Darker Than Love (26 page)

‘How the mighty are fallen,’ said Octavia as he left the room. ‘You’ll soon have him eating out of your palm, darling. Or your lap.’

‘Mmm,’ replied Lucy, taking a rigid nipple between her teeth. She grated lightly on its hard, roughened texture, then drew away, tense.

An urgent hammering of the door knocker resounded through the house.

‘Bit late, isn’t it?’ said Octavia, a quiver of concern passing over her face. ‘You don’t suppose –’

‘Gabriel,’ said Lucy. ‘Oh, fudge, it must be Gabriel. And, at this hour, his news can only be dreadful.’

In a panic, she set about covering herself, pulling on a petticoat and hunting for her shift. Low voices reached her from the hall and she grasped Octavia’s wrapper, hurrying into it as she stole out on to the landing to listen. She heard the front door close, then footsteps – more than one pair – on the first flight of stairs. She fumbled with the ribbons, struggling to make the wispy garment a little less indecent.

‘Kitty!’ she exclaimed, seeing the flaxen-haired girl rounding the foot of the steps with Julian. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing here?’

‘It seems Gabriel hasn’t returned home,’ answered Julian. ‘Which means the situation is worse than we thought. Or better, but I doubt that.’

‘You can’t bring her up here,’ hissed Lucy, crossing her hands to conceal her bosom, visible beneath the sheer fabric. ‘You can’t bring her into the bedroom.’

‘Of course I can,’ he returned. ‘We have things to discuss. I think Kitty will need to gain a place at Madame Jane’s with some urgency. So she’s going to have to accustom herself to sights far more depraved than our half-clothed aftermath.’

Lucy swung round as the bedroom door creaked open behind her.

‘Bloody right she is,’ declared Octavia. She stood there, magnificently calm, utterly naked.

‘Lord ha’ mercy,’ said Kitty in a low breath, gawping at Octavia’s large breasts.

‘Do come in, Miss Preedy,’ said Octavia. ‘I feel you have an awful lot to learn.’

Chapter Eleven

MARLDON’S SERVANTS WERE
not as other servants. They took their orders but they also took their pleasures, as blatantly and crudely as their master.

Throughout the night, their laughter and groans of lust had echoed around the basement’s sleeping quarters. The sounds had drifted into Gabriel’s ugly dreams, dreams in which the valet, the steward, footmen and grooms had queued up to couple with a willing Clarissa; dreams in which she had jeered when it was his turn to take her; dreams in which Marldon lay dying, a dagger sticking from the place where his heart should be.

Gabriel paced restlessly. The room seemed to grow smaller with each passing moment, but at least it was quiet now. Escape seemed nigh on impossible. The window was a mere slot of glass, high on one of the walls. The door was securely locked from the outside and whenever a servant entered, to bring food or issue an order, they were always backed up by the gruff stable-master. Gabriel’s prospects seemed bleak.

He stepped up on to a chair beneath the window and peered out of the oblong pane, as he had done a thousand times since being cooped up in the spartan little room. Level with his eyes, the stableyard stretched out
to the cheerless red-brick wall engirdling Asham House. A youth jogged alongside a horse, trotting it about in wide circles. Sunlight glinted on the animal’s hooves and, though Gabriel could not see the sky, he knew it was of the fiercest, cruellest blue.

The brightness of the afternoon mocked him: his hurt did not darken the world, nor did his agony shape brooding clouds. It was all crammed into his heart and mind, and no one but he suffered for it. Clarissa did not love him. Any fool could see that. He did not need the servants to tell him that last night, when she’d submitted so utterly to Marldon, was not a rare occasion. She had not done it to save Gabriel from harm; she had not done it under duress. She had done it willingly, hungrily, without a thought for his pain. Marldon was the man she wanted, not he.

The key turned in the lock and Gabriel stepped wearily down. A woman entered the room and, as ever, Grimshaw stood in the doorway, his thuggish bulk blocking the potential exit. It was Charlotte, the curly-haired maid who had brought him shirts and trousers yesterday, garments which Lord Marldon apparently no longer required.

‘Perhaps,’ she’d said, ‘he’ll give you Clarissa too, once he’s cast her off.’

Gabriel had balked at wearing the earl’s clothes but thought it marginally preferable to wearing the robes he’d arrived in. He hardly cared that the costume was now ridiculous. He simply did not want to be dressed in a reminder of his deceived heart and hopes.

‘Feeling creative?’ asked Charlotte, fixing him with her mocking jade-grey eyes.

