Bargaining With a Rake (A Whisper of Scandal Novel) (23 page)

Too late, Gillian saw Lord Westonburt
approaching. If she turned and fled, it would be obvious she was running from
him, which did not bother her, except for the fact that she did not know where
her father was. For all she knew, he could be watching her at this very moment.
There was no sense in alerting him to anything being amiss. That would only
make her plan for escape more difficult.

Drake, as he had reminded her to call
him, continued to talk to her, unaware her doom was walking their way. Gillian
nodded and watched Lord Westonburt weave through the crowd, or rather push through
the hapless people. His unwavering gaze held hers.

She squared her shoulders and made a
quick decision. She had to face him and try to reason with him. If Lord Westonburt
would just listen and see that they did not suit, they could end this engagement.
Then her father would be spared the public humiliation of her running away from
her fiancé. He would be humiliated enough when she and Whitney fled England.

Despite his lack of love for her, she
owed him for his sacrifice in letting everyone think he had murdered Mother. He
could have cleared his name, but he had chosen to protect Whitney, just as
Gillian had.

She put a hand on Drake’s arm. “I’m
afraid you should take your leave.”

“Don’t tell me I’m boring you?”

“No,” she hastily replied, though she
had been halfheartedly listening long before she saw Westonburt coming. Try as
she might, her mind kept drifting to Alex.

“What is it, then?” Drake pressed a
kiss to the back of her gloved hand.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she chided,
suddenly irritated with his American obliviousness. But that was unfair. He had
no idea about her father or the constraints he could place on her. She smiled
faintly, hoping her concerns did not show on her face. “I’m sorry. It’s just my
father is watching me, and my fiancé is approaching, and he looks less than
happy.”

“Do you care? I was under the
impression that you didn’t want to marry him. Am I wrong?”

“No, but I have to be careful. I’ve
no doubt my father would force me to it if he knew I was challenging his
wishes.” Talking about this in the middle of the ballroom made her
uncomfortable. She found her father across the ballroom near the gaming room
door. Just knowing he was nowhere near, where he could overhear or read her
lips, made her breathe easier.

Drake reached out and lightly caressed
her arm before letting his hand fall. “What do you want, doll?”

Such a simple question. One that she
had asked herself for years and years. What she wanted—truly wanted—hardly
mattered, because the past could not be relived and her choices mapped out her
future. “I want to flee England and start a new life.”

“A lofty goal for a woman. You may
need a man to help you.”

She breathed in his offer of
redemption. It floated on the air between them. “Probably I will need someone,”
she murmured, distracted by the thought that she did not know Drake, not really.
The realization caused her to break out into a sweat.

“Gillian, do you think it’s possible we
will run into each other again? I would very much like to see you.”

“Yes, more than possible,” she said
in rush and pushed him away from her. “Just ask Alex where to find me.”

“Alex?” Drake frowned. “Why would he
know?”

“Because I’ll tell him where to find
me so that you may be where I am.” She curtsied and came up to meet the dark
obsidian gaze of her intended. “Lord Westonburt.” She inclined her head. “Mr.
Sutherland was just telling me all about America. Fascinating, really, but I’m
afraid I need some fresh air. Would you join me on the terrace?”

“I wasn’t aware I needed an invitation.”
He clasped her arm and dragged her away from Drake and toward the terrace door.

“Wait a just a damn minute,” Drake
protested.

Gillian threw a glance over her
shoulder, silently begging him to cease his protest. His gaze narrowed, but he
nodded his agreement. Lord Westonburt did not pause. Either he had not heard
Drake, which she doubted, or her fiancé deemed Drake unworthy of his time—the
more likely choice.

She quickened her step to keep up
with Lord Westonburt’s clipped pace. The rigid set of his shoulders and the
viselike grip on her arm made his anger clear. This was not a good time to try to
reason with him, but this was the only opportunity she had left.

