The Spinster and the Rake (8 page)

Chapter Eight

GILLIAN HAD NEVER before in her life stepped inside the wicked portals of a gaming hell, and she was busy experiencing a great deal of disappointment combined with a feeling of ill-usage. There was essentially no difference between the elegant, understated decor of the upper drawing room of 39 St. James’s Street, where Marlowe’s had its existence, and her sister Pamela’s withdrawing room in Winchester. The same silk drapes, although Marlowe favored a dusky rose color, the same elegant, damask-covered furniture, the same genteel company and low murmur of voices. The only difference between Marlowe’s upper room and the sort of card party one might find in the best homes in the city was the existence of the infamous e.o. table. And the fact that almost every guest there that night was male.

Gillian turned to her nephew, who fidgeted with his suddenly constricting collar and disrupted the folds of his Orientale cravat. “But where are the fallen women?” she inquired in what Bertie considered to be a damnably carrying voice.

“Please, Gilly!” he hushed her, his face turning beet red as he tried to avoid the curious gazes of his fellow gamesters. “The company here is very select. Guests are here by invitation only—not just your usual hugger-mugger are allowed in.”

A look of consternation passed over her face. The champagne was beginning to fade a trifle, and old habits were struggling for possession. “Should we be here, then?” she inquired with a trace of anxiety.

“Of course,” he reassured her, wishing heartily that he had thought of this excuse earlier. “
I
have the
entrée
, and am welcome to bring any guests I choose.”

“I should have known. Bertie, have you gotten yourself into trouble here?” she questioned, her maternal instinct coming to the fore.

“Nothing I cannot get out of,” he said stubbornly. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so. I know what I’m—”

“Miss Redfern.” Marlowe’s smooth voice interrupted them, and Bertie turned a brighter red. “We are honored that you’ve condescended to visit our humble club.” His tone was lazily insinuating, and Gillian turned to look up at him, the last bit of euphoria fleeing in sudden self-consciousness.

The jet-black evening clothes made him appear even taller in the candlelight, and the smile on his shadowed, handsome face was curiously disturbing. For the fifth time in the last three minutes, Gillian regretted her rash decision.

“Good evening, Lord Marlowe.” None of this indecision and regret was in her cool, low voice. “I trust you don’t mind that my nephew brought me along tonight. I wished to see what occupied such a great deal of his time.” It was a shot in the dark, and Gillian could see by the deepening of Bertie’s ruddy cheeks that it had hit the mark.

“Mr. Talmadge doesn’t spend all his time here, Miss Redfern,” Marlowe protested lightly. “I gather White’s and Watier’s share his patronage equally.”

Worse and worse, thought Gillian, uncomfortably aware of the covert glances cast in her direction by the seemingly absorbed gamblers around her. There was Derwent’s close friend Pinkthorp staring at her unabashedly before he bent to whisper something to the red-faced gentleman opposite him. They both laughed, and Gillian squirmed uneasily. There must be some way to extricate herself and her card-besotted nephew with both grace and dispatch, but her still somewhat fuzzy brain couldn’t comprehend what it might be.

“Do you go along and join Peacock,” Marlowe directed the hapless Bertie with a casual dismissal. “I will see to Miss Redfern’s entertainment.”

Bertie looked suitably torn. “But I promised my aunt . . .” he began weakly.

“Your aunt will be safe with me, Talmadge,” said Marlowe, and there was nothing Bertie could do but bow himself away, his youthful face a study of misery and frustration.

“Poor Bertie,” Gillian sighed.

“Poor Gillian,” Marlowe corrected. “You’re far too young to be that scamp’s aunt. And you certainly shouldn’t have the care of him adding to your other burdens.”

She met his gaze coolly, only briefly disconcerted by the gleam in those dark green eyes. “I’m afraid you have it somewhat turned around, my lord. It is I who am his burden.”

“Not tonight,” he replied, drawing her arm through his and leading her past the hidden glances of his curious guests. “I was wondering how I could persuade you to grace my establishment. I have been on the lookout for you any number of occasions these past weeks, but you don’t seem to go out in society much. To what do I owe the honor of your visit tonight?”

