stood on issues in Parliament. But Sally had somehow convinced him, and now, maybe Whitney had ruined all of Sally’s efforts. “This is perfectly awful. How will I manage to help find Lillian now if Peter won’t help Mr. Wentworth?”

“Oh, posh, darling. Ye of little faith.” Sally’s teeth flashed in a huge white smile in the darkness. “Do you know why I was detained so long above stairs?”

Whitney shook her head.

“Of course you don’t, because you ran away from the man who should have taught you about such things.”

“Sally,” Whitney threatened.

“Fine, fine. I’ll educate you. Though a talk of the facts lacks the pleasure only a man can give you.”

“For God’s sake, Sally,” Whitney exploded.

“The very best way for a woman to distract a man is to illicit his desire.” Sally reached behind her and lifted her hair off her neck to twine it into a coil at the base of her skull.

“Thank you for the education,” Whitney snapped. “I suppose I should thank you for your sacrifice in distracting your husband.”

“Hardly. That implies awakening Peter’s desire was a chore, and I assure you it was not. In fact, I took so long because Peter is quite thorough in his attentions.”

Whitney held up her hand to silence Sally. “That’s more than I care to know.”

“Sorry, darling. I’m a bit preoccupied.”

“Because of Peter’s attentiveness?” Whitney asked, feeling the fool for even asking.

“Yes and no.” Sally ran her hands in a nervous gesture over her sleeping gown. “I feel a tad bit deceptive luring Peter into bed tonight, though I enjoyed the results of my deception.”

Heat seared Whitney’s cheeks. She didn’t know about the pleasures of the marriage bed, and it occurred to her as she took in Sally’s rosy cheeks, swollen lips and wildly messy hair, that she never would know what seemed to please her friend so much. Jealousy filled Whitney, and the unfair emotion left a vile taste in her mouth. She swallowed and forced herself to concentrate on what truly mattered. “I need your help. I’ve racked my brain, and I can’t think how to set Drake on another course besides boxing me.”

“You’ve no need to do anything.” Smugness dripped from Sally’s every word. “I’m one step ahead of you. I convinced Peter that
real
gentlemen,
English
gentlemen, settle differences through games of wit and not with their fists. He’s promised to see Drake in the morning and convince him to play poor slight-of-build Mr. Wentworth at chess instead of an unevenly matched boxing contest.”

“You’re brilliant!” Whitney hugged Sally to her.

“I am, aren’t I?” Sally gave Whitney a cheeky smile. “My brilliance is now telling me to go to bed, before Peter awakes and finds me missing. He rarely sleeps through the night when I’m in bed with him.” Sally gave Whitney a wicked grin.

“How splendid for you,” Whitney mumbled. She’d rather drink her old cook’s foul remedy for what ailed the stomach than listen to one more moment of how perfectly wonderful it was to be married to the man one loved and desired. She didn’t care a whit that she shouldn’t be jealous. She was too jealous to care that it was petty of her.

“Come, then,” she said and yanked Sally up by the hand. “We don’t want to give Peter any more reason than he already has to be suspicious. I’m dead tired anyway.”

Grasping her taper in one hand and nudging Sally toward the stairs with the other, Whitney trudged bleary-eyed behind her. At the top, Sally turned toward her and grasped Whitney’s hand. “Darling, we’ve all missed you.”

An enormous lump formed in Whitney’s throat. She gently tugged away from Sally. “I’ve missed all of you as well, but remember this is not permanent. You must keep my real identity secret. Or else.”

“Yes, yes. Or else you will disappear for good. I remember, and I believe you. My lack of doubt that you would disappear forever is the only reason I’m going along with you. Still―”

“No, Sally.” Whitney shook her head. “There is no room for discussion.”

Sally sighed but nodded and offered Whitney a halfhearted wave goodnight and a sad smile. Whitney felt awful about the sadness in her friend’s eyes, but she made no move to stop Sally. There was no point. Things were as they had to be. She stared forlornly toward her, or rather Mr. Wentworth’s, appointed guest bedchamber. Another lonely night awaited her.

Reluctant to go to the empty room, but with no other choices, she shuffled into the bedroom and glared at the big bed. At least she was exhausted. The softness of the bed was welcome even if the immediate loneliness was not. Her only goal on the morrow was to somehow make her life less complicated. A long, shuddering sigh escaped her as the shock of the night began to ebb. Drake—
her
Drake—was trying to become a member of a sex club, so he could forget her.

Drake was the last person she ever expected to encounter at the Sainted Order. Running into him was a risk she had not factored into her equation when she and Sally had duped Peter into helping Mr. Wentworth become a member. The images Whitney had memorized tonight of Drake―lean, bare-chested and haunted by the demons she had inadvertently created for him― flooded her.

Clearly, the dratted farewell letter she had left for him was a resounding flop. All those hours she had spent thinking what to say, making up another man whom she was supposedly leaving Drake for, then writing and rewriting the letter she had left for him. Every word had been crafted to make him hate her, forget her. He was not supposed to hate himself or want to change himself. What sort of foolish man wanted to become a rake?

Devil take Drake for trying to kill what she loved the most about him—his kindness, his goodness. She ground her teeth against the pain flowing through her, buried her face into the moss-and-gold-brocaded coverlet and allowed the secret, locked place in her heart to open. Her throat ached with unshed tears, but she would not cry. She’d promised herself many months ago to never again shed a tear for what she’d had to do.