He jerked the terrace door open and
shoved her out the door. Thank God the night was cool. The veranda was deserted
and that suited her intention of speaking plainly. Before she could turn to
face Lord Westonburt, his hand clamped on her arm once again, and her body twisted
toward him.

Her heart raced, but she forced
herself to breathe slowly. “I wished to speak to you.”

He leaned toward her, his face moving
out of dark shadows and into the red light shining from a blazing torch. The
anger in his eyes blazed as fiercely as the torch beside him. She moved to step
back, but his fingers curled tightly into the sensitive flesh of her arm. “What
a coincidence, sweeting. I, too, wished to talk with you. You seem to forget
you are betrothed, and I brought you out here to help you remember.”

* * * * *

Pausing in his pursuit to find
Gillian had been Alex’s first mistake. But he had needed a fortifying drink to
wipe out the guilt of destroying a man, even if Westonburt was his enemy. His
second mistake was responding to Lord Staunton’s polite greeting, which had caused
his colossal failure to see Lady Staunton lurking behind the potted palm. He
would have ignored Lord Staunton and marched past them both if he had been
paying close attention.

“Lord Lionhurst, won’t you dance with
my wife? She’s complained all night about my inability to dance. My health has
declined rapidly, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, Lord
Staunton.” Alex glanced at the man who appeared to have lost a good deal more
flesh since Lissie’s funeral, if that was possible. “If there’s anything I can
do for you in the future…”

“You can dance with my wife.”

Lady Staunton
smiled like the cat she was—cold, cunning and likely to pounce on any prey with
a lofty title. And now that her husband was on death’s door, it was clear to
Alex that he was her new prey. Funny that his title, or rather Robert’s by
rights, now brought him the woman he had wanted so long ago. Staring into her
maliciously intentioned gaze, he could not recall why he had ever thought he
loved her.

She grasped his hand as she led him
away from her dying husband to the dance floor where the waltz played. He
followed, but only because he did not want to create a scene.

They glided in a way that was at once
familiar yet different. He had waltzed with her many times before in public and
when they met clandestinely at his parents’ stables. But alone, they had danced
to a very different tune of lust while dressed simply in the skin God gave them.

She pressed her head to his shoulder
with a sigh. “I’ve missed you.”

He remained silent.

Lady Staunton raised her head and
peered up at him as they circled the room. “Did you not miss me?”

“No.” If she intended to ask blunt
questions, he was happy to give her direct answers.

Her hands gripped his arms. “Liar. I
know you have at least missed how we were when we joined.”

“Our joining was no different than
all the other women I bedded. The real difference was that I was foolish enough
to think I loved you.”

She threw her head back and laughed
as they twirled. Unlike Gillian’s joyful melody, Lady Staunton’s laugh was cold
and brittle. “I see you’ve developed a taste for cruelty, love.”

He tensed. Had he become cruel?

“After all these years, you still
refuse to see what we really were to each other.”

“I know what we were,” he snapped,
irritated that he had not been paying closer attention as he searched for
Gillian.

Lady Staunton’s
eyes narrowed. “Do you still think I was the only one using someone? You used
me too. You could have walked away from me after I became betrothed to Robert,
but you slept with me once more to get back at him.”

Alex swung toward the middle of the
ballroom. He could not deny what she said. How he hated himself. Bile rose in
his throat. She was right, he had used her. Robert had hurt him and Alex had
retaliated without hesitation. There was no way to make up for his sin. He
would pay for the rest of his life. He would make sure he did.

He did not need to see Gillian. He
could never deserve her. He had to get out of the ballroom. He needed to be
alone and get some air. “We have no future, Lady Staunton,” he said simply,
before releasing her and making his way toward the terrace.

He frowned when he spotted Sutherland
across the dance floor smiling like a besotted fool at Gillian’s younger sister.
Why the devil was Gillian not with Sutherland? Alex dodged around the outer
edges of the dance floor and grabbed Sutherland’s arm just as he was leading
Gillian’s sister to the dance floor. “Sutherland, sorry to interrupt.”

