Darker Than Love (8 page)

‘I don’t always ask for consent,’ he said when he received no reply.

Clarissa squinted at the gold-edged card he offered and, with a start of recognition, saw herself sketched in pencil. Heavens, how composed and dignified she looked. She felt sure, at that moment, her face was far from such.

‘And the same goes for kisses,’ he said, embracing her swiftly. ‘Though I see consent in your eyes.’

His mouth bore down on hers and a rush of pleasure weakened Clarissa’s every limb. She clung to him, responding hungrily to the questing of his velvet tongue. His hands moved on her back, smoothing over the silk of her gown and up to the naked skin. Her flesh thrilled to the light touch of his fingertips. Then, gently, he cupped her buttocks, drawing her hips towards him. She felt a little fearful but she did not resist.

Through the layers of her petticoats she could feel the hardness of his arousal. It pressed insistently, just above the swell of her pubis. A dart of pleasure pierced her and an aching sweetness pulsed low in her body. Tremulous moans echoed in her throat and then, to her shame, she realised she was rocking her pelvis, grinding herself against his swollen lust.

Struggling to quell her passions, she pulled away from him, breathless and wanting. Her deep-blue eyes, full of needy frustration, looked into his.

‘No more,’ she pleaded in a whisper that shook, ‘I beg of you.’

Gabriel stroked her face, his expression one of bemused confusion. ‘A few moments ago,’ he said, smiling faintly, ‘I was with a woman I assumed to be an innocent. Such a kiss tells me otherwise.’

The night was warm but Clarissa’s skin prickled as if it were winter. ‘No,’ she protested. ‘Your assumption was quite true. Please, ask no more of me.’

Gabriel’s playfully arched brows suggested he’d heard such coquettish games before. ‘Then why, innocent, do your lips speak so fiercely of lust and hunger?’ He lowered his head and pressed tender kisses to her neck. ‘And, even more difficult to explain,’ he continued, his tone mischievously challenging, ‘why do you associate with one such as Lucy Singleton? She’s hardly famed for the respecta –’

He halted, took a step back, and stared at Clarissa. The amusement drained from his eyes and his jaw sagged with the shock of realisation.

‘Christ, no,’ he breathed, drawing out the words. ‘You’re not … You’re Lucy’s cousin, aren’t you?’

Clarissa nodded, confused and fearful.

Gabriel, his fists clenched, his eyes closed, raised his head skyward.

‘Dear God,’ he murmured. ‘Dear God, why?’

In the ballroom, Lucy stood with a small, chattering group.

‘And do you know,’ gushed Lady Neville, fanning herself rapidly, ‘the wretched woman was actually received at court?’

‘And she was carrying Bertie’s child?’ exclaimed Augusta Pritchard, jubilant with horror. ‘Oh, the temerity of it.’

‘Quite shameful,’ added Lucy, feigning interest.

She was vexed that Julian had not shown a spark of jealousy when Gabriel, handsome and brusque, had
appeared. But then, she reasoned, he’d little cause to. It was perfectly apparent that Gabriel’s interest was in her cousin alone. While that was all perfectly delightful, and Lucy had hoped for nothing less, it left her with but one lover, one married lover. Another beau was needed, someone whose attentions would make Julian more appreciative of her desirability.

She scanned the milling crowds, half-heartedly searching for someone suitable, and caught sight of Octavia Hamilton, tall and auburn-haired, gliding towards her. Her brows were knit in a worried frown.

‘Lucy darling,’ she boomed, snapping on a smile as she edged her way into the group. ‘Do let me introduce you to Lady Tranter.’ Taking hold of Lucy’s elbow, she steered her away from the gossip, the smile dropping from her face. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I think your charming cousin may have a slight problem,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ demanded Lucy, a little irritably. She could only think that Clarissa had done something foolish. Perhaps she’d swooned over Gabriel’s intensity, or cried out for help when his hands had grown too hungry.

‘Quite unexpected, I assure you,’ said Octavia, pressing her splayed fingers above the swell of her bosom. ‘But it’s Lord Marldon. I’m afraid he’s just arrived.’

Chapter Four

LORD ALEXANDER MARLDON
was known more by his reputation than his face. Yet people, some cross, some curious, still edged aside as the tall figure forged a path through the crowds.

Lucy, although she hadn’t seen him for some years, recognised the earl at once. His hair, swept back from his strong angular features, was as thick as ever and, save for a few greying streaks about the temple, just as black. His dark, half-lidded eyes held the same cruel glint, and the arrogant sneer had not faded from his lips. Along the right side of his face ran a thin scar, a silver line following his jaw and dipping an inch or so into his neck. Any other man would have worn a beard. But Marldon didn’t; he had only neatly clipped sideburns. He knew the power of that mark.

