Never Romance a Rake (6 page)

Enders began to laugh, a nasal, braying sound, like an ass with a head cold. “A saucy piece, isn't she, Valigny? Yes, amusing indeed.”

The girl moved as if to rise, but suddenly, she caught Rothewell's gaze, and their eyes locked. He waited for her to pull away, but she stared boldly. Her eyes were wide, limpid pools of black-brown rage, and some other inscrutable emotion. Just what was it that lurked hidden there? A challenge? Pure hatred? Whatever it was, it at least served one purpose. It kept Rothewell from looking directly down at the creamy swell of cleavage, which seemed destined to spill from her bodice.

“Come,
mon chou
!” cajoled the comte. “Stand up straight and mind your tone, eh? You may soon be a baroness if I play my cards poorly.”

“Bah!” she spit, abruptly straightening up from the table. “Play your cards badly, then. I wish to have done with this business.”

“Very well.” Calvert still looked uneasy. “I suppose we may proceed.”

Rothewell shoved his cards away. “No,” he snapped. “This is lunacy.”

“First hear what I offer, Rothewell,” the comte suggested, all business now. “You have eight thousand pounds on the table.”

“Yes? What of it?”

“And Enders has what? Another eight?”

“Give or take,” agreed Enders.

“So I wager the right to marry my daughter against all that is on the table,” said the comte. “If I win,
très bien
. You go home a little less well-off than you came in. But if I lose, then the winner can marry my daughter—but within the month,
s'il vous plaît.
Her grandfather's will settles upon her the sum of fifty thousand pounds on her wedding day, which you will halve with me. Let us call it a finder's fee.”

“Fifty thousand pounds, halved?” Enders drew back. “But you cannot lose!”

“
Oui,
but if you win, you win far more than eight thousand pounds,” countered the comte.

“True enough,” said Enders. “But divided, that sum is nothing!”

“Come now, Enders, it is enough to make a man comfortable if not truly rich,” the comte countered. “Certainly it is enough to meet your wagers.”

“And her beauty aside, she's hardly young,” Enders reminded him.

Rothewell looked back and forth between Mademoiselle Marchand and her father. Something was amiss here. Or being hidden. He sensed it with a gambler's instinct. The girl's spine was rigid, her chin still high. But she was casting surreptitious glances at Lord Enders, and her bravado, he thought, was flagging.

She reminded him of someone, he suddenly realized. It was the French accent. That warm, honey-colored skin. Those dark eyes, alight with fury and passion.
Good God.

He set his brandy glass away, afraid he might crush it in his fist. “I can think of nothing I want less than a wife,” he gritted. “And plainly, Enders doesn't want one, either.”

“Nonetheless, it is an intriguing offer.” Enders leaned across the table, leering. “Her age aside, she's a pretty little piece. Bring her over here, Valigny. Into the good light.”

The comte led the girl by the elbow into the pool of lamplight near the gaming table, a lamb to the slaughter. It was pure hell to watch—and despite his dislike of Enders, Rothewell was no better. He could not tear his gaze from her. It was like an accident happening before his eyes—and he was helpless to stop it. Valigny's fingers seemed to be almost digging into the flesh of her arm, as if he held her against her will. Without troubling himself to rise, Enders looked her up and down, his eyes openly lingering on her breasts.

Dear God, what manner of man would put his daughter through this? It was just as she had said—she was no more than horseflesh to Valigny. And now Enders was motioning with his finger for her to turn around.

“Very slowly, my sweet,” he rasped. “Yes, very, very slowly.”

When her back was toward him, he watched her hips lewdly as they moved beneath her dark silk gown, an unholy light in his eyes. Perhaps Enders ought simply to ask Valigny to hike up the girl's skirts so that he might fondle the wares firsthand? At that thought, a strange, disgusting wave of lust and nausea washed over him.

This was not right.

It was also none of his business. He could walk out. Go home this instant and tell Valigny and Enders to go bugger themselves. However desirable Mademoiselle Marchand might be, the woman could obviously fend for herself. He didn't give a two-penny damn about the money on the table and, he reminded himself, he had no morals to be troubled by.

And yet he was not leaving, was he?

Because she reminded him of someone. Because he had felt fleetingly drawn into the swirling black pools of her eyes.
Fool
. Oh, what a bloody damned fool he was.

To shut out the wild notion edging nearer, Rothewell squeezed his own eyes shut.

But there was another reason for staying. A reason that cut deeper still. He knew what it was to be thrown to the dogs as if you were no more than a piece of rancid meat. Dear Lord, why must his long-dead scruples resurrect themselves at a time such as this?

Because Enders was going to take that beautiful girl. Take her to his bed and make her do God only knew what—or with whom—heaven help her. And she was but an innocent. Had Rothewell doubted it, the faint hint of fear he saw in her eyes at that instant when she glanced down at Enders would have convinced him.

