Never Romance a Rake (7 page)

He released her arm, but she did not back away. The hot, spicy scent of her filled his nostrils now. “I may not give a damn for my title, Mademoiselle Marchand,” he snapped. “But I care a great deal about being made a cuckold.”

“Oh, everyone has a price, Rothewell.” Was there an unexpected note of melancholy in her voice? “You. Lord Enders. Valigny.
Oui, monsieur,
even I. Have I not just proven it?”

“A price?” he returned. “There may be little about me that is honorable,
mademoiselle,
but I have no need to marry a woman for her money. Indeed, I have no need—or desire—to marry at all.”

“What nonsense!” She cut another of her cool glances at him. “That is precisely why you remained at the card table,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“No, damn you, it is not,” he snarled.

Mademoiselle Marchand blinked her eyes, as if attempting to clear her vision. “
Non
?” she murmured, drifting back to the window. “Then why did you play Valigny's little game, Rothewell? What other reason could you possibly have?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her it was because he could not bear the thought of Lord Enders's heaving himself atop so lovely and so innocent a young woman—but no. That would not do. It probably wasn't even true. Why should he give a damn what happened to Valigny's insolent by-blow? Oh, she was beautiful, yes. And infinitely beddable. But she had a tongue like a serpent, and eyes which seemed determined to pierce his darkest recesses.

How the devil had he got himself into this mess? There was nothing of the gentleman in him, and there never had been. He was no better than that scoundrel Valigny, or the sick, twisted Lord Enders.

Her piercing eyes were on him now, watchful. Insistent. “Why, Rothewell?” she said. “Now it is my turn to demand the truth.”

“The truth!” he said bitterly. “Would either of us recognize it, I wonder?”

She stepped toward him, her eyes glinting. “Why did you gamble with Valigny?” she demanded. “Tell me. If not the money, why?”

His frustration finally exploded. He caught her by the elbow, and dragged her against him. “Because I want you, damn it,” he snarled down at her. “Why else? I'm no better than Enders. I think I should like you under my thumb,
mademoiselle
. In my bed. Beneath me. I should dearly love to make you eat a few of your prideful words, and do my every bidding. Perhaps that is
why
.”

Satisfaction glinted in her eyes. “
Très bien
,” she murmured, stepping back as he released her. “At least I know what I am dealing with.”

Rothewell forced down his anger. He was a liar—and he felt suddenly weary and ashamed. “Oh, you have no idea, Mademoiselle Marchand,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “For all your
avant-garde
upbringing, you cannot possibly know what you are
dealing with
. You have no business with a man like me. I release you, my dear, from this foolish, Faustian bargain of your father's. You are not his to barter—no matter what he might imagine when he is in his cups and desperate.”

Mademoiselle Marchand had resumed her solitary vigil by the window and no longer faced him. Her delicate, thin shoulders had rolled inward with fatigue now, and much of the hauteur had left her frame. He had never seen another human being look so desperately alone.

Slowly, she turned and let her gaze take him in again, but this time it was his face which she studied. “No,” she said quietly. “No, Lord Rothewell, I think shall stand by my father's bargain.”

Rothewell gave a sharp laugh. “I don't think you understand,
mademoiselle,
” he answered. “I have no need of a wife.”

For a long, expectant moment, she hesitated, her mind toying with the knife's edge of something he could not fathom. She was weighing him. Judging him again with her all-seeing eyes. And it made him acutely uncomfortable.

She crossed the room to face him again and dropped her voice to a throaty whisper. “If you want me, Lord Rothewell,” she said, “then have me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mademoiselle Marchand leaned into him, set her hands on his lapels, and dropped her sweeping black lashes. “Have me.” He watched her lush lips form each word, mesmerized. “Give me your oath—your pledge as a gentleman that we shall marry and share equally in my inheritance—then have me. Tonight. Now.”

“You must be mad,” he managed. But he was drawing in the scent of her—that warm, spicy mélange that smelled of orchids and seductive feminine heat—and his traitorous body was eager.

Her breasts were pressed against him now. Her mouth—and that dark-as-midnight voice—were hot against his ear. “
Beneath you
,” she whispered. “
Under your thumb. Doing your every bidding
. That is your fantasy,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Rothewell dredged up what little restraint he possessed and set his hand to the back of her head. “Were I to have you,
mademoiselle,
” he whispered against her ear, “and act out even the most fainthearted of my fantasies, everyone from here to High Holborn Street would have to listen to the racket, because I'd have my hand laid to your bare backside.”

She drew back, her eyes wide.

“No,” he said, sneering. “I did not think that was what you had in mind. But if you insist on acting like a foolish child, then that is how I'll treat you, Mademoiselle Marchand.
Do not toy with me.
You will rue the day.”

She dropped her gaze, and to his undying agony, backed away. “
Très bien,
my lord,” she murmured, her voice amazingly cool. “You make your point. Is Lord Enders still in my father's parlor?”

Rothewell shrugged. “I daresay. What of it?”

She set off briskly toward the door. “Then I shall marry him after all,” she replied over her shoulder. “It will be worth a vast deal of money to him—and to my father.”

Rothewell beat her to the door, slamming his open palm against it. “Good God, woman, don't be a damned fool!” His voice was a low growl. “Enders is a lecher—and that term is a generous one.”

“
Oui?
And what business is it of yours?”

He leaned into her. “
Listen to me,
” he rasped. “There is not a shred of honor in that man. You cannot bargain with him. Oh, he'll marry you—and then by law, every penny you possess will be his—and you will be his—to do with as he pleases.”

