Faith (22 page)

“Faith?”

Already her pain was fading, replaced by the curious stretching sensation of being filled for the first time. Her eyes met his, questioning, and she wriggled. Gareth groaned. “Don’t…Oh, please don’t,” he breathed.

Her eyes clouded, and he touched his lips softly to her forehead, smoothed her hair back with both hands, and brought her lips to his. He kissed her tenderly and began moving carefully within her. Her breath caught, and he felt her incisors bite gently into his lower lip. “Yes, princess?”

“Yes,” she replied against his mouth on an exhaled breath.

Gareth flexed his hips before settling a hand on her trim backside, applying pressure, teaching her how to move with him. “Together, love,” he whispered.

She was an apt pupil, and soon her short breaths lengthened into gasps, and then into moans. They moved as one, neither able to tell where one stopped and the other began, words tumbling between them, incoherent and dear, until he felt her tighten around him. Her eyes grew round.

“Gareth!”

His name became one long sound, and he thrust deep inside her one last time, then cried out, spilling himself in bursts of agonizing pleasure at the entrance to her womb. Everything fell away until there was nothing more, nothing except her and him and every single place they touched.

Soon, he felt her stir. He enfolded her in his arms and rolled onto his back, taking her with him, their limbs still sweetly tangled, and settled her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. “I’m sorry I hurt you, princess.”

“I knew it would…I m-mean…” She stammered a little and blushed. “Grace told me it might hurt a little the first time.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, regret washing through him. “I should have made it better for you. I just didn’t know.”

The instant the words left his lips, he wished them back. Faith stiffened in his arms but said nothing. He waited a moment, then pulled his head back and slipped a finger under her chin to tilt her face up to his.

Her eyes were grave and troubled. “That…?” She chewed on her lower lip a bit. “That’s what you thought I did with…with someone else?” The pain in her voice was unmistakable, and Gareth’s heart twisted with remorse. There was nothing he could say. And so, because he didn’t want a lie—even in the form of an unanswered question—between them, he finally nodded.

Faith stared at him, her mind spinning. The full import of what he’d thought when he’d decided she had a lover, the depth of the betrayal of which he’d thought her capable, was astonishing. She thought of what they had just shared, the beauty and the passion, and realized suddenly that no matter how it turned out, he’d begun their lovemaking with the express intention of proving her false.

Her eyes, only moments before a luminous shade of spun silver awash with wonder, clouded. Without another word, she wriggled off his chest and turned away, reaching blindly for the blankets, which she pulled up around her slim shoulders.

Gareth reached a hand toward her, then pulled it back, unsure of whether he’d make things better or worse by touching her. When she didn’t move, he rolled out of the bed and reached for his dressing gown, shrugging into it and tying the belt at his waist. He looked once more at the still form huddled beneath the covers and quietly left the room.

As soon as she knew her husband was gone, Faith released the hold she’d had on her emotions. She turned her face into the pillow and began to cry, her shoulders heaving with the force of her sobs. She cried until she could cry no more and fell asleep, exhausted by the weeks of emotional turmoil that had culminated in this.

Gareth made his way down to his study, anger building as he went, anger he directed entirely inward. He was a fool. A sublime fool. He opened the door, pushing it inward so hard that it crashed back into the wall, headed straight for the sideboard, upended a crystal tumbler, and poured himself a generous glass of port. He tossed it back in one swallow and started to pour another, then caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace.

Self-hatred and rage overtook him. With an angry roar, he threw the glass in his hand at the face in the mirror, but felt no relief with the shattering of the glass and the splintering of his image. With a groan, he braced both hands against the wall and closed his eyes, hoping to quell the steady parade of torturous images in his head. Try as he might, they just kept coming. He opened his eyes, reached for another glass and the bottle.

If nothing else, he’d find refuge and solace in oblivion.

Thirty-four

F
aith woke with a start. The room was dark and all was quiet, yet she could sense that something was wrong. Something was out of place.

Then she remembered:
she
was out of place. She was in Gareth’s home, in Gareth’s bed, and she and Gareth had just…She sat up, abruptly and completely awake, and looked at the empty side of the bed. Her eyes filled but she blinked hard, silently willing the tears away. She had cried enough. It was time to find a way to fix the problems. Or end them.