Disbelief warred with delight within her at the thought of Marlowe looking for her. Disbelief won. She ignored both emotions stoically. “I am celebrating attaining my majority,” she replied solemnly, accepting the glass of champagne he handed her with the erroneous conclusion that one more wouldn’t do much damage.

“You have reached the advanced age of twenty-one?” he inquired, sipping at his own glass while his eyes kept hers captive.

Gillian, in her lamentable fashion so recently acquired, drained the glass. “Thirty,” she replied succinctly.

Marlowe’s smile was gently mocking. “Such a very great age, to be sure,” he murmured. “I don’t know that I should be seen in public talking with such an aged hag. I have my reputation to consider.”

“It’s all very well for you to jest,” she replied, as he refilled her glass. “But I have lines!”

He peered closely, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin. “Your head is full of windmills,” he replied frankly. “I cannot see a single line, and furthermore it would only add character to a face that is far too pretty.”

Needless to say, Gillian found this extremely pleasing. “At least,” she said, “I can now be comfortable. No one will look twice at a lady of my advanced age when she ventures out unaccompanied. What would be frowned upon in a young ingenue cannot be thought singular in a woman of my years.”

“Much as I regret disillusioning you, I am afraid I must. You have been the cynosure of every eye since you set foot inside this room. A great deal can be laid to the fact that you are in extremely elegant looks tonight, but part of it must be ascribed to the fact that very few properly brought up and behaved young ladies set foot inside a gaming hell, no matter how exclusive. And when that proper young lady is none other than Derwent Redfern’s sister, and has heretofore been odiously starched-up herself, it’s no wonder they are all staring at you.”

“I am not odiously starched-up!” she shot back, stung.

“You were well on your way to being so when I happened along,” he replied, unmoved. “And I would think we might be a great deal more comfortable in my private rooms in the back. I can promise you a late supper far above the general run of things, and a hand of piquet that should quite shatter you. Besides, I have something for you.”

She stared up at him, suspicion warring with the lulling effects of the wine and his dark green eyes. “I wouldn’t think it would be at all the thing for me to be closeted in your rooms, sir.”

“I like the snippy way you call me ‘sir,’” he said disconcertingly. “And I thought we had decided that your advanced age rendered you immune from criticism. Surely no one would suspect such an antidote capable of lascivious behavior?”

He was quizzing her, and she longed to give him the sharp set-down he so richly deserved, but the words and the real desire to do so escaped her. Sighing, she nodded, letting him lead her past the now scandalized eyes of the gamblers with a trepidation she told herself was patently absurd.

The moment she stepped into the private compartment at the back of the house all her doubts assailed her anew, and she took an instinctive step backward, directly into Lord Marlowe’s solid form. Jumping away nervously, she watched him close the heavy panelled door behind them with absurd misgivings. He caught her somewhat desperate expression and smiled suddenly.

“You don’t like my rooms?” he asked softly. “I consider them quite comfortable. I had them decorated with just such occasions in mind.”

It seemed to Gillian’s melodramatic mind that the smile that had so enchanted her was suddenly very sinister, and she wondered if anyone would hear her if she were to scream for help. “What sort of occasions?” she managed to choke out.

The smile broadened. “Why, dinner and a partie or two of cards with a friend,” he replied smoothly. “Unless you had something else in mind?”

Gillian felt color suffuse her skin, and once more cursed her ready blushes. Before she could reply, however, he took her gloved hand and led her across the Aubusson-carpeted room to a rose velvet sofa, depositing her there but making no effort to join her. She breathed a small sigh of relief, allowed herself to relax just a tiny bit, and once more surveyed her surroundings.

It had been the sight of the bed that had panicked her, she realized. Mind you, it was at the very end of the room, shrouded discreetly in heavy gold curtains, and a lady wouldn’t have even noticed its presence in an otherwise charming apartment. But Gillian was never one to be able to control unruly thoughts, and her attention kept slipping to that far end of the room, much to Marlowe’s obvious amusement.

“I spend the night here on occasion,” he explained, and Gillian blushed more deeply, then stared up at him defiantly.

“A gentleman would not have mentioned such a thing,” she said repressively.

