The Rake's Arranged Marriage (6 page)

"You sound as though you couldn't possibly care any less about all of this, Lord Eliot."

He turned and looked at her, surprised.

"Oh?"

She nodded. "You sound quite bored, in fact."

"My apologies. Perhaps I'm spoiled."

"Perhaps you are," she snapped.

"Or perhaps none of the riches that I'm surrounded with can compensate for the poverty of heart that I have felt while roaming these halls."

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"Have you always been so given to the dramatic?" she asked. She knew it was a cruel question – and an unfair one, especially considering the honesty of the statement that had preceded it. But there was an inexplicable drive in her to test Lord Quentin Eliot. To see where his sore spots were. And, she had just found one.

"No," he retorted hotly. "There was a time when I was quite guileless. Defenseless. Made soft and simple by love. When my heart was broken because death stole that love from me, I was destroyed. Now I know how to arm myself!"

Cara could see the temper flaring behind Eliot's eyes. It was a fire fueled by pain. A fire she recognized perfectly because she herself had often felt the hot kiss of those flames.

The air between them was fairly crackling. But the moment was broken when a man Cara did not recognize strolled into the gallery with a pretty woman of about 30 on his arm. Lord Eliot's attention immediately shifted to the pair and his entire attitude changed to one of pleasantness.

"Duke! Lady Margaret!" he called, raising his arm in greeting. The man, Duke Frances Crowley, Cara immediately guessed, saluted Eliot from afar. But the pair did not approach them.

"Damn," Eliot muttered under his breath. "I'd forgotten I invited them for the weekend. They're miffed that I didn't greet them when they arrived, no doubt."

Cara's attention was still transfixed by the pair. She knew Duke Crowley very well by reputation. He was a respected figure in London, although his affair with the lady Margaret Chisholme had been much talked of. And here they were – the most famous illicit lovebirds of the time, strolling through Quentin Eliot's house. As she continued to watch, Duke Crowley bent his head to listen to something that Lady Margaret whispered. Then, both of them broke out laughing.

"They're laughing at
us
," Eliot remarked. The comment surprised Cara.

"Why?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"Because it's rumored that I'm about to enter a loveless marriage with a hard-headed, firebrand widow."

Cara felt like she'd been slapped in the face. She'd had no idea that talk of her union with Lord Eliot had already spread to the city. But of course, it had. Her gaze drifted out to Duke Crowley and Lady Margaret once more. She regarded them with a look of disdain, trying to comprehend how two people she had never met could already have formed so cruel an opinion of her.

"Look at you," Eliot growled suddenly by her side. Her head snapped back to him. His sudden change of tone was shocking. "You're only adding fuel to the fire, you know. Giving them dirty looks and standing apart from me."

Cara could formulate no words. Her eyes only grew wide with surprise and anger.

"You can at least
pretend
to like me," he continued. "That would silence their wagging tongues. And, give them a real story to take back to the city!"

His eyes were fairly burning now, and there was a dare in them that. A challenge. She could feel her blood rise to her cheeks.

"What would you have me do?" she hissed.

"For a start, I'd have you stand closer to me."

With that, he reached out and grabbed her by the waist. He pulled her to him easily, and her hands went up reflexively to brace herself against his chest. It was rock hard. She felt her breath catch in her throat at the sudden proximity. But he did not remove his hands from her waist. He dug his fingers into her flesh urgently. The sensation was delicious. Something low in Cara's belly jumped and strained. Her eyes were locked on the two blue pools of Eliot's irises, and she could see a mad desire in them that inflamed every one of her senses.

"Kiss me," he urged huskily. "Kiss me and confound them."

In a split second, she knew that he was giving her a choice. He would not force himself on her. He was flawed in many ways, but he was not that kind of man – not like Lord Boyle had been. Her heart swelled suddenly at the realization. She stood on tiptoe and threw her arms about his neck.