Resolute, she pushed back the covers and slipped from bed. Her clothing was scattered ignominiously across the floor. Faith blushed at the memory of how Gareth had removed those garments piece by piece, kissing and nibbling, savoring each small exposure of her body as he went. With a firm shake of her head, she pushed the memory away and bent to retrieve her gown and chemise. They were all she had to wear, and she certainly did not intend to go traipsing about the town house nude in search of her husband.

A small sound near the doorway made her whirl in alarm, clutching her chemise to her naked breasts. Her eyes probed the darkness but detected nothing.

Quickly, she dressed. Ignoring her stockings, she began looking for her slippers. She found one near the nightstand but did not see the other. With a sigh, she knelt and looked under the bed. Sure enough, it was there, just beyond her fingertips unless she stretched. While she was doing precisely that, she heard the door quietly open.

She peered in that direction from under the bed. A pair of boots entered the room and began walking toward her. A childish urge to slide under the bed and hide gripped her. Faith suppressed a wayward giggle. She grabbed her shoe and stood, shaking her hair out of her face as she did.

“I was just coming to look for—” She stopped in midsentence and stared. It wasn’t Gareth coming around the end of the bed toward her. It was Horatio Grimsby, a determined look on his face.

Shock rooted her in place, and he was upon her before it even occurred to Faith that she should scream or run or do
something.
He reached up and covered her mouth with one hand while pushing her back against the wall with the other. Faith dropped her shoes and began to fight.

“Stop it, my dear. Listen to me!” hissed Horatio.

Her eyes wide, Faith shook her head. She reached up with both hands and wildly grasped his wrist, trying to pull his hand away from her mouth.

“Don’t struggle so hard, for God’s sake. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Faith stopped fighting a moment and stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m here to rescue you. I saw the way your husband forced you to leave the ball. Shameful, really, the way he treated you.” Horatio smiled tightly. “I would never have spoken to you like that, my love.” He turned her face a little toward the window so that he could see her eyes more clearly. “Promise me you won’t scream.” She nodded, and he cautiously lifted his hand but didn’t release his hold on her.

“You were on the terrace?”

He nodded. “Yes. It was sweet of you to follow me out there after our dance, and unfortunate that your odious husband showed up when he did. I was obliged to retreat into a shadowy corner and listen to him speak to you in that degrading manner.” His eyes turned sympathetic. “No wonder you came back to London to find me.”

Faith forced herself to relax, to try to breathe normally, even though her heart was pounding in her chest. The fact that he thought she had come back to London just to find him told her that Horatio had quite obviously lost his mind. “How,” she asked, her voice carefully neutral, “did you manage to get in here and find me?” She had no idea where Gareth had gone or if he had even stayed in the town house after he left the bedroom.

“I simply waited until all the lights were out, then came in through the service door off the alley.” Faith nodded but said nothing, encouraging him to continue. “Your husband, by the way, is quite unconscious, downstairs in his study.”

Fear quaked through her. “Gareth? Unconscious?” Her voice sounded a little shrill, and a look of annoyance crossed Horatio’s face. Faith counted slowly to three and forced herself to sound calm. “Is he hurt?”

Horatio shook his head. “No. He’s utterly foxed,” he said, disgust lacing his tone. “I made sure he was completely passed out before I began looking for you. It felt a bit like poking a tiger with a stick, but he didn’t wake, so all is well.” He allowed his grip on Faith to loosen a bit. “I was afraid you were going to be uncooperative…out of a sense of duty, of course. It would really have been inconvenient had I found it necessary to kill a fellow peer of the realm tonight.”

Faith’s eyes widened.

Thoughtfully, Horatio drew his eyebrows together. “Perhaps I should do so anyway while I have the chance. It would keep him from coming after you.”

Terror washed through her, icy and dreadful. “Oh, no,” she said hastily. “I don’t think that will be at all necessary He won’t come after me. He really cannot abide me, you know.”

Lord Jameson squinted at her through his spectacles as though trying to assess the level of her sincerity.

“Maybe we should just get out of here before he wakes,” she added, forcing herself to give a disarming little smile.