Sutherland stopped and faced him. Alex
bowed to Lady Whitney and gave Sutherland a nod.

“It’s amusing how formal you are
here, Lionhurst.”

Alex returned his friend’s smile
while trying to control the impatience building with each second. “Glad I can
amuse you with my manners. Have you seen Lady Gillian?”

“Why do you ask?” A mischievous smile
twitched at Lady Whitney’s lips. What the devil was the chit smiling at him
like that for?

“I need to speak with her.”

“I just left her,” Sutherland
supplied. “Or rather she was dragged away from me.”

“What do you mean?” Whitney grabbed
Sutherland’s arm. “Who dragged her away?

“Her fiancé.”

“Which way?” Alex demanded.

Sutherland pointed toward the terrace
doors. “Out there.”

Blood rushed in his ears as he raced
through the crowd toward the terrace. He wanted to run, but how the devil would
he ever explain himself? He had to make sure she was fine. And then he would
leave her alone and keep his distance as much as possible.

He grasped the
handle, eased the door open and stepped out onto the darkened terrace as the
smack of a hand against skin filled the silence. A woman’s cry punctuated the air.
For one stunned moment, he stood, squinting into the darkness. His eyes
adjusted. Gillian’s back was to him, her hand raised to her cheek, and
Westonburt loomed in front of her.

Without
hesitation, Alex charged, intent on killing the man.

Gillian’s anger exploded the second
her shock wore off, but before she could react, Alex barreled past her and straight
into Lord Westonburt. They flew backward and hit the stone wall with loud
grunts. In the dark shadows near the ground, the men were nothing more than blurs,
their grumbles and shoes scuffling against the tiles joining the roaring of
blood in her ears. She raced toward the men and reached them just as a fist
flew through the air and connected with a sickening crunch against bone. A
guttural roar filled the space where the men crouched.

She lunged into the fray and grabbed
blindly in front of her. She pulled back on the powerful arm she clutched. “Stop
it,” she demanded, unsure who she was pleading with.

Before she could take another shaky
breath, she was propelled onto her feet and stood facing Alex. His eyes burned
in a way that made her shiver. Gone was the trace of the gentleman he was born
and bred to be; a dark and dangerous man bent on vengeance stood before her.

Her heart twisted painfully. She
wanted to throw herself into his arms and kiss him senseless for wanting to
rescue her. Instead, she gathered her control and her wits. “Stop this. A scene
is the last thing that will help me.”

Alex jerked his head in a nod. She
could see the effort the self-control was causing him. His hands were bunched
by his side into tight fists. Lord Westonburt lumbered to his feet, groping the
wall.

Gillian’s heart rose and plummeted,
caught between a strange joy at Alex’s display of concern and a wariness of her
fiancé. “Please, Alex.” She pushed him toward the door. “I need a moment with
Lord Westonburt.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with that
sorry excuse for a man, no matter how prettily you plead. I’ll stand over
there.” Alex pointed toward the terrace door before he brushed past her and advanced
toward Lord Westonburt.

He grabbed the front of the man’s
shirt and jerked him up and away from the wall. “If you so much as breathe
wrong, I’ll be back at her side in a flash, and this time, so help me God, when
I finish pummeling you, you won’t recognize yourself in the mirror.”

Lord Westonburt
shoved at Alex’s chest. “Leave go, you bloody bastard. You’re insane. You
interfere where you are neither needed nor wanted.”

Gillian prayed Alex would just walk
away, and when he finally moved toward the terrace door, she exhaled the breath
she had been holding. Alex’s shoes tapped against the tile, and as he walked
past her, his gaze met hers. “If you need me…”

God, did she ever, and that was a
problem. She nodded, and he brushed his fingers against hers as he passed. The
man was scandalous, even now. Had he been unable to resist touching her or did
he simply want to annoy Lord Westonburt as much as possible?

It had to be the latter. She faced
Lord Westonburt and closed the distance between them, refusing to allow an
ounce of fear to remain in her. He stared at her with his frigid gaze, one that
probably instilled fear in many people. Yet somehow the blood smeared across
his face made him seem pathetic to her.