Eliot lifted her off the ground with ease. When their lips met, Cara closed her eyes and allowed the strange, shocking pleasure of the kiss to overtake her. His mouth was warm and his tongue found hers quickly. The sweet, wet contact sent little rivulets of pleasure running all through her body, and she let her back arch in his arms as the moment went on and on. She wound her fingers through his hair, inhaling him deeply even as their mouths were locked together. And, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wanted Lord Quentin Eliot more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

They both came up for air simultaneously, and then he was lowering her slowly to her feet. When her heels touched down on the marble floor, the sound echoed throughout the gallery.

Lord Eliot took her by the hand and let her swiftly towards the far door, away from the gaping Duke and his dumbstruck mistress. Cara's feet flew over the marble, barely touching it at all. With a wild gasp of laughter, she realized suddenly that all the pain in her knee had disappeared.

Chapter Five

Once outside the gallery and in the long corridor that stretched into the East wing of Hedgeton, Cara thought Lord Eliot would stop. But he didn't. He was laughing now, too, pulling her along as they ran and ran. She felt strange – her body was still reeling from the shocking sensations of his tongue caressing hers, of the heat of his body as he lifted her so easily off the floor and bade her kiss him. Her mind was abuzz with a thousand thoughts that flitted by like bees hurrying back to a hive. She couldn't seem to grasp onto any of them. They were too small, too fragmented, and too fast. Her heart was racing.

"Why...are we...still running?" she asked breathlessly.

"Because we can, Lady Boyle!" he chuckled. But then he skidded to a sudden halt and she nearly lost her balance as she tried to stop her own momentum.

"Whoa there!" he said, turning to face her. He braced her firmly as she stumbled slightly into him. Once again, his hands were on her waist and that mad thrill worked its way through Cara's body once more. She could feel a hot blush flare to life in her cheeks, and she was suddenly keenly aware of the heaving of her chest as she fought to catch her breath. Lord Eliot's face was all seriousness now. In a single quick motion, he performed a quarter turn and backed her up against the wall of the corridor. The thrill settled in the secret place between her legs and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from emitting the sharp, excited cry that threatened. His face was very close to hers now and she was sure that he would kiss her again in the next second. But he didn't. He only looked at her with those piercing blue eyes of his that had been so merry just moments before. There was a hunger in them now – an urgency.

"You're a wild little creature, aren't you?" he asked.

Cara said nothing – only swallowed hard, waiting for Eliot to elaborate. But he didn't. He inclined his head and brought his nose very near the column of her neck and inhaled. It was a strange gesture, thoroughly intimate. She knew he was sampling her, in a way. He was taking in the smell of the light sweat that had broken in her hairline during their run through the halls...the scent of her skin and probably the soap she had used this morning during her toilette. She held her breath, wanting badly to feel his lips on her once more. She yearned to feel his body pressed up against hers, to feel that sweet, full-to-bursting sensation she'd experienced in the gallery just moments before...

"I must admit," Lord Eliot murmured, "it's very hard for me to believe that Lord Boyle didn't pluck you on the one night you spent together."

The statement landed on her ears with a vulgar thud. Her eyebrows contracted sharply into an upside down V of distaste.

"What?" she said disbelievingly.

"I said, I can't believe that Lord Boyle didn't rush you from the altar straight into the bedroom, as fast as he could." He was smiling rakishly. Devilishly.

Without thinking, she put both hands on his chest and tried to push him away. Suddenly, she was feeling very claustrophobic indeed.

"Do not speak of the night of my marriage to Lord Boyle again," she bit out. The excitement in her breast had turned to a tight knot of pain. What had happened? She'd been so...
happy
. For the first time in ages, she’d been happy. And then, there was the sudden wolfish shift in Lord Eliot and worse, the reminder of her miserable, brief marriage to Lord Boyle. It had stolen all the delight from the day and cast a gray pall over everything.

"Come, now, I didn't mean to upset you," Lord Eliot said, stepping back a pace or two. If Cara had been able to meet his eyes, she would have seen that all the licentiousness had disappeared from them and that a truly solicitous look had replaced it. "It was only in jest."