Horatio stared at her a moment longer, then finally relaxed completely and loosened his grip. He reached down, grasped her hand, and turned to lead her from the room. But as his glance fell on the rumpled bed, he sucked in his breath.

Faith followed his gaze. There on the bedclothes was clear evidence of the fact that Gareth had taken her virginity.

Horatio shook his head. “Oh, Faith.”

She closed her eyes and looked down as if ashamed, worried that he could tell her mind was otherwise engaged, occupied with finding a way out of this situation. She had to get Horatio away from the town house before he changed his mind and decided to harm Gareth while he was unable to defend himself after all. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, hoping to pacify him.

“Oh, my sweet darling.” Horatio turned sympathetic eyes on her. “You have no reason to apologize. That bastard raped you.”

At the word
raped,
Faith recoiled as if physically struck. She opened her mouth automatically to deny the accusation, then closed it again. “Can we just go, please?” She made her voice sound as small and bewildered as she could.

Without another word, Horatio took her hand.

“Wait,” she said. “My shoes.”

He allowed her to stoop and retrieve them and watched her slip them on. For a moment Faith considered running, then realized it was a horrible idea. Not only was she completely unfamiliar with the layout of the town house, but even if she managed to get away or to find somewhere to hide, she’d be leaving her unconscious husband alone with a madman. She straightened and nodded. “I’m ready,” she said.

Horatio led her quietly from the room and down the hall to the stairs. After looking cautiously for any activity on the floor below, they descended and made their way down the foyer. Faith, to her credit, managed to pass what she assumed was the half-open door to Gareth’s study without even glancing inside.

Thirty-five

M
y lord?”

Gareth, seated on the edge of burgundy leather club chair, lifted his head from hands and squinted at Desmond. “If you haven’t come with a ridiculously large glass of water or a pistol with which I can dispatch myself from this misery, I don’t want to hear it.” He dropped his head back into his hands.

For once, Desmond had no ill-tempered retort. Instead, he stood silent, his gaze sweeping the normally well-ordered room. It looked and smelled as though a riotous party had occurred during the night. Chairs were moved from their usual places, the mirror over the fireplace was shattered, and shards of glass littered the hearth, both from the mirror and from the tumbler Gareth had thrown. Balls of wadded-up parchment were scattered around the desk, upon which an ink pot had been overturned, its contents bleeding a dark stain across the blotter.

When Desmond didn’t reply, Gareth looked up. “What is it?”

“My lord, the Earl and Countess of Seth have arrived.”

“Well, tell them I am not in.”

“I did, as they were quite unannounced.” He was unable to resist giving Gareth an accusing look. “They have insisted upon waiting, my lord.” The unspoken implication hung in the air that this was an unwanted complication to the butler’s day.

Gareth sighed and unsteadily stood. “Where are they?”

“I put them in the salon with—”

Before he could finish, the door opened behind him and Grace appeared, followed closely by a rather sheepish-looking Amanda. Their husbands followed more slowly, Jonathon glowering and Trevor smirking.

“—the Earl and Countess of Huntwick,” Desmond finished. He gave Grace a look of disdain. “Who were
also
unannounced,” he added.

Grace stepped around the butler, who turned and left the room, muttering under his breath. She ignored him. “Good day, my lord.” She stopped abruptly and stared open-mouthed at the mess.

Amanda nearly ran into her. “My goodness, Gareth, it looks as though someone has been brawling in here!”

Grace’s brows snapped together. “Where’s Faith?”

“Asleep, I presume,” replied Gareth. “Which is where I’m going as well, if you will all excuse me.”

“Asleep?” Grace’s voice took on a note of surprise. “But it is late afternoon,” she protested.

“Perhaps, my dear, Faith was up rather late,” put in Trevor, who was clearly enjoying the situation.

“Indeed,” agreed Jonathon. “We should all apologize and take our leave.” He gave his wife a stern look.

“It’s late afternoon?” Everyone turned to look at Gareth, who was staring at the windows. No one had come in to open the curtains while he slept off his excesses, and the room was still shrouded in gloom. He glanced at Grace, his brow furrowed. “Faith hasn’t been to see you?”