She turned and set her back to the door, daring him. Looking him up and down as if she did not fear him—or Enders—in the least. The Black Queen. It was not what he was accustomed to.

Rothewell braced the other hand above her shoulder, effectively pinning her.

“It would appear you have me trapped, Lord Rothewell,” she said coolly. “What do you mean to do about it?”

He meant, apparently, to kiss her. Almost savagely, in fact, driving her head back against the wood, and opening his mouth over hers without hesitation. As if on instinct, she raised her hands to shove him away, but it was too late.

Rothewell deepened the kiss on a rush of sensation, allowing his weight to pin her against the door. He slanted his mouth over hers, forcing his way into the sweet, spicy depths of her mouth.

She fought him but an instant, then opened willingly, entwining her tongue with his in a tantalizing dance of pleasure. Again and again, he kissed her, and felt himself slip into the depths of something dark and uncertain. It was as if the heat of her body seared his. The swell of her breasts and belly. The taut muscles of her thighs. All of it pressed down his length, urging him toward a rash, hot madness.

In the gloom, her breath came fast and urgent. He was vaguely aware that she was kissing him back, and rather boldly; rising onto her toes, the crisp silk of her bodice crushing against the wool of his lapels.

So lost was he in the moment, Rothewell was scarcely aware that his hands had left the door and gone instead to her face, trembling. In the street beyond, a clatter arose; a mail coach, perhaps, moving fast. The racket sliced through the heat, returning Rothewell to the present. Almost reluctantly, he drew his tongue across her sharp, white teeth one last time, then lifted his face from hers, his gaze locked to hers, their nostrils flared wide.

She, too, was trembling. Ah, there was a fear in her now. But not, he thought, of him.

Mademoiselle Marchand licked her lips uncertainly. “Tell me, my lord,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to a point disconcertingly near his crotch. “Do you still wish me across your knee?”

There was bravado in her voice still, it was true. But like the hardened gambler he was, Rothewell began to scent panic. As the fog of lust slowly dissipated, he considered it, and let his arms drop. His gaze roamed over her beautiful, almost heart-shaped face, taking in her wide brown eyes and fine cheekbones.

“Tell me, my dear, how much longer do you have?” he murmured. “I think I hear the fatal sound of a ticking clock—and I don't mean the one on your mantel-piece.”

For a moment, she hesitated. “Six weeks,” she finally whispered.

“Six weeks?” he echoed. “Why so little?”

Something like resignation sketched across her face. “I have had ten years,” she answered. “Ten years in which to find the—what do you call it? The knight in shining armor?”

“Something like that,” he agreed.

She flashed a bitter smile. “My grandfather decided this when I was very young. But I found the letters of the solicitor but recently—following my mother's death.”

Rothewell looked at her, stunned. “Christ Jesus,” he whispered. “She did not tell you?”

Mademoiselle Marchand shook her head. She would not hold his gaze. “I was a fool,” she said softly. “A fool to think Valigny could help me. No decent family will receive him. He has wasted my precious time.”

“Very well.” Rothewell swallowed. “You have six weeks. And then what happens?”

She lifted her chin a fraction. “My twenty-eighth—how do you say it?—the anniversary of one's birth?”

“Your birthday?” said Rothewell, incredulous. “You must be
married
by your twenty-eighth birthday?”

“To obtain so much as the first sou,
oui,
I must first marry by twenty-eight, and bear a child of my husband within two years.”

“And your father knows this?” Rothewell felt vaguely appalled. “He knows it, and he used you? To stake a card game?”

“Valigny, I fear, is without scruple,” she said emotionlessly. Her eyes were still upon him, dark and knowing. “But be assured, my lord, that I
am
going to marry. Otherwise, there is nothing for me. Nothing but Valigny's generosity, which has never proven very reliable.”

“I see,” he murmured.

“So what is it to be, Rothewell?” she quietly continued. “Am I to marry you? Or must I take the licentious Lord Enders to my bed?”

Good Lord, she really meant to marry one of them? And the choice was to be his?

He looked again into her bottomless brown eyes. She was serious. Deadly serious.

Rothewell felt as if someone had just crushed the air from his lungs.

But Mademoiselle Marchand—Camille—was still looking at him, her expression oddly serene, her hands once more carefully folded. She was waiting. Waiting for his answer. He drew a deep breath, then let his gaze run over her once again. She was so beautiful she could almost have made the dead rise—
almost
—and there was no denying that despite all the emotion of this awful night, yes, he still desired her. The kiss had served only to fan the flame which had sprung to life the moment he'd laid eyes on her.

Well, he had begun this travesty, hadn't he? He might as well finish it. God knew it would make little difference to him.

“Have you a maid?” he asked abruptly.

“Oui, bien sûr,”
she said. “Why?”

Rothewell caught her almost roughly by the elbow. “Because we are going to find her,” he said grimly. “And then we are going to your bedchamber to pack your things.”

“In the middle of the night?” Her voice arched. “Why?”

“Yes. In the middle of the night.” He had opened the door and propelled her through it. “Because I'll be damned if you will ever spend another under Valigny's roof.”

Within the hour they were out of the house and Rothewell was helping Mademoiselle Marchand into his carriage. Her hand was warm and light in his own. He looked down to see her fingers, slender and neatly manicured. It was a capable-looking hand.

Since leaving her sitting room, he had moved as if in a dream, instructing Mademoiselle Marchand, barking orders at the servants, and holding Valigny deliberately at bay. And all the while, it felt as though he watched another man indelibly altering his life.