"Some things do not bear jesting, Lord Eliot." She fought to keep the emotion at bay. She was astounded – and ashamed – to feel tears pricking at her eyes. Since meeting Quentin Eliot, she'd been prone to an awful lot of weeping. It was a fact she couldn't help but notice now.

Until this moment, she had almost completely successfully buried the memories of that terrible night. Whenever she spoke of her late husband – as she had on that first day at Hedgeton, at the party – it was always with the sour bite of irony. It was a type of irony that allowed her distance from the truth of what had happened. It was a truth that she hadn't even admitted to her papa.

But something about this moment, this day... She'd let her guard down to Eliot. She'd allowed herself to experience pleasure in his company and at his touch. She'd made herself vulnerable to him, and he'd taken the unexpected sweetness of all of that and turned it sour in an instant by bringing up Lord Boyle with his crass comment.

Cara put the steel back in her spine – not without trouble, though. Her cheeks were still flushed and her hair had come partially undone. She patted it down and brushed off her frock, trying to get hold of herself. She was striving for some detachment, for some hardness.

Lord Eliot watched all of this with great interest and no small amount of disappointment and wonder. She was still unable to meet his eyes for a long moment, during which she stood silently with her back to the wall, her hands folded before her. Finally, she looked up at him. The thoughtful look on his face mollified her somewhat. It was clear that her reaction had indeed startled him.

"I think I'm tired," she murmured. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it was a deflection. She felt strongly that she needed to get back to her room, to be alone and to consider everything silently and in her own time.

"Very well," Eliot said. His face had become blank mask. He tugged his vest down and turned on his heel. She suddenly felt very foolish, as though she'd ruined something beautiful that was just beginning, squashed a new rosebud between her fingers. But then she reminded herself that what Eliot said
had
been quite rude. She hadn't misheard him. Of course, his sense of humor was just that way. In fact, what he'd said had probably intended as a compliment. Still, the words had touched something painful in her that she couldn't ignore.

When they reached East wing, Eliot turned and bowed stiffly.

"I trust you have your bearings now. Just down that hall and to the right is your room."

"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

She was on the point of calling him back when he turned to go. Part of her wanted to offer him an explanation. But that would entail reliving the past in some way, and she just wasn't ready to do that. Not yet.

With a heavy sigh, she turned and began to make her way back to her chambers. There was a dull ache in her knee once again, and she felt tired – and confused.

***

Cara took dinner in her room, sitting on her bed with a cold cloth draped over her knee. She didn't think she'd re-injured anything. But the exertions of the day had exacerbated the swelling again. Mrs. Cooper fussed over her a good deal, but Cara couldn't enjoy the old housekeeper's banter as she usually did.

"My, you're quiet tonight!" Mrs. Cooper finally exclaimed. She took the dinner tray from Cara's lap and set it aside. "Overwhelmed by the tour, were you?"

"Yes," Cara admitted. In fact, that was a pretty succinct description of how she felt, even if it lacked specificity.

"Did you see the gallery?"

"I did."

"Well?" Mrs. Cooper asked expectantly. The housekeeper's cheeks were as shiny and red as two fresh apples, and a grin was stretching her pleasant features.

"It was most...impressive," was all Cara could manage.

It was obviously not the response Mrs. Cooper had been expecting.

"
'Impressive?’
Why, it's downright
regal!
All those portraits – the artistry! Awe-inspiring! And to think...someday
your
portrait will be sitting up there, too! Perhaps Lord Eliot will commission a double portrait, even. 'Twould make a good first anniversary gift, don't you think? Although perhaps he'll wait until you bring some little ones along, and then have a painting made of the whole pretty family!"

The suggestion of children caused images and feelings to pop into Cara's mind like bubbles rising to the surface of the pond. She could still feel Lord Eliot's fingers digging into the flesh of her waist as he lifted her for the kiss and the warm wetness of his lips against hers...his tongue dancing in her mouth. And children...
oh God
. There was a pulling in her chest at the very word, a deep yearning unlike anything she'd ever experienced.
To have Lord Quentin Eliot's children...