He had hit her. He had actually
thought he could. She reared back and slapped him across the face. “Do not ever
lay your hands on me again. You are mistaken if you think my father will force
me to marry a man who has struck me.”

He stepped so close to her, she could
feel the heat radiating from him, but he did not touch her. “You’re the one
that’s mistaken,” he whispered, a vein in his jaw jumping with his anger.

The surety with which he spoke sent
waves of doubt through her.

“Your father will keep our contract. I’ve
no doubt. Don’t upset me again, sweeting, and behave while I’m gone. I was
raised under the principle that to train a disobedient dog, you must first
banish the litter. Isolation breeds devotion to the new master.”

With that warning, he stalked toward
the terrace door and shoved past Alex. Gillian stared at his departing figure. What
did he mean, banish the litter? Was he talking about her sister? Why did he
think he had the power to do anything to Whitney?

She gripped the banister, trying to
make herself breathe and expel her ridiculous fear. All this wide space lay
before her, but the heavy air smothered her. She could not draw a proper breath.
A vine of fear sprang to life in her belly, unfurling and growing rampant
through her insides.

She had to see her sister and make
sure Whitney was all right. Gillian raced toward the door. “Alex, I have to
find my sister. I…well, thank you.” She wanted to say so much more, but what
good would it do either of them? She tried to pull her wrist free, but he held
tighter.

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing that affects you. Please.”

Alex released her, but his gaze
hardened. “I’m coming with you.”

“Fine.” She shoved through the door. She
did not have time to argue. She entered the ballroom and scanned the area for
Whitney. Gillian stopped so suddenly that Alex bumped into her back.

“What the devil?”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, staring
with shock at her sister. She was not in Lord Westonburt’s angry clutches. Whitney
twirled on the dance floor in Drake’s arms. Her head was tilted up and her eyes
were lowered in a coquettish half-mast. Her sister looked utterly happy. Lord
Westonburt was nowhere to be seen. Gillian sighed with relief.

Gillian moved her gaze to Drake. His arm
was wrapped tightly around Whitney’s waist, and his hand was splayed protectively
across her sister’s back. He peered down at Whitney with an admiring smile. Gillian
almost laughed. What was wrong with her? Shouldn’t she feel a twinge of
possessiveness toward the man she intended to marry?

Confusion flowed through her fast and
furious. How could she pursue a man she didn’t hold an attraction for? She had
not counted on this lack of feeling in all her careful planning. She turned
toward Alex, and he stared down at her, his eyes filled with concern.

Her heart leapt and the recklessness that
had driven her in the woods consumed her once again. This could be the last
time she was ever alone with him. “Follow me,” she whispered, wincing at the
breathiness of her tone.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Where
to?”

Her heart tapped a dangerous rhythm
of desire. “Does it matter?”

“Not in the least, peach.”

She nodded and wove along the outer
edge of the dance floor and into the darkened corridor that led to her aunt’s
library. At the door, she paused, suddenly unsure of what she was doing. He
quirked an eyebrow up at her. “Afraid to be alone with me? I promise to
behave.”

She was more worried about whether
she could behave, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the library. She
shut the door and turned around straight into the hard wall of his chest. The
desire to touch him overwhelmed her.

She took a step back and fell against
the locked door while praying for her senses to return. He leaned toward her,
closing the paltry distance between them. His masculine scent filled her senses
just as his gaze found hers.

He reached toward her, and she closed
her eyes, not caring he was the wrong man, not caring he did not fit her plan. She
wet her lips in anticipation of his kiss. When he pressed his chest to her breasts,
heart to heart, his heat enveloped her body and every nerve clenched in
anticipation. A lock clicked and his heat vanished. Her eyes flew open, and so
did her mouth.