Gabriel sat on the narrow bed and leant against the wall. ‘Not particularly,’ he replied.

The woman tossed an assortment of equipment on to the mattress: pencils, pens, inks, charcoal sticks and pastels.

‘Well, you’d better try getting in the mood,’ she said. ‘His lordship wants some sketches doing.’

Gabriel rummaged idly through the materials. ‘Landscapes?’ he enquired sardonically.

Charlotte smiled. ‘Of Clarissa.’

‘Ah, nudes,’ said Gabriel, nodding with mock sagacity. ‘My favourite art form. How perceptive of Lord Alexander.’

Despite himself, the thought of seeing Clarissa made him ache with wanting. It could only be a bitter pleasure, one designed to torment him, but logic could not quell his yearning to be near her. And there was, he told himself, a chance that she might give him a word or a look to show her feelings for him were still as strong. He knew it was a false hope, but nevertheless he clung to it, allowing deception to overrule his judgement. He would not refuse Marldon’s request.

‘Paper would be helpful,’ he said.

‘Upstairs,’ said Charlotte. ‘Select what you need and we’ll go. Handcuffs, Jake.’

‘They’re not necessary,’ sighed Gabriel, rising from the bed.

But they paid him no heed and he was taken, hands bound, up to the first floor.

There, without knocking, Charlotte quietly opened the door to a drawing room of blue and silver. Clarissa, playing Chopin at the pianoforte, did not see them. Her body swayed gently and her elegant fingers rippled over the keys, filling the room with a melancholy sound. Lord Marldon was seated in a fireside armchair, his legs crossed, one foot bobbing gently in the air. He smiled serenely, raised his hand for their silence, then resumed his meditative demeanour.

It was, thought Gabriel, a parody of domestic contentment. For a few moments Clarissa played on until something made her aware of the intrusion. She turned slightly; the notes faltered, then she hastened to her feet.

‘Gabriel,’ she said, in a whisper so full of longing that it tore through his heart.

He had been mistaken. She truly did care for him.

‘Clarissa,’ he responded softly. Could he convey how he loved and needed her with a single word?

She ran a few eager steps towards the small group. Then she checked herself, snapping her head round to Marldon. Her face darkened and her eyes grew narrow, darting suspicious, uncertain glances from one man to the other.

‘What is it?’ she demanded of Lord Marldon. ‘What do you mean by this? What is it you hoped I would do?’

Lord Marldon rose from his chair and strolled over to her, smiling coldly. The scar on his strong, cruel jawbone shimmered like the silver track of a slug, and everything about him spoke of cruelty and cynicism. He looked like a man who, having tried and tired of every known perversion, was now intent on devising his own.

‘Ah, how guarded you’ve become,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to those simple, open passions, Clarissa? Once you would have thrown yourself at his feet, begged for his forgiveness just as you have begged for my mercy.’

Clarissa was motionless, her expression stony as Marldon pinched the end of a curl hanging by her ear. He pulled it down, stretching it to tight straightness. Her head tilted a little and the merest grimace of discomfort twitched on her face. Then he released his grip and the hair sprang up to a shining ebony tendril.

‘Your self-control spoils my fun,’ said Alec mildly. ‘Alas, alack, such a pity. Won’t you at least humour me by pleading for your lover’s forgiveness?’

Gabriel drew quivering breaths, his anger rising hotly. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, damn you,’ he said fiercely.

‘No?’ returned Marldon with inflated surprise. ‘Most men would be a little put out at the sight of their sweetheart being buggered, and loving every minute of it. But not you? Ah yes, I recall it well now. You found the sight quite pleasing, didn’t you, Mr Ardenzi?’

Gabriel wriggled in frustration, his handcuffs clanking. ‘You bastard,’ he snarled.

It shamed and enraged him that he had no defence.
When he’d witnessed Clarissa being taken so intimately, his lust had proved stronger than his censure. He had tried closing his eyes to the scene, but the sounds of her pleasure had still inflamed him, and the compulsion to watch had been overwhelming. His arousal, however, had not detracted from his hatred of Marldon. Nothing could do that.

‘Leave him,’ implored Clarissa as the earl stalked over to Gabriel. ‘If you must torment someone, my lord, then torment me.’

She followed him like a whipped dog, tugging on the sleeve of his frock coat. Jake sniggered.

‘But you enjoy it too much,’ retorted Marldon, pulling his arm from her clutches. ‘Besides, I’d rather torment you both.’

