When Marrying a Scoundrel (12 page)

La Rieux greeted him—an odd mix of fire and ice with her bright hair and ivory skin. She wore a golden gown that bared her shoulders and nipped in her already small waist. For some reason she put him in mind of a phoenix, rising from the ashes.

“Monsieur Friday, how delightful to see you again.”

He rather doubted that, but she sounded sincere, so he had to respect her as a liar. Jack smiled his most charming smile, and was rewarded with a surprised blink from the lady. She wasn’t the only one who knew how to lie. “Madame La Rieux, the pleasure is all mine. Thank you for inviting me.”

They chatted for a moment, business easing the tension between them. The lady was very excited about her plans to open a large shopping center geared toward aristocratic females where they could not only visit the finest clothiers, but purchase gloves, hats, and even some household items—all of the best quality.

“Shall I expect to see an effigy of you burned in the streets this Guy Fawkes night?” Jack inquired, only in slight jest. Last year on that date, shopkeepers in Bayswater had done just that to one William Whiteley, a linen draper who dared have the foresight to see the “Universal Provider” as the way of the future. Scared of this modern way of thinking, his competitors had protested against him all day, the charivari culminating in the burning of Whiteley’s effigy in a bonfire on Portobello Road. Of course Jack hadn’t been in the country to witness
the event, but he’d certainly heard about it.

Trystan seemed to think the demonstration a sign that they were on the right track. Something that attracted that sort of attention
had
to be good business.

La Rieux smiled at him, her eyes bright as jewels. “I hope so, monsieur. I hope so!”

Damnation. She and Trystan might despise one another, but they were the same when it came to commerce. Perhaps hate wasn’t what they felt for each other at all. Competition could be misconstrued as many things, after all. So could lust.

Another guest arrived, so Jack took his leave and went in search of a drink. A young footman was all too happy to pour two fingers of scotch into a tumbler for him, and he sipped the fine whiskey as his gaze lazily took in every detail around him.

“God must like me after all.”

Jack turned at the familiar voice. Standing just to his left was Lady Gosling, a sultry vision in an oddly demure green gown that matched her eyes. She was smiling at him in that open manner women used to let a man know she was interested, but that she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself for him.

“Must He?” Jack asked, brow rising with vaguely mocking interest. He couldn’t see any signs of the “bite” Sadie accused him of inflicting, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

The lady returned his amusement. “Yes, because He sent you here to keep me from dying of chronic monotony.” She swept her champagne flute in a wide arc.
“Look at them. They’re as interesting as pudding.”

He took a drink of scotch. “Pudding can be interesting, if used properly.”

She didn’t blush, of course not. But she smiled in a manner that could only be described as
inviting
. “Clearly I’ve been deprived.”

“Clearly.” Flirtation dictated that he respond with an offer to advance her education on the subject, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do just that. She was beautiful, experienced, and obviously willing to shag him senseless—and yet something made him hold back.

The lady did not miss his lack of enthusiasm. “You are not yourself tonight, sir. I hope I’ve done nothing to offend?”

Why did women always assume a man’s ill temper had to do with them? More often Jack’s ire was directed at his own shortcomings rather than anyone else’s. “What could
you
possibly do that would offend me?” He meant it to sound teasing, but it came out a little harsher than he intended, sounding more like an insult. She caught that as well, blinking in surprise and, yes, hurt. He saw a brief flicker of it before she covered it with an arch expression. “I could call you an insufferable boor, but I doubt the truth would offend you either.”

She was quick, he’d give her that. Jack chuckled at the well-aimed barb. “Touché, my lady. Apologies for my loutish behavior. It has nothing to do with your charming self.”

She seemed to relax a little then, and Jack realized just how much he enjoyed her company, sexual tension
aside. He simply didn’t want to shag her. He didn’t want to shag anyone, except Sadie. So why not do just that? Maybe that would fix him once and for all. Or maybe it would make things worse. He didn’t know and he didn’t care.

“Ah,” Lady G spoke after a brief silence. “I see Madame Moon and Mr. Blayne have arrived.”

