Promise Me Tomorrow (11 page)

Bucky introduced her to his cousin Nicola, who stood at the head of the receiving line, along with her mother, a middle-aged woman of faded beauty and a die-away voice. Nicola was a beauty of the most English type: pale blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes and a rose-and-white complexion. There was a fragile look to her that was belied by her firm handshake. She smiled at Marianne, her eyes curious. Marianne suspected that she was assessing her.

“I am very pleased to meet you,” Nicola said in a friendly manner. “Bucky has told me so much about you that I feel almost as if I know you already.”

Marianne smiled, guilt piercing her once more at the woman’s open, friendly manner. “Thank you. I am equally delighted to meet you.”

There were others behind them, so they could not linger to talk. Lord Buckminster led her farther into the room. Buckminster found, to his bemusement, that practically every young gentleman of his acquaintance came up to talk to him, angling for an introduction to his lovely companion.

“Confounded fellows,” he grumbled, making an abrupt right to avoid another young man headed toward them. “They’re like gnats. A fellow can’t have a decent word alone with you.”

“Well, I can’t speak very many words alone with you, anyway,” Marianne pointed out, “or it would be quite unacceptable.”

“Yes, I know. Don’t see why they have to spoil my time with you, though. Oh, there’s Penelope. Shall we go see her? Looks like her mother’s in full voice.”

She was indeed. Lady Ursula was holding forth at some length and great volume about some perceived mistake of Parliament to a square-set man whose dark eyes had taken on a rather glazed look.

“Hallo, Pen,” Buckminster said in a friendly manner to her daughter, who had turned away as far as politely possible from her mother’s conversation.

Penelope smiled, her face lighting up. “Bucky! And Mrs. Cotterwood. How nice to see you again.”

“Thank you. But please, call me Marianne.”

“So I shall. And you must call me Penelope.”

Lady Ursula broke off her tirade to turn to see who had joined her daughter. She was less than pleased to see Lord Buckminster and the redheaded woman with him, but she was obliged to make introductions. The man turned out to be a Mr. Alan Thurston, who was standing for Parliament, and the pale woman beside him was his wife, Elizabeth. Thurston looked relieved to have someone divert Lady Ursula’s attention. The talk soon turned to Lord Buckminster’s house party, to which Mr. and Mrs. Thurston had been invited, as had Penelope’s family.

Penelope looked distressed at the very mention of the party, and it did not take long to learn why, as Lady Ursula boomed, “Sorry, Lord Buckminster, but I am afraid that I cannot get away on such quick notice. I had promised to go to my son’s during his wife’s confinement, and I received word yesterday that I was needed. I will be leaving first thing Monday morning.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Buckminster replied, looking anything but regretful. “But don’t worry about Penelope. We shall take good care of her.”

Lady Ursula looked shocked. “But Penelope cannot go alone! Unchaperoned!”

At that moment, Nicola Falcourt came strolling up, her hand on the arm of Lord Lambeth. Marianne looked toward him, and their eyes met and held for a long moment. His eyes, she noticed, were as cool and blank as a sheet of gold. It took an effort to tear her eyes away.

“What?” Nicola cried, turning to Lady Ursula. “You are not allowing Penelope to go to Bucky’s party? But that will quite spoil it.”

“I find such hyperbole unnecessary, Nicola,” Lady Ursula said in a disapproving tone. “Her absence will scarcely ‘spoil’ the party, as you say. I am sure that Penelope will be disappointed, but—”

“But why can she not come?” Nicola protested, cutting across the woman’s words. Lady Ursula pressed her lips together at this bit of impertinence, but repeated to the newcomers what she had just said to the rest of the group.

“But I will be there,” Nicola pointed out. “We can share a room, and I will look out for her. I promise.”

“The presence of another unmarried girl Penelope’s age is scarcely what I would call proper chaperonage,” Lady Ursula told her. “Really, Nicola, you know better than that. I wonder your mother is allowing you to go by yourself.”

“But my aunt, Bucky’s mother, will be there,” Nicola pointed out. “Surely she counts as an adequate chaperone.”

“Lady Buckminster?” Lady Ursula sniffed at the idea. “Far be it from me to criticize your mother, Lord Buckminster, but everyone knows that Adelaide is far more interested in her horses than in her guests. Besides, a hostess cannot adequately watch a young girl. She needs someone who can be with her all the time.”

“But Penelope doesn’t need constant watching over,” Nicola protested, drawing herself up and facing the older woman pugnaciously. “I have never met anyone who behaved better than Penny.”