“But I am no gentleman, Gillian. I am a hardened rake, or had you forgotten? And why shouldn’t I mention it, when you are so obviously fascinated by its presence? If I hadn’t been directly behind you, I don’t doubt you would have fled the room the moment you saw it. And then what would my curious guests have said? I shudder to think on it.” He took a chair not too distant from her sofa, and stretched his long, elegant legs out in front of him. “In point of fact I stay here all night long on a great many occasions, and it is far too tedious to have to struggle across town to Blakely House when I am in need of a few hours’ rest. The bed is there for that purpose, and not to seduce nervous little virgins.”

The word shocked her even more than the bed had, but the shock had a salubrious effect that Marlowe had no doubt anticipated. She sat bolt upright, her eyes shining, shoulders back, tremulous mouth set in a brave smile. “I should think not,” she agreed. “You could certainly do a great deal better than me if you set your mind to it.”

“Now you are fishing for compliments, Gillian,” he reproved gently. “And I make it a habit never to compliment a lady who stands so little in need of it. What do you fancy for supper? My chef has an especially delightful way with lobster that is much admired. Or if you prefer sweets, I brought my pastry chef from Vienna when I was called home to my coronet and duty.”

“I . . . I’m not really hungry.”

“With the amount of champagne you have already drunk it would behoove you to try to sop it up with a bit of food,” he observed. “I have no desire to have you pass out on me in the midst of a hand of piquet.” He rose with his lazy grace and pulled the bell cord. “I am persuaded once a meal is set before you you’ll discover an appetite. Young Talmadge is doubtless deep in play by now, and he is unlikely to remember your existence for hours. We might as well beguile the time as best we can on your birthday. Which reminds me, I believe I said I had something for you.” He rose and moved to the far end of the room, leaving Gillian to sit there, doubts creeping back, wondering whether she dared try to find Bertie amongst those so-curious guests of Marlowe’s, or whether she should simply try to discover for herself a back stairway. A carriage shouldn’t be too difficult to find, she imagined. In any case, Berkeley Square was not too terribly distant. She had walked farther many times in the country. Although there might be a slight difference between strolling accompanied in broad daylight through rolling green fields and sneaking along the deserted London streets at an hour much advanced. She was still pondering her best course when Marlowe turned back, and his tall, saturnine figure effectively banished all such thoughts. As long as she was in his presence and still lamentably in alt, she would go nowhere.

He placed a small velvet box in her hand, then took the seat opposite her, still declining the capacious sofa. “Go ahead, Gillian. I have held it for weeks, waiting for the proper moment to present it to you. I would think your thirtieth birthday would be eminently suitable.”

With fumbling fingers she opened the box. The diamond earbobs she had so admired lay nestled on a bed of green velvet. Gillian closed the box and her eyes in dismay. “I cannot accept these,” she murmured helplessly.

“My dear Gilly,” Marlowe said in that caressing voice as he took the box out of her nerveless fingers, “you have no choice in the matter. Haven’t you discovered by now that I do not take no for an answer?” When she opened her eyes she found he was deftly removing the earbobs from the box. Before she could guess his intent, he had caught her chin in one strong hand and was proceeding to put the earrings on for her. “Don’t jerk about,” he ordered briskly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt your ear. But I
will
have my way.”

There was nothing Gillian could do but sit there and allow him to place the earrings in her ears. The intimacy of the gesture had her beyond blushing, and only the knowledge that a great deal of experience with other women’s bodies enabled him to carry out the mission with such deft dispatch kept her from refining too much upon it.

“I suppose I have no choice but to thank you, sir,” she said in a muffled tone as he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“No choice at all,” he agreed, smiling down at her with that reckless, endearing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and forced an answering smile from her wary mouth.

“And now, before supper arrives, we must toast your birthday,” he continued, handing her another glass of the seemingly endless supply of champagne that had flowed that night. “It is not every day that a young lady attains her majority. I am certain the diamond earbobs are paltry compared to your other gifts, but I find them particularly suited to you.”

She took another sip from her champagne, another step down the road to perdition. “Hardly paltry, sir. Not only are they the only unsuitable gift I have ever accepted from a gentleman not a member of my own family, they are, in truth, the only gift I have received at all today.”