Gabriel breathed deeply, attempting to calm himself. He recalled Octavia’s advice: a cat would not toy with a mouse if it lay still; seeming indifference was the best defence against Lord Marldon. He forced his lips into an agreeable smile.

‘Then, please, try your damnedest,’ he said with a charm he did not feel.

Marldon returned the smile and looked at him keenly, his eyes black as pitch.

‘Perhaps later,’ he said eventually. ‘But for now, Mr Ardenzi, will you cooperate with my request for some sketches of Clarissa? I can, of course, force you to draw, although I doubt I could force you to produce your best. However, I would so appreciate it if you tried. I’d like a record of Clarissa before it’s too late, before she turns into an irredeemable slut.’

Clarissa cursed him.

‘My pleasure,’ replied Gabriel with assumed urbanity. ‘How else am I to earn my keep? I fear the handcuffs might present a problem, though. And I do not work with an audience.’ With a nod he indicated the servants flanking him.

‘Ah, the sensibilities of an artist,’ said Marldon. ‘I find Clarissa thrives in company. However, as you wish.’

He bid Charlotte release the manacles then dismissed her, and ordered Grimshaw to remain outside the door. Gabriel rubbed at his wrists and flexed his fingers.

‘Hardly the best preparation,’ he said affably, settling into his role as the earl’s match. ‘Would you mind if I took a look around the room, my lord? I need to judge the lighting.’

‘Be my guest,’ said Marldon, following him with watchful eyes.

Gabriel took his time, relishing his slight increase in power. He wondered if the man genuinely did want some sketches or if this was solely to induce heartache. But either way it mattered little. He could spend time with Clarissa, and that counted more than anything.

He strolled past the tall mullioned windows which looked down on Piccadilly. A few carriages rumbled along the wide, cobbled road, gleaming in the brilliant afternoon, and beyond were the verdant treetops of Green Park. The sky was of the deepest azure, and the sun was a blaze of gold, high and blinding. Gabriel eased a shutter to, lessening some of the glare, and gazed contemplatively about the room. Clarissa regarded him with a confused, cautious expression. He smiled openly at her.

‘When you’re ready,’ urged Marldon tetchily. ‘Mr Ardenzi, will you help your model undress? I don’t wish to interfere overmuch.’

‘No,’ murmured Clarissa. ‘No, I won’t have it.’

Marldon sighed. ‘What? Do you want me to threaten his life again, Clarissa? Or is it that you would rather I helped you?’

Clarissa pressed her lips together, and threw Gabriel a troubled glance. He was on the point of reassuring her that it did not matter, that it was a trifling thing, when she spoke.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, guiltily lowering her eyelashes. ‘I would rather it were you, my lord.’

The request pierced Gabriel to the quick. Was she ignoring his feelings or trying to spare them? He felt a surge of hostility towards her: she could have at least granted him those few moments of closeness. The pleasure of touching her skin would have far outweighed the anguish it was meant to provoke. Perhaps, he thought, she could not bear the pain of him being near. Either that, or Marldon had the preference.

Gabriel pulled out the pencils from his pocket and took up the paper and board set out for him on a small table. If she wanted Marldon to help her disrobe, then so be it. He was certainly not going to watch them. He sat on a brocaded couch, an ankle resting on the opposite knee, and laid the board on his lap. With a casual air he began sketching various pieces of furniture: a rococo console table, a jardinière holding a great potted palm, a chair with ball-and-claw feet.

He hummed as he worked, only once stealing a glimpse of Clarissa and Marldon. And, when he did, he regretted it deeply. He saw the earl slipping her chemise from her shoulders, his hands sliding down her bare arms, his lips pressing kisses to the nape of her neck. And, in the same moment, he saw Clarissa close her eyes luxuriously.

Jealousy, sour and vicious, twisted his guts, mocking his nonchalant façade. Oh, how quickly she surrendered to the man; how she cherished his dominance and his polluted sensuality. This was not the woman Gabriel had fallen in love with.

‘Where in the room would you have her positioned?’ asked Marldon.

Gabriel raised his head from his determined sketching. Clarissa was naked, her hair unpinned. A thick black lock streamed over one shoulder and hung in a soft curl, half-concealing the breast below. A shell-pink nipple poked shyly through the lush curtain, and she appealed
to him with eyes that were imploring, apologetic. Her expression sent tender emotions flaring high, and his phallus pulsed at the sight of her pale, beautiful nudity. But he girded his heart with stoicism and coolly surveyed her up and down.