“Of course Penelope would behave herself,” Lady Ursula said, as though the thought of her doing anything else was ridiculous. “But it is the appearance that counts. An unmarried girl simply cannot be hanging about at a house party without a chaperone.”

“I say, Lady Ursula,” Bucky protested. “That’s hardly fair.” He cast a troubled glance at Penelope’s sad countenance. “It won’t be the same without Penelope.”

Penelope cast him a pathetically grateful look, strengthening Marianne’s suspicion that the girl had a
tendre
for him. Marianne wasn’t sure what prompted her to do it. Perhaps it was Penelope’s woeful face. But suddenly she found herself saying, “My lady, I would be more than happy to act as a chaperone for Miss Castlereigh.”

Buckminster beamed. “There you have it. Mrs. Cotterwood can be Penny’s chaperone.”

“Yes!” Penelope cried out, her face brightening. “That would be wonderful. Oh, thank you, Mrs. Cotterwood. That is very sweet of you.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Lord Lambeth drawled, looking enigmatically at Marianne.

Marianne lifted her brows and gazed back at him coldly.
No doubt the man thought she was trying to advance some underhanded scheme by offering to help Penelope. Well, let him think what he would.

Lady Ursula swept Marianne with a look that clearly said she did not measure up to her standards as a chaperone. “But you are just a girl yourself.”

“Thank you for saying so, my lady, but that is hardly the case. I am a widow and a mother.”

“There, Mother, you see? That settles it, doesn’t it?” Penelope asked eagerly, and even the redoubtable Lady Ursula’s face softened as she saw the pleasure in her daughter’s eyes.

“We don’t really know Mrs. Cotterwood, though it is certainly a gracious offer.”

“But we settled that the other day,” Buckminster reminded her cheerfully. “Remember? Lambeth said he was acquainted with her family. I have met them, too. Very pleasant people.”

Lady Ursula ignored Buckminster’s endorsement, but her eyes went questioningly to Lord Lambeth.

“Oh, yes,” he told her blandly. “I know Mrs. Cotterwood’s family. You needn’t worry about Penelope.”

“Well…I suppose it is all right then, Penelope. You may go.”

Penelope let out a squeal of delight, her face almost pretty in her happiness. “Thank you, Mother. Oh, thank you.”

“There, now, girl, remember where you are,” Lady Ursula said dampeningly.

The orchestra at the other end of the room started up, and Lord Lambeth turned to Marianne, sketching a bow. “Ah, the first waltz of the evening. I believe that you promised this to me, Mrs. Cotterwood.”

Marianne would have liked to refuse him in no uncertain terms, but she hardly could, given the fact that only moments before he had approved her and her family to the rest of them. She smiled stiffly. “Yes, I believe I did.”

She put her hand lightly on his crooked arm and let him lead her out onto the floor. He swept her expertly into the dance, his hold light and impersonal.

“I am surprised, my lord,” Marianne began, “that you should wish to keep your waltz with me—and even more surprised that you recommended my family to Lady Castlereigh, given your opinion of me and my relatives.”

“I did not recommend them precisely. I said that they were known to me, which is true. My suspicions about them I prefer to keep to myself. I encouraged Lady Ursula to rely on you as a chaperone entirely for Penelope’s sake. That poor mouse of a girl would benefit greatly by escaping her mother for a while. And since I know that Penelope is a woman of excellent character, I know that she really has no need for a chaperone. She would not think of doing anything foolish or wrong. Therefore I had no qualms about endorsing you.”

“Oh, I see. What you are saying is that Penelope is so wonderful a person that anyone, even a hussy off the street, would do for a chaperone.” Marianne could not quite keep the tremor of anger from her voice.

Lambeth merely glanced at her and did not reply.

He knew that he had handled it all wrong earlier this evening. He had not meant to say anything about Bucky. His plan had been to charm Marianne into a liaison with him. He had wanted her from the moment he saw her, and an affair with her would both satisfy his desire and keep her from swindling Bucky. Bucky’s heart would be bruised for a time, but he would get over it much more quickly than if the woman drew him deeper and deeper into love with her and then betrayed him.

It never entered his head that Marianne might not be wooed into an affair. The kiss they had shared had made it clear that she was a woman of passion—even if she had been so infuriated that she had slapped him. She had a child, so she was experienced. And it seemed unlikely that she would have any moral qualms. After all, she was an adventuress, not a lily-white damsel. Meeting her family had only reinforced his suspicions about her actions at the Batterslee house. They were an entertaining lot, but clearly a set of rascals. He supposed it was possible that she really was a widow, but he suspected that it was only a pose to explain the absence of a husband. Such a woman, he thought, would be quite willing to enter into a mutually satisfying relationship. It was, after all, not as dangerous as stealing or swindling.