Jack affected his best bored expression as he turned to look where she was staring. The first person he saw was Blayne. The artist had an exotic look about him that women tended to find appealing. Artists never had any trouble garnering female attention; their reputation for being wild and untamable appealing to a woman’s inner gamekeeper.

The notion of this man poaching on his wife made Jack want to do a little hunting himself. He wondered how Blayne would look with a bullet between his swarthy brows.

But then his attention shifted to the woman on Blayne’s arm, and he forgot all about the artist. He forgot his own name.

Sadie was talking to La Rieux, so she didn’t notice his appraisal, which was undoubtedly for the best. Wouldn’t be advantageous to be seen with one’s eyes bulging and tongue lolling like a thirsty hound.

She wore a gown of rich violet silk that gave her pale skin a luminescent quality. Her shoulders were bare, framed by tiny cap sleeves. The snug bodice lifted and displayed her breasts in a seductive yet discreet manner that made a man fantasize about holding those curves
in his palms. Only in his case it was a memory, not a fantasy. He could even remember the exact shade of her nipples, the way they hardened under his touch. He knew just how slight her waist was without the benefit of a corset, how lush her hips. He recalled the fullness of her bottom, the firm grip of her thighs. God help him, he remembered the first time between those long legs, trembling as he eased inside her, so desperate to plunge as far as he could but terrified of hurting her. Hurting the most beautiful girl he’d ever known. It had hurt her anyway, virgin that she was, and the guilt had damn near killed him.

So intense was that memory, and all the sensations that came with it, that Jack’s breath caught as sudden pain gripped his chest, squeezing as though it sought to kill him then and there.

It was at that exact and precise moment that his gaze locked with Sadie’s. He couldn’t recover fast enough to keep the past from showing in his eyes—and hers widened in response. She saw everything, and all he could do was look away—too late.

Now she knew how much he had loved her. How much he had missed her. How empty he’d been without her. How bloody stupid could he be to reveal so much?

He didn’t care how long Tryst wanted him to remain in England. He was going to write to his friend and partner in the morning and tell him he was leaving by the week’s end. Unfinished business, be damned. Tryst could come home and take care of it himself.

“They make a striking couple, do they not?” Lady
Gosling inquired. “She’s so pale and fey looking while he has the appearance of a heathen Gypsy.”

He didn’t have to ask to whom she referred. God was having a colossal laugh at his expense with this evening. “Yes,” he growled. “Very striking.” He’d like to strike Blayne until he bled from the ears.

She turned and glanced up at him, her smile draining away. “Good lord. Are you quite all right?”

“I’m fine.” He tossed back the remainder of his drink. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“You don’t look
fine
.”

Jack grimaced, the whiskey still burning. Madness seized his mind, driving out all sense or thought of decorum. “I’d like to shag you, Lady Gosling. What do you say to that?”

She actually shivered, like he was being sensual rather than crass. “I say, lead on, Mr. Friday.”

Need, hot and vicious, rose within him. It wasn’t for the woman standing in front of him, but it would have to do. If he didn’t shag someone right now he’d never shag anyone again. His prick would simply wither and die, pining for Sadie Moon.

He could have tossed her over his shoulder and stomped off with her like a savage, but he still had some control over himself. He offered her his arm instead, which she took with an eager grip. He had taken but one step when they were stopped by none other than
Lord
Gosling.

“My dear,” the older man drawled with a bitter glance at Jack. “They’re about to start the auction. Come, so I might indulge your whim.”

It might have been uttered to sound loving, but Jack heard the threat beneath the polite veneer, and he felt the tremor in Lady Gosling’s hand just before she released his arm. “Of course, my lord. Mr. Friday, may I introduce my husband, Lord Gosling?”

Jack offered his hand and the baron looked at it as though it was smeared with feces. It was a cut of the most direct kind—the kind that drove Jack’s temper into territory even more foul. The kind that made him want to reveal his true name, his true lineage, to this decrepit, crooked-toothed vampire and tell the baron to kiss his Irish arse.

He said nothing, of course. He merely dropped his hand and said, “A pleasure,
obviously
.”

Baron Gosling sneered at him before seizing his wife by the arm and hauling her away. A few people watched the drama with interest. Most pretended not to notice.