An awful chill ran through him. Oh, Mademoiselle Marchand might be full of fire and spirit tonight, but men like Enders knew just how to beat that out of a woman, and more often than not, they enjoyed the doing of it.

Enders had finished leering at her arse. That much, at least, was over. Mademoiselle Marchand cut her gaze away from the men and closed her eyes as if steeling herself for something worse.

Enders touched her lightly on the wrist, his plump lips turning up in a lascivious smile as he leered up at her. “So you need a husband to tame you, my pet?” he whispered in his nasal voice. “I begin to find the notion perfectly delicious.”

The girl did not open her eyes but drew a deep, steadying breath, her nostrils flaring wide. For an instant, Rothewell thought her knees might buckle. Enders had begun to stroke her wrist over and over with his wide, plump fingertips—a deceptively gentle gesture, given his predilections—and Valigny was doing nothing. And in that moment—that sad, sickening instant of understanding, when he was nothing like himself, but instead a stranger whom he had never met and could not possibly comprehend—Rothewell grasped what was about to happen. What had to happen.

Well, what the hell difference would it make to him?

The thought freed him. Almost. Good God, he was no hero. He must be as mad as all of them.

Enders and Valigny were still watching the girl. Calvert's face was turned away.

Across the table, Rothewell caught the footman's gaze. He set one finger to his lips, then eased his other hand over to fumble beneath the table and felt a moment of triumph. A stiff flap of paper was wedged deep into the crack between the table leaves.

“By God, I'll have her!” Lord Enders's booming voice fractured the strange silence.

Rothewell jerked back his fingers, and deftly slid Valigny's card beneath his waistcoat. Only the footman observed him.

“With an arse like that, she's worth the twenty-five thousand
and
the inconvenience,” Enders went on. “Been thinking of taking a wife anyway. Perhaps, Valigny, we can make a deal without another hand?”

The comte beamed.

“No,” said Rothewell gruffly, sweeping up the previous hand in one smooth motion round the table. “No, shuffle this, Calvert, and by God, we shall play.”

Enders narrowed his eyes. “Will we now?”

“Yes, why not?” he said.

“But you've swept up the hand.”

“I have money on the table, and I wish to replay it,” Rothewell demanded. “That was Valigny's proposal.”

“
Mais oui,
” said the comte. “A new hand and a neutral dealer. Come now, Enders. Calvert shall wield the pack.”

Rothewell cast a glower at his host. “Sit down, then, Valigny, and play this godforsaken game you've thought up.” He turned in his seat, and jerked out the adjacent chair. “And for pity's sake, let us be quick about it.”

It was indeed quick, mercifully so. Calvert dealt one card down to each of them, then hesitated.

“Go on,” said Rothewell curtly. “We've already agree to stake it all.”

Calvert nodded, and went round again. The gentlemen tipped up the corners of their cards. In that fleeting moment, Rothewell made his move.

“Lord Enders, do you stand?” asked Calvert.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sputter of the lamp. Finally, Enders spoke. “I am content, thank you.”

“Valigny?” asked Calvert.

The comte tapped the table with his knuckle, and Calvert slid him one more card.

“My lord?” Calvert turned to Rothewell. “Will you draw?”

Rothewell shook his head. “I stand.” Then, with one flick of his fingertip, he turned his cards faceup.

From the shadows, the girl gasped. Valigny made a strange, choking sound in the back of his throat. His lucky card—the Queen of Spades—stared up at them, her black eyes glowering with disapproval. Beside her lay the Ace of Hearts, impassive, but glorious.

“Gentlemen,” said Rothewell quietly. “I think that's
vingt-et-un.
”

E
nders began cursing as soon as the cards fell. Valigny stared at the black queen for a long moment, then burst into peals of laughter. The comte's daughter closed her eyes, and set her empty glass down with an awkward
chink
as it struck the silver gallery tray. Her slender shoulders went limp, and her head fell forward as if in prayer.

She was relieved, Rothewell thought.
She was relieved
. At least he had accomplished something.

Or had he? The girl recovered herself quickly enough. When the comte finally stopped laughing, he rubbed his hands briskly. “Well done, my Lord Rothewell!” He turned to his daughter. “
Félicitations, mon chou.
May I be the first to wish you happy. Now take his lordship to your sitting room. A newly betrothed couple needs a moment alone,
n'est-ce pas
?”

She did not look at Rothewell but instead swept from the room as if she were the black queen come to life. His emotions still ragged, Rothewell followed her past the stairs and down a long passageway. What in God's name had he just done?

Nothing, that was what. He owed Valigny twenty-five thousand pounds. He needed to keep that thought straight in his head.