Octavia crackled open her fan and slipped away with a murmured excuse. Marldon moved towards Lucy, his stride confident, his gaze purposeful.

‘Mrs Singleton,’ he said in a voice that was menacingly soft. He took her gloved hand in his and touched a kiss to her fingertips, his eyes never once straying from hers. ‘I believe we are soon to be related. Your cousin, isn’t it?’

Lucy flashed him a smile, the brilliance of which belied her disquiet. ‘It appears so,’ she replied calmly. ‘And I’m told she expects you at the end of the month. Your presence, my lord, is untimely.’

Lucy struggled to keep her attention fixed on Marldon. She was desperate to survey the room in search of Clarissa, and her thoughts raced to find a way of keeping the two apart.

‘Business brings me here, Mrs Singleton,’ said Marldon. ‘Nothing more. I’m not one for the niceties of courtship, as you may imagine. I have no intention of presenting myself quite yet.’ His eyes flicked briefly over the mass of heads, then returned to Lucy. He regarded her with a steady challenge. ‘Although, if Miss Longleigh
were
here tonight, perhaps a glimpse would whet my appetite. Is she present?’

‘Of course not,’ blurted Lucy, immediately regretting the zeal of her reply. ‘The company she keeps is far more respectable.’

‘Oh?’ said Marldon, arching his brows. It was only one word but it was imbued with mocking disbelief.

Panic fluttered in Lucy’s stomach. Did he know that Clarissa was a guest? And, if he did, was he here for that reason? She trusted him not one iota. It was only a little after midnight, but it was imperative that her cousin return home. She could not bear to think that the two of them might meet, not when Clarissa seemed to have embarked upon an intrigue with Gabriel. It would ruin Alicia’s plan of lulling her gently into an acceptance of the earl’s depravity.

Relief flooded over her as Julian approached and clapped Marldon on the shoulder. The two men exchanged greetings and shook hands warmly.

‘And how is your dear lady wife?’ asked Lord Marldon. ‘Locked up somewhere in Oxfordshire for the season?’

‘Her health troubles her,’ answered Sir Julian, giving a smile which did not reach his eyes.

‘Still?’ said Marldon. ‘How unfortunate. I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s seen Lady Ackroyd fit and well. In fact, I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s
seen
Lady Ackroyd. A curious state of affairs, don’t you agree?’

‘My wife doesn’t much care for London,’ replied Julian tetchily. Then he brightened a little and added, ‘Baccarat, my lord? There’s a promising game about to begin upstairs. Perhaps your luck will be better this time round.’

Marldon gave a scornful laugh. ‘The devil take you, Ackroyd. Yes, revenge would be very sweet.’ Then he turned to Lucy. ‘Do you gamble, Mrs Singleton? Ladies tend not to but – well, I don’t suppose your presence would raise many eyebrows.’

Lucy bristled at the veiled insult then caught a sly, urging nod from Julian. For a moment she was confused, then comprehension dawned. Ha, what a sweetheart he was. Julian’s invitation to cards was a diversion, an attempt to lure Marldon away from the ballroom. Her heart lifted.

She took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Yes, my lord. I most certainly do gamble.’

The balloon-shaped lamps in the games room were shrouded in a fog of blue smoke. The place was a babel of noise. Amidst rumbling chatter, shouts and laughter, balls rattled on roulette wheels and bagatelle boards clattered incessantly. Men, some in shirtsleeves and waistcoats, were hunched over tables, intent on poker, baccarat or piquet.

It was unusual to find a place so shamelessly boorish in a house with such pretensions to grandeur. But, thought Alec, it was perfectly apposite to Octavia Hamilton. She knew how to keep men happy – it was her trade – and that skill had taken her from gutter to glitter. Remarkably the woman hadn’t lost a shred of vulgarity on her way up. Quite a feat.

He rocked his chair back and yawned. His contemp
tuous eyes surveyed the unruly stacks of coins either side of the long table. The stakes were tediously low and the men, excepting Julian Ackroyd, lacklustre players. He stretched to take a decanter of whisky from the chiffonier, poured himself a measure, then drank it at a draught.