Grace shook her head, her eyes growing wide with alarm. When Gareth left the room and headed for the stairs with long, ground-eating strides, she grabbed Amanda’s hand and followed, tugging her friend helplessly along with her.

Gareth was already halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste to reach the second floor. Amanda and Grace followed more slowly, encumbered by their skirts. By the time they reached the top, Gareth had disappeared down the hall. The two women followed, glancing into each room as they passed until they found him, standing just inside the doorway of the master suite.

Grace pushed past him. “Where’s Faith?” she repeated.

“She’s not here,” said Gareth tightly.

“I can
see
that she’s not here. Tell me where she is.”

Gareth gave her a scathing look. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have come looking for her. She was in that bed when I went downstairs last night.”

“And got drunk,” accused Grace hotly.

Gareth narrowed his eyes. “I seem to recall finding Hunt well into his cups a time or two while he was courting you. Is driving men to drink a trait peculiar to Ackerly women?”

Grace glared.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jonathon drunk,” offered Amanda pleasantly.

“I don’t
get
drunk,” agreed Jon as he walked into the room.

Trevor appeared as well and nudged his friend, tilting his head toward Grace and Gareth. Grace looked ready to launch herself at the marquess, who looked as though he’d welcome the fight. “So, where’s Faith?”

Both angry faces snapped toward Trevor. “She’s not here!”

“Well, I can see
that,
” he muttered.

Amanda’s lips twitched, and Jonathon gave her a baleful look. She quickly composed herself. “Faith is not given to acting rashly,” she said. “If she isn’t here, and she hasn’t been to see Grace, then she’ll obviously be at the next logical place.”

Grace shook her head. “We came here straight from a visit with Aunt Cleo.”

Gareth frowned. “She mentioned going home to Pelthamshire.”

Again, Grace gave a negative shake of her head. “We’ve just come from there, and she’d decided to return with us. Besides, she might leave
you,
my lord, without a word of explanation, but she would never leave town without letting me or Aunt Cleo know where she was going.”

Gareth began pacing the room, his brow furrowed in thought. He stopped a moment and looked at the unmade bed, the memory of how he’d taken Faith’s virginity in such a clumsy manner tugging at him. The evidence on the sheets taunted him, and he closed his eyes, regret and self-recrimination stamped on his features. The two forgotten couples conversed in whispers near the door, watching him carefully.

He opened his eyes and stepped closer to the bed, the pounding in his head forgotten, intending to flip the covers up to cover the soiled linens, certain Faith wouldn’t have wanted even her closest loved ones to know what had transpired the evening before. As he reached for the covers, he caught sight of something lying on the floor next to the far side of the bed and stiffened. In two long strides, he was there.

He bent, swept the objects off the floor, and straightened, holding Faith’s stockings in his hand, then looked at the group across the room. “She didn’t dress normally,” he announced.

Grace’s eyes grew round and riveted on the delicate lengths of silk in his hands. “No,” she agreed. “Something forced her to dress quickly. She left off her stockings to save time.”

Gareth nodded. “Something,” he echoed thoughtfully. “Or someone.” And then, just like that, all the evidence added up for him. The cuff link, the vandalism at Rothemere, the near proposal, the way he’d hung near and basked in Faith’s kindness…

Grace tilted her head to the side, her mind spinning. A memory, vague and dim, niggled at her consciousness, something to which she felt she should have paid closer attention, something she might have noticed and dismissed. She frowned. What
was
it? Gareth watched the changing expressions on her face, waiting for her to come to the same conclusion he had.

And then her face cleared.
The dance last night!
Grace sucked in her breath and raised wide blue eyes to Gareth’s inscrutable brown ones. “Lord Jameson,” she said on an exhaled breath. Jameson had been acting particularly strange, and he was the only culprit she could imagine.

Gareth nodded tightly, and Grace wondered at his lack of expression, at the missing sense of urgency in his demeanor.

Jon stepped forward. “If this is true,” he said quietly to his brother, “if she left here with Jameson, it was not as his lover. Get that out of your mind.”

The marquess shrugged. “I suppose that remains to be seen,” he replied. He looked at Trevor, then Jon. “Would either of you care to accompany me? I think I’m about to pay a house call.”