Mademoiselle Marchand turned left. Her steps were certain and quick, as if she knew what lay ahead and meant to soldier through it. With her shoulders set stiffly back, she pushed through the sitting-room door with a quick, capable swish of her hips, turned up the lamp, and motioned Lord Rothewell toward a chair, all without pause.

He ignored the chair, since she did not deign to sit. Inside the small chamber, a low fire glowed in the hearth, and a second lamp burned by the worn but elegant chair which sat adjacent. Rothewell let his gaze sweep over the room, as if by taking it in, he might divine something of the woman's character.

Unlike the gilt and gaudy splendor of Valigny's parlor, this tidy sitting room was appointed with French furniture which looked tasteful but far from new. Leather-bound books lined the whole of one wall, and the air smelled vaguely of lilies instead of smoke, soured wine, and too much male perspiration. Clearly, this was not Valigny's territory, but his daughter's—and unless Rothewell missed his guess, the twain rarely met.

He turned to face her. “Have you a name,
mademoiselle
?” he enquired with a stiff bow. “I gather
mon chou
is not your preferred form of address?”

Her smile was bitter. “What's in a name?” she quoted pithily. “You may call me Mademoiselle Marchand.”

“Your Christian name,” he pressed. “Under the circumstances,
mademoiselle
, I think it necessary.”

There was another flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Camille,” she finally answered in her low, simmering voice.

“And I am Kieran,” he said quietly.

His name seemed of no consequence to the woman. She paced to the window and stared out into the gaslit street beyond. He felt oddly wounded. A carriage went spinning past in the gloom, the driver's shadowy form barely visible upon the box. Unasked, Rothewell started across the room to join her, but she cut an immediate and forbidding glance over her shoulder.

He hesitated. Why press forward with this travesty? Indeed, what had possessed him to pursue it at all? Pity? Lust? One last effort to redeem his hopelessly blackened soul? Or was it simply a gnawing hunger for something which he had not already tasted to wretched excess?

And what had brought such a beautiful creature to such a desperate point—and she must indeed be desperate though she hid it like a master.

Rothewell dropped his gaze. A glass of what looked like strong claret sat on a dainty piecrust table by her chair, and a book lay open beside it. He glanced at the spine. It was not a novel, as one might expect, but
An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
by the Scot, Adam Smith.

Good God, was the woman a bluestocking? Rothewell glanced again at her face, now in profile as she stared into the night.

No. With lips as lush as those, it simply was not possible. Moreover, she was too cool. Too Continental and sophisticated.

“Mademoiselle Marchand,” he said quietly, “why are you cooperating with your father in this unholy scheme?”

At last she turned from the window, her hands held serenely at her waist, one laid neatly over the other. “I do it,
monsieur
, for the same reason as you,” she replied, her French accent less pronounced now. “Because there is something in it for me.”

“What, a title?” Rothewell sneered. “I assure you, my dear, mine is scarcely known. It will do you little good.”

“I don't give a damn for your title, sir,” she calmly returned, her chin up. “I need an English husband—one who can do his duty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A husband who can get me with child—and quickly.” She let her gaze run down him as if
he
were now the horseflesh on the block. “Surely you can accomplish that much,
monsieur
, despite your haggard appearance?”

Strangely, it was not the insult but her apathy which stirred his ire. “What the devil are you talking about?” he said darkly. “If you wish for a child,
mademoiselle
, there are many eligible bachelors in London who would doubtless oblige you.”

“Alas, I am told they have all gone to the country for shooting season.” She laughed with mocking lightness. “Oh, come,
monsieur
! With Valigny's reputation? And my mother's? I am thought scandalous, my lord. But you—ah,
you
do not look as if scandal much disturbs you.”

“You have a tart tongue, madam,” he returned. “Perhaps that is your problem?”

“
Oui,
but you'll not be long burdened with it,” she answered evenly. “Just wed me, Rothewell, and do your duty. It will prove a lucrative wager indeed—less Valigny's cut of the settlement,
naturellement
. I will pay you a generous sum of money as soon as my child is born healthy. Then you may go on your merry, dissolute way.”

“Good God,” he said, his temper ratcheting up. “Just what is a man's seed selling for nowadays, Miss Marchand? Can you tell me? Have you put a price on it?”

She faltered but a moment. “It is worth a good deal to me,” she returned. “A hundred thousand pounds,
monsieur
. How does that sound?”

“Good God,” he said again. “I begin to believe you as coldhearted as Valigny.”

A bitter smile curved her full, sensuous lips. “And I begin to believe it is your precious title which concerns you after all,” she answered. “English arrogance is—”

“Titles and arrogance be damned!” he snapped, stalking toward her. “In any case, there will be no child. My God, there isn't even going to be a
marriage
. And what is this nonsense about a hundred thousand pounds? Valigny spoke only of a marriage portion.”