Sadie noticed. Jack knew because he caught her staring for a split second before she jerked her gaze away. Jack set his glass on a passing footman’s tray and took a full champagne flute in exchange. It wasn’t as strong as what he needed, but it would do for now.

He hadn’t known there was going to be an auction, but then he hadn’t been formally invited; La Rieux had issued his invitation in person. At first he’d thought she’d done it out of some sense of duty, but now he realized she’d only wanted him there for his purse.

And now she was ringing a small bell to get everyone’s attention.

“
Bon soir
, my friends,” La Rieux said loudly, and the room quieted. “I want to thank you all for coming to
my little gathering tonight to raise funds for The Saint Agnes House of the Magdalene for Wayward Girls and Women.”

Jack raised his brows. La Rieux raising money for prostitutes and abused servants? His curiosity about her—formally null—rose a notch, as did his respect.

“First up for auction is a special treat. My dear friend, the talented Sadie Moon, has offered up a private
one hour
reading to the highest bidder. I’m sure you all know what an amazing opportunity this is. One hour to have all your questions answered, your path divined. Who will start the bidding at twenty pounds?”

Jack drained his champagne and grabbed another. Damn, but he’d spent much of his time in England either drunk or trying to get there. Of course Sadie would have to be up for auction. And of course the crowd would have to love it. And of course there would have to be a flurry of bidding.

People were stupid. If he told them he could piss on a plate and divine the future from it, they’d probably believe him.

Mason Blayne bid fifty pounds. Scowling, Jack looked at the man and saw the gleam in his eyes as he looked at Sadie. Jack knew that look and he knew what Blayne intended to do with that hour—and it wasn’t get his leaves read.

Later, he’d blame it on the champagne and scotch not quite mixing properly, but that was when he felt something snap inside him.

No man was going to pay for the pleasure of shagging
his
wife. If anyone was going to buy Sadie, it was going to be him.

“One hundred quid!” he shouted.

Heads turned at his outburst. A little cheer went up. He didn’t know who looked more surprised, La Rieux or Sadie herself, but Jack didn’t waste his time looking at them. He raised his glass at Blayne, who frowned.

“One hundred twenty,” the artist called out.

“Two hundred!” Jack grinned at his own recklessness.

“Two hundred fifty,” Blayne countered, a fierce glint in his eyes.

All eyes turned to him. “Will you bid, Mr. Friday?” La Rieux asked. Clearly she doubted his commitment.

Jack straightened his spine and stepped forward, putting himself at the front of the room with the other players in his little drama. His gaze locked with Sadie’s. He saw bewilderment in her faerie eyes. Defiance too. Oh, and a tiny spark of anticipation. That tiny spark was all it took.

He grinned. “One thousand pounds.”

Sadie looked as though she might faint. La Rieux seemed torn between her dislike of him and her joy at raising such a sum for her cause. Her head whipped toward Blayne, who shook his head. The artist’s hands, Jack noticed, were balled into fists at his sides. Jack sympathized. He’d felt the same when he lost Sadie.

“One thousand pounds it is,” La Rieux announced, looking a little shocked by the entire affair. “Once. Twice. Sold!”

The applause of the gathering was thunderous. Voices rose above the din, but Jack ignored it. His gaze was fastened on his prize. He strode purposefully toward her, forcing himself to look every inch the gentleman, while inside he let the savage crow in delight. She knew him well enough to be wary as he stopped before her.

He bowed to her, fixing his lips in a lopsided grin meant to present him as little more than a charming scoundrel. Only he knew the smile didn’t reach his eyes and that Sadie saw his intention there.

She glanced at the book in his hand and licked her lips. “I’m afraid you overestimate my powers, Mr. Friday,” she said somewhat hoarsely, “but your generosity is quite astounding.”

“And you undervalue yourself, madame,” he replied with surprising ease. Glancing over her shoulder he saw Blayne standing a few feet away, glaring at him. Jack acknowledged the other man with a slight nod before crossing to a small table obviously set out for patrons to write their drafts. He quickly filled out the cheque, his fingers trembling damnably as he wrote.