Lucy, sitting opposite, glanced anxiously from him to Julian. He smiled inwardly, gratified to have unnerved her. Loyalty was not a concept he set much store by and it was amusing to see her so protective of a cousin. He wondered, with idle curiosity, how far she would go in her bid to keep him entertained. The woman was renowned for her free and easy ways. It would be interesting to see if she could take her pleasures without that spirited air which dogged her social persona. More interesting, at least, than playing baccarat with buffoons.

With a smirk, Sir Julian scooped up his winnings and flicked the used cards into the wastebasket.

‘I find the banker’s lucky streak somewhat dull,’ said Lord Marldon, addressing Julian at the head of the table. ‘Perhaps you’d be prepared to change your coinage. Mrs Singleton would prove a more enticing wager than a handful of sovereigns, don’t you think?’ As he spoke he surreptitiously levelled his cane beneath the table and touched its jewelled head to Lucy’s belly.

Lucy inhaled sharply and silence fell upon the table. Lord Trimmingham screwed a monocle to his eye and the assembled company turned their gazes to her. She stared at Marldon in astonishment, her mouth agape, her bare shoulders lifting with her quick angry breaths. Marldon’s lips twisted in a half-smile and he lowered the cane a few inches until it nudged into the juncture of her thighs.

Animosity flickered in Lucy’s sharp, green eyes before, with hasty determination, she softened her expression. She smiled evenly and gave a defiant toss of her curls.

‘Very well,’ she said, nodding at Julian’s winnings. ‘I do not see a man about to lose.’

Clarissa stood on the patio listening to a heavily powdered woman prattle about the latest beauty to find herself in the Prince of Wales’ bed.

Gossip and flirtation, it seemed, were fashionable society’s two modes of communication. At that moment, Clarissa didn’t much care for either.

Foolishly, she’d fancied that Gabriel was different. But, shortly after the kiss they’d shared, a kiss which even now lingered on her lips and glowed in her sex, he had made his excuses and left. He would, he’d said, leave his card ‘sometime’ and perhaps, if she were willing to sit for him, they could agree upon her fee – ‘sometime’.

Clarissa struggled for an explanation. He had appeared so genuine, interested in her, and as desiring as she had been. Did being Lucy’s cousin mean she was to be shunned by certain people? No one else seemed to mind overmuch, so why should he? Perhaps she could not kiss properly. But no, her body and the way he’d responded said otherwise. She could only conclude that he was the same as all the other men, all those who’d pressed her to sit on the stairs awhile, come look at the stars, dance one more time. He was a cad, a rakehell, seeking quick pleasures and nothing more.

Clarissa wanted to go home, but finding Lucy had proved impossible.

She asked the powdered woman to please excuse her – though she need not have bothered – and drifted away from the gaiety in search of quieter, darker parts. She would be alone. She would bide her time until their carriage returned; and she would not think on Gabriel. She wandered over to the far side of the house, each calm curtained window taking her further from the party. There were a few stragglers on the lawns, couples tempted by the privacy night afforded.

Two or three steps around the corner of the house was an arched wrought-iron gate and, beyond it, the gloom of an alleyway. Clarissa clanged the latch. Nobody stirred. Lifting her trailing skirts, she moved cautiously, edging past a hand-cart and a pyramid of barrels, glancing at black windows. The music and noise of the party was faint, blissfully faint.

She wondered what Gabriel was doing. Was he over there, swirling about the glittering dance floor? Or had he lured someone else, a woman more prepared to give, into the seclusion of the pergola? Perhaps, she reflected, it was well that he bid her goodnight when he did. Nothing could ever come of it, and in future she would be more guarded in her imaginings.

Ahead, yellow light from the house cut a wedge through the darkness. She would rest there, enjoy the stillness, before returning to seek out Lucy. No one would bother her, and she would pretend she’d had a wonderful time.

At the tall window, Clarissa cast an idle glance through the slightly parted drapes. She froze. The gap in the curtains showed a slice of a book-lined library and there, seated in a stiff-backed chair, was Lucy, her naked breasts exhibited above her emerald gown. Her hands were clasped behind her head, exaggerating the thrust of her bosom, and her face was clouded with anger. But her eyes were uncertain, fearful. She spoke words that, through the glass, were silent to Clarissa.

A man stepped into view and Clarissa bit her lip. It was not Julian. He was taller; his hair was black. With a slow, stealthy gait, he moved to stand behind Lucy, his mouth set in a thin, bitter smile. His face was powerful, square-jawed, but the skin sagged ever so slightly. Ten years ago he would have been handsome and ten years from now his features would doubtless be slack with dissipation. Looking down, he addressed Lucy’s head, again in words Clarissa could not hear. Lucy dropped her arms to her side.