But, somehow, when he had arrived at her house this evening and seen her wearing Bucky’s corsage instead of his, he had felt such a fierce surge of anger that he had lost sight of his objectives and blurted out the first thing that came into his head. He had quickly realized, of course, that he had done the wrong thing. He had only made her angry and determined to spite him. But by then, he was well into it, and so furious at her that he could not stop.

He was under control now, of course, and he was determined to rectify the matter. “I must apologize for my remarks earlier,” he said, irritated at how stiff his words sounded. “I did not act as a gentleman should.”

Marianne lifted an elegantly curved eyebrow. “Indeed, you did not.”

This was not going as he had planned, either, he realized. With an oath, he whirled her off the dance floor and guided her toward the bank of long windows, opened onto the night air. The windows, tall and reaching almost to the floor, were easy enough to step through, and then they were out on the back terrace of the house, which overlooked the small garden.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Marianne snapped. “This is highly improper behavior.”

“No one saw us,” he said shortly, walking across the terrace and down the steps into the darkness of the garden. “I want to talk to you in private.”

“What if I don’t want to talk to you? You are an insufferably arrogant man, Lord Lambeth.”

“No doubt. I still intend to have a private conversation with you.”

“If you are planning to resume your earlier arguments, I can tell you that—”

“No,” he said impatiently, turning down a narrow graveled path that ended at a small fountain. He turned toward her. “I regret what I said earlier. I’ve already told you that. I was concerned for my friend, and it led me to speak hastily. But it was not what I wanted to say.”

Marianne looked at him curiously. His face was immobile, even stern, in the pale wash of the moonlight. With his eyes shadowed, she could not even make out the expression in them. There was an odd feeling in her chest, something shivery and hopeful.
He said he regretted what he said. Perhaps it wasn’t what he really felt, only a cruelty that he had spoken out of anger.

“What I meant to say was—well, I have a proposition for you. I am offering you my protection.”

“Your protection?” she repeated faintly, not sure she had heard aright. “You mean, you want…?”

“Yes. I am asking you to be my mistress.”

M
ARIANNE’S FACE DRAINED OF COLOR
.
“I—I beg your pardon?”

“It is far better for you.” Lambeth realized immediately that he had spoken too bluntly and clumsily, and now he rushed to explain. “I would set you up in a house, of course and give you an ample allowance. You would want for nothing, and there would be none of the dangers inherent in your present occupation. You would not have to pretend love with me as you would with Bucky, so it would be far easier. And we would, I think, enjoy each other.” His face softened slightly on those last words, and his voice turned husky. His hand touched her arm softly.

Marianne jerked back. She felt as if he had hit her in the stomach.
To him she was nothing but a whore!
She had thought his words in the carriage had been painful, but they had not cut her as this did.
To think she had foolishly almost believed him when he apologized!

“Don’t touch me!” she cried out in a low voice, shaking with rage. “How can you think that I would let you near me? It would not be hard to love Bucky, but it would make me
ill
to endure your caresses!”

Justin’s face hardened. Marianne rushed on.

“What makes you think I would settle for being any man’s mistress—yours
or
Lord Buckminster’s? He thinks I am a woman of gentle birth, and as smitten as he is with me, I see no reason why I cannot look forward to being Lady Buckminster.”

Justin’s eyes flamed, and his face flushed with fury. He took a quick step forward. Marianne backed up hastily, thinking that he meant to hit her. She bent, lifting her skirt up to her knee, and whipped out the small knife she kept in a scabbard on her calf. She faced him defiantly, her knife at the ready.

Lambeth’s eyes widened, and he looked from the knife to her face. A sneer touched his well-cut lips. “I am not the sort of man you are accustomed to, my dear.”

His hand lashed out and clamped around her wrist, cutting off her circulation. Marianne tried to pull away, infuriated by how easily he had thwarted her, but he held her fast and reached up with his other hand to pull the knife out of her grasp.

“Let go of me!” she panted, twisting and tugging. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hot with fury. His gaze fell to her breasts, swaying with her movements, the nipples brazen points beneath the material. He stood for a moment, gazing at her, his eyes glittering, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Then he jerked her forward so that she slammed into his chest, their bodies flush all the way up and down. Marianne’s eyes widened, and her breath rushed out as she felt the imprint of his desire against her, hot and imperative. She gazed up into his fiery eyes, her lips parted slightly. She could not remember what she had been about to say. Her flesh tingled at every point where their bodies touched, and the sensations spread out so that every part of her was suddenly alive.