“Vraiment?”
Her brown eyes widened disingenuously. “A pity I did not have my ear to the door, my lord. Valigny has told you but half the tale—the half he knows.”

He moved closer—so close he could see the fringe of thick black lashes which rimmed her chocolate-colored eyes—and set one heavy hand on her shoulder. “Then suppose, Mademoiselle Marchand, that you tell me the other half?—and pray do so
now.
”

Her chocolate eyes seemed suddenly to shoot sparks. “Oh, you are just another spoilt, drunken rakehell, Rothewell, like all Valigny's friends.” Her seductive voice was low and tremulous. “What would a fifty-thousand-pound marriage portion do for me? Why would I marry you? Out of the goodness of my heart? There is none! If ever there was, Valigny has trampled it out of me.”

Rothewell was struck suddenly by three things. Her English was a good deal better than she'd been letting on. His cock was on the verge of stiffening, a strange circumstance indeed. And she was bloody well right about the money. Why
would
she marry him? What had she to gain? Her father would take half the marriage portion, and he, himself, would ostensibly take the other half.

“I'll have the truth out of you, madam,” he gritted. “All of it. Now.”

Something like hatred glinted in her eyes. “And so I shall tell you,” she said. “Three months past, Valigny found out that I was left a marriage portion in the will of my grandfather, and it is eating him alive.
Oui,
he is addicted,
monsieur
. Addicted to the game, and always desperate. For the money to play his game, he will do anything.”

Rothewell glowered down at her, strangely aware of her sharp, spicy scent, and of the tiny pulse point just below her ear. “Aye, go on.”

For an instant, her dainty pink tongue toyed with one corner of her mouth, but Rothewell was almost too enraged to appreciate it.
Almost
. “There is more.” She dropped her voice, her words swift and quiet. “Things Valigny does not know. But I wonder…I wonder if you can be trusted.”

“No,” he said flatly.

She let that thought sink in for a moment. “
Zut!
” she said beneath her breath. “You have me at sword point,
monsieur
. May I not rely on your honor as a gentleman?”

“That's a slender reed to grasp, my dear,” he said. “But you may cling to it if you wish.”

Her eyes shot daggers at him then. “
Mon Dieu,
you are a devil!” she said. “A devil with the eyes of a wolf. But perhaps I must risk it.”

“Why not?” he answered. “Could I possibly be more of a devil than your father?”

“
Oui,
that is most true.” But her temper, he could see, was still hot and she was still hesitant. “There is more than a marriage portion for me,” she finally said. “The solicitor of my grandfather advises me that his English—what do you say? His
propriété
?”

“His country estate, you mean?”

She nodded. “Yes, the land, the house, the title—all these have gone to a cousin. But all else—much else—is to be mine. There is money,
oui
, but also mills and mines for coal. Things which I do not understand—
not yet
. But it is worth many, many thousands of pounds.”

Rothewell felt his eyes widen. It was true, then, what Valigny had said. But the man apparently did not comprehend the magnitude of what he'd just gambled away. “And Valigny knows nothing of this?”

“
Non
.” She lifted one elegant shoulder beneath the silk of her gown. “I was not fool enough to tell him everything.”

Rothewell felt his suspicion growing. “If you are so wealthy,” he said, “what need have you to marry at all?”

Here, Mademoiselle Marchand's lips thinned. “Alas, there is the—the what do you call it?—the fly in the honey?” she answered. “My grandfather was a vengeful man. I inherit nothing until I come here—to England—and marry a suitable man. A man of the English aristocracy.”

“Ah, yes! There's that English gentleman again,” said Rothewell.

She flashed a bitter smile, but to his frustration, it did nothing to lessen her allure. “
Mais oui,
” she agreed. “Then, however, to receive anything beyond my marriage portion, I must produce a child. My grandfather wished to ensure that the dreaded scourge—that frightful French blood of my father—was soon diluted out of existence in his descendants.”

Rothewell took a step back. “I'm afraid you have netted the wrong sort of fish, my dear,” he returned. “I have no interest in this misbegotten scheme.”

She tossed him another disparaging glance, then edged away. “Of course you do,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “You are a hardened gamester, are you not? Take a risk! You have a fifty-fifty chance the child will be female, and your precious title will be unsullied.”

“Oh?” he growled. “Assuming I give a damn for my title, what then?”

She gave a Gallic shrug. “Then,
monsieur,
you can divorce me,” she replied. “I gladly will give you cause, if need be. I have had no offers of marriage,
c'est vrai,
but many offers of another kind. Offers made only with the eyes—so far. But it will be no problem for me simply to accept one.”

Like the lash of a whip, his hand seized her arm, turning her to face him. “You would not dare,
mademoiselle,
” he gritted. “For if you tried that trick with me, it wouldn't be a divorce you'd get.”

The woman had the audacity to laugh in his face. “Ah, suddenly principled, are you?”