The effort to contain her emotions made her throat convulse. She’d fooled herself into believing the pain of losing Drake would lessen over time. The yearning was as much a part of her as the blood coursing through her veins, except her blood kept her alive and the yearning was slowly killing her, especially as she had to see him in the flesh again.

Her wildest dreams had not done justice to how Drake looked without his shirt on. Even at a distance, his body had inflamed hers. Thank God she had managed not to throw herself at him and ravage him. She absolutely had to stay away from him or keep him away from her. She wanted to kiss him, touch him, see
all
of him. Moaning, she shoved a pillow over her head, her blood strumming through her veins like a rampant fire.

Summoning the single-minded determination that had seen her charade this far, Whitney forced her thoughts away from him. It was useless to dwell on what could never be.

All her worries vied for importance, keeping her awake and tossing long after she should have found her rest. When the first rays of dawn streamed into her window, she snatched the heavy curtains surrounding her bed closed. She would have sleep. Once satisfactorily in semi-darkness again, she counted backward until her eyelids dropped with heaviness. Warmth seeped over her, and her breath exhaled in a slow hiss.

Whitney awoke with a start as bright sunlight streamed through the gaps in her bed curtains. With a groan, she reached for another pillow and pulled it firmly over her head. All she wanted to do was recapture a moment ago. In her dreams, she had been in a bathtub with Drake, his magnificent body lathered with soap and his hands reaching toward her breasts. Heat spread from the pit of her belly all the way to her face. If dreams were all she would ever have of Drake, then she wanted to dream as much as possible.

A door clicked, footsteps padded across the hardwood floor and the hiss of the curtain rings being slid across the wood rod had her cursing against her pillow. Sally would be the only one entering this room as Mr. Wentworth had explicitly told Mr. Nabors, the groom of the chamber, no assistance was required due to a morbid shyness.

The bed sank beside Whitney and a warm hand rubbed across her forehead. “Wake up, darling. We have a disaster.”

Sally’s words sent alarm racing through Whitney, and she bolted up, almost throwing Sally to the floor. She grasped Sally by the arm and hauled her back onto the bed. “Don’t tell me Peter decided to refuse your request.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Peter can refuse me nothing, which is one of the reasons I love him.”

“Your modesty is astounding,” Whitney replied, her heartbeat slowing from its frantic, worried pace.

With a frown, Sally rose from the bed and started pacing the room. Whitney watched her friend wear a path back and forth across the Aubusson carpet until she could take no more. “What is it? If Peter is still agreed upon helping, what’s the disaster?”

Sally faced her, hands planted on her hips. “Which would you prefer first, the major disaster or the minor inconvenience which led to the disaster?”

“Any other choices?” she asked drily.

Sally shook her head.

Whitney scooted back against the mounds of pillows. If she was going to receive bad news, she might as well be comfortable. “How can we have a disaster this early in the morning? Surely Peter has yet to have time to do your bidding.”

“It’s not early.” Sally strode to the window and threw open the shutters. Bright sunlight shone through the opening. “It’s noon, darling.” Sally eyed her narrowly. “Just how long did it take you to fall asleep?”

Noon?
Whitney’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. Noon was plenty of time for several catastrophes to occur. She glanced at the nightstand and grasped the glass of water she had put there last night. The drink helped to moisten her mouth, but her stomach was doing somersaults, and there was nothing she could do to help that. “It was dawn when I finally drifted away. I feel dreadful.”

“You look dreadful too.”

“And they say in the
ton
you are all that’s kind,” Whitney grumbled. “If they only knew the real you.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry.” Sally sat on the bed and faced her. “Your betrothed arrived very early this morning.”

Shock was a funny thing. Whitney had always thought herself a calm person, but in the last several days, she had found herself with a racing heart, unable to speak and her mouth hanging open. This was one of those moments where disbelief took away all coherent thought. “Huh?” she managed, quite proud she got that one word out.

“Close your mouth, darling. It’s unsightly.”

Whitney clamped her jaw shut at the same moment Sally grasped her hand.

“Your intended. You do remember her, don’t you? Pretty little gel, though cheeky as the day is long and incredibly bossy. She actually demanded that I wake you when I told her you were here.” Sally arched her blond brows in two perfect arcs. “You might have mentioned that you betrothed yourself to Lady Audrey. My little scheme in sending her to you should have been my finest achievement.”

“Forgive me if I can’t feel sorry for your failure in trying to use Audrey to drag me back to a place you know I will not go.”

Sally frowned. “You’ve never been the accommodating type. Even as a child you refused to do what I told you when you clearly needed a mother figure.”

“I had my sister for that. She was bossy enough, thank you very much.”

“Gillian allowed you to become too headstrong.”

“I’m not,” Whitney protested feebly. It was hard to argue the truth however much she wanted to.

Sally snorted. “You’re right. Headstrong is an understatement. I don’t know what drove you away from your home and the man you obviously still love, but it’s time to come back.”

“No,” Whitney said simply. “Don’t make me cut ties with you permanently.” She hated to reissue the threat, but heavens, didn’t she have enough to worry about without Sally’s demands that could never be fulfilled?