Justin’s face loomed closer. Then his lips found hers. His mouth was greedy, consuming her. A shudder ran through Marianne, and she sagged against him, her arms going around his waist. A groan escaped him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her up into his body. The small knife fell unheeded to the ground.

Marianne clung to him, trembling. She had never felt like this before, so wild and out of control. Even when she had thought herself in love with Daniel Quartermaine, his kiss had not excited her as this man’s did. Justin kissed her again and again, as if he could not get enough of the sweet taste of her mouth. His tongue twined around hers, exploring, teasing, demanding. His hands roamed up and down her back, pressing her into him, curving over her buttocks. His fingers dug into the fleshy mounds, pushing her pelvis up hard against his, so that the hard ridge of his desire pressed into her. It was not enough for Marianne, however, and she twisted closer, her loins blossoming with hot desire.

He mumbled something she could not understand, his lips leaving hers to trail down the soft column of her throat. One hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb caressing the nipple through the cloth of her dress. Her breasts were full and aching, alive to his merest touch, and her nipples hardened eagerly. His arms went around her, hard as iron, lifting her up, and his mouth roamed downward, nudging aside the cloth of her dress to press into the soft curve of her breast. Marianne let out a sound almost like a sob, digging her fingers into his hair.

Justin jerked away from her with a heartfelt oath. “We can’t—not here,” he panted. His eyes were bright and feral, his face flushed, and his chest rose and fell in quick bursts. “We—I—my house is nearby.”

It had been all Marianne could do not to cry out at the loss of his clever hands and mouth. Now she stood staring at him, trying to make sense of his words. It took a moment before their meaning sank in: he was suggesting that they retire to his house, where this moment of passion could reach its natural conclusion. It was what all her senses wanted to do, but her mind was at last working again, taking in the full import of what had just happened. He had offered her a position as his mistress as coldly and calculatedly as if she had been a merchant discussing wares with him, and when she had turned him down, he had ignored her wishes and kissed her, assuming like all the aristocracy, that he could have whatever he wanted. It was both humiliating and infuriating that she had given in so easily, responding like the trollop he took her to be. Anger washed through her, as much at herself as at him, and it stiffened her spine. Steadfastly ignoring the sensations that still raged through her body, Marianne faced him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No!” Her voice was filled with disgust, though she was not sure whether she was more disgusted with him or with herself. “I am no man’s property. You cannot purchase me.”

Justin let out a string of lurid oaths. “Bloody hell, woman, I do not want to buy you, I want to make love to you.”

Everything in him cried out to have this woman. His fingers itched to grab her and drag her back against him and kiss her into submission.
How in the hell had he let this happen?
He had, once again, bungled what he had set out to do, exhibiting a clumsiness and gaucheness that were foreign to him. She had the most unsettling effect on him.

“Love?” Marianne asked scornfully. “I doubt you know the meaning of the word. This is only your base attempt to ‘save’ Lord Buckminster—or to best him. I’m not sure exactly what your aim is.”

“My aim is to keep him out of the clutches of a heartless tease such as you,” he retorted, desire, frustration and anger blending in a roiling maelstrom inside him.

“A tease? You force your kisses on me, and then you have the audacity to call me a ‘tease’?”

“There was no force involved.” Justin’s lip curled. “You were as hot for me as I was for you.”

Tears welled in Marianne’s eyes, and she had to swallow hard to keep from bursting into sobs. The contempt in his voice matched her own contempt for herself. She whirled and hurried away.

Justin took a step after her, his hand going out. He thought he had seen a flash of tears in her eyes as she turned away, and guilt pierced him. He stopped as he heard Bucky’s voice calling Marianne from the terrace. His hand curled in on itself, and he turned and walked away.

“I—I’m here, my lord,” Marianne called back, forcing her voice to sound calm, even cheerful, as she hastily smoothed her hair and clothes into place. She hoped her lips did not look as tender and well-kissed as they felt.

Bucky trotted down the steps to the garden to meet her, his brow creased in concern. “You should not be out here all alone, Mrs. Cotterwood.”

“Oh, I do not think there is any danger.” Marianne smiled. “I—I was feeling a trifle ill. It was so close inside. So I came out for a breath of air, hoping it would make me feel better. Would you—do you possibly think you could take me home, Lord Buckminster?”