His broad, quite lovely back moved
away from her, along with the rest of his equally perfect form, toward the settee,
where he dropped down and folded his long legs. A devilish smile crossed his
lips, and the embarrassment and anger that had just begun to work their way to
the surface to replace her shock disappeared as he directed his smile on her. He
patted the settee with a resounding smack. “Come. Sit by me.”

Based on her willingness only a
moment ago to abandon all her plans in the heat of desire, she was certain she
should say no, yet she walked over to the settee and sat beside him. When their
legs brushed, she immediately scooted toward the other end of the settee before
turning to face him once again.

“You’re not going to tell me what
Westonburt said, are you?”

She shook her head, afraid her voice
would tremble with her desire if she spoke.

He dropped his arm over the back of
the settee as he turned more fully toward her. She was acutely aware of his
body touching hers and his fingers resting still against her shoulder. Suddenly,
his fingers traced back and forth across her skin, and an aching need for his
touch overwhelmed her. When she started to squirm, he stopped and glanced at
her with both eyebrows raised before moving his arm. “If you’re not going to
tell me what he said to you and you appear to be perfectly fine, then I have a
demand.”

“A demand?” she croaked, finding it
hard to speak at all. She cleared her throat. “What sort of demand?”

“I demand a kiss as my reward for
rescuing you.”

“You did not rescue me. I was on the
verge of slapping him when you barreled through the door. I’m perfectly capable
of rescuing myself.”

He moved toward her and cupped her
chin. “I still think I should be rewarded for my effort.”

He pressed closer, delving his hand
into her hair. His mouth came over hers, warm and consuming. From the first
touch, the kiss was frenzied. Their tongues met and circled only to retreat as
his lips moved down the sensitive skin of her neck. She hissed with pleasure,
her fingers curling into the thick locks of his hair. His lips massaged her
skin until she could scarcely think. A moan escaped her, and she threw her head
back and pressed her chest forward to get closer to him. He trailed light kisses
down her throat over the exposed expanse of her chest, then crept lower into
the deep plunge of her dress. When his tongue flicked between the valley of her
breasts, she gasped and pressed her fingers against his head to make sure he
stayed there.

A deep, amused chuckle reached her
ears. Gillian opened her eyes and glanced down in time to see his fingers catch
the edge of her gown, then pull and tug until the tip of her breast spilled out
and his warm hand scorched her bare skin. She gasped when his fingers touched
the sensitive tip, but as he started to rub the bud, a strong, aching need
filled her. She wanted only for him to make the need go away. All her
embarrassment was gone and her doubts set aside for later.

His lips returned to tease, stroking
the fire burning inside her with every flick of his wicked tongue. When he
lapped with slow, gentle strokes, the madness inside of her rose to block out
all else. Another moan escaped her control. His hand stroked lower, and her
dress came up over her legs until his fingers brushed between her parted thighs.
Her eyes flew open. What was she doing? Would she give herself to this man
while pursuing another? Where was her honor? She pushed at his chest. “Stop.”

He suckled her breast harder, faster.
God help her, she wanted him to continue, but she twined her hands into his
hair and yanked his head back. “Stop. Please. You must stop.”

She released him as he pulled back
with a harsh groan, and sat up before pulling her dress up to cover her.

He raked his hands through his hair
as he stared at her with desperate eyes. “God, I’m sorry. I’m the worst sort of
lecher. When I’m near you, I feel—”

She met his stricken gaze, then pressed
a finger to his lips. “I feel it too.” How else could she explain allowing him
to fondle her so?

He dropped his gaze to the floor. “It
won’t happen again. Unless you want it to.” His voice was ragged and possibly hopeful.

The hope tore her apart. She could
not let him hope when she owed Whitney her life. Gillian reached for him, but
thought better, and drew her hand back. “Never again.” She was foolish and
selfish to risk her sister’s future for a moment of pleasure with this man. Now,
if her sister was developing a tendre for Drake, things could possibly be
different. Gillian stood, shook the wrinkles out of her skirts and set her hair
to rights. Gillian did not know her sister’s heart. Until Whitney’s feelings
were clear, things had to stay as planned.