His lordship was more than happy to do so, though he expressed a great deal of concern over Marianne’s health. It was not until they were in his carriage and headed toward her home that it occurred to her that she had not made even the smallest attempt to discover the layout of the house in which the party had been held or what treasures it might contain. She closed her eyes, letting Buckminster’s inconsequential chatter flow unnoticed.

It was all Lord Lambeth’s fault, of course. He had her in such a state that she could not even think straight, let alone look for safes and entry routes and easily portable, expensive items. She burned with anger and a tremendous desire for revenge on Lord Lambeth. Somehow he had slipped under her guard and aroused feelings and sensations in her that she had thought were long dead. She was a fool, she told herself, for letting herself be lured into passion by another nobleman. All they cared about was themselves and their own desires, and the people of the lower classes might as well be animals for all they thought about them. Lambeth was just like the others: he desired her, but he felt contempt for her. He thought she could be paid for like an object in a shop, and no doubt just as easily used and discarded.

Hatred seared through her. She wanted to hurt Lambeth…to humiliate him as he had humiliated her tonight. It would be wonderful beyond all things, she thought, if she could make him fall in love with her. She imagined his face as he poured out his heart to her, telling her that he could not live without her. And then, of course, in this delightful vision, she would scorn him, crush his heart beneath her heel. That would satisfy her burning resentment.

Unfortunately, she admitted to herself in the next instant, sending the dream crashing to the ground, such a thing would never happen. Lambeth was incapable of falling in love with anyone; he had no heart.

She could hurt him through Bucky, of course. Marianne glanced at Bucky’s amiable face. Lambeth would be furious if she actually did as she had threatened and encouraged Bucky to love her. However, she knew that she could not do that. Buckminster, even if he was a lord, was too nice a man for her to purposely set out to hurt him. It was one thing to taunt Lambeth with the idea and make him worry and stew over it, but she hadn’t the heart to actually do it. Besides, it was obvious to her that Penelope was in love with Lord Buckminster, and it would break her heart to see him in love with another woman. She could not do that to Penelope, either.

The only other idea she could come up with was to steal something precious to Lambeth. Perhaps at the party she could learn what he really valued, and then she could arrange for Harrison and Piers to take it from him. The problem there would be that she would be the first person he would suspect, and she doubted that he would have any compunction about sending the constabulary after her and her friends. The only reason he hadn’t done so already was because he was hopeful of getting her into his bed.

Her house was ablaze with lights when they approached. Marianne knew with a sinking heart that everyone would be awaiting news of the house she was supposed to have checked out this evening.
How was she to explain to them that she had not done it?

It was something of a relief when she walked into the house after bidding Lord Buckminster a quick, platonic goodbye, to find that the house was in a commotion and no one even asked what had happened at her party.

No one was at the door to greet her, and when she tracked them down by the noise of their excited babble, she found them in the kitchen, all gathered around a young woman who sat at the table, a snifter of brandy on the table before her. She was a pretty girl, with fair skin and red-gold hair, dressed in a severe gray dress ornamented by a white apron that looked like the uniform of a maid. She had obviously been crying, for there were tear tracks staining her cheeks, and her eyes were red, her lashes stuck together starrily. Piers was standing beside her looking fierce, and everyone was talking at once, listening to no one else.

“What is going on?” No one turned toward her, and Marianne had to repeat her words in a louder voice.

Della swiveled around and saw her. “Marianne! It’s just dreadful!”

“What is? What happened? Who is this?”

The girl looked up at her, her face a trifle awed by the picture of a grand lady that Marianne presented in her ball gown. “Oh, Miss. I’m sorry.”

She started to rise, but Marianne motioned the girl back down. “What’s the matter?”

“This is Iris,” Winny explained. “She lives down the street. She’s a ladies’ maid at the Cunninghams’. Someone attacked her on the street!”

“What? Here?” Marianne was astounded. Theirs was a very respectable, quiet neighborhood, not the sort of place where people were attacked on the street.

“You mean someone tried to—”

“He tried to strangle me, Miss,” the girl exclaimed. “Right outside.”

“Outside of our house?”

The girl nodded emphatically. “Right in front of the house next door. I had just left here, and he jumped out of the bushes right at me and put his hands around me throat. I was that scared, I’ll tell you!”

“I should imagine so. What happened?”

Iris turned toward Piers, her eyes shining. “Piers saved me.”

“I should have walked you home,” Piers said, guilt written plain on his face.

Iris took his hand and held it to her cheek. “No. It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t want you to walk me home—the master and missus wouldn’t like it.”