The Dangerous Love of a Rogue (12 page)

Aware his gaze had hardened to glaring, he whispered, harshly, “Am I not good enough for you? Did you not like my verse?”

Her lips parted slightly. They drew his gaze. If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her, drawn her into his arms and never let her go. She was his. She just didn’t know it yet, but he knew it. His eyes lifted to hers again. “You are meant for me. Why can you not see it?” Forget the drivel about souls and fate and love, this much was true. He was certain that she was the only woman he would be happy with. Lord, without her, he would never even be able to claim the word, happy!

Her lips pursed.

“I tried to tell you in that letter, what I think, how I feel—”

Her fingertip grazed his lips, to silence him, as she passed him in a turn.

Good God!
Did she not know he would give anything to have her?

“I read your letter, I know what it said.”

Drew’s heart missed a beat. The look in her eyes spoke of sympathy.

Did it mean he had hope?

“Write to me,” he urged. “I’ll speak to you when I can, but in the meantime write.” The notes of the dance drew to a close.

“I do not have your address, I—”

He captured her fingers, lifting her hand to kiss it, and as he did so, he slid the small folded piece of paper he’d written his address on into the wrist of her glove.

“You do.” He met her gaze over her bent knuckles as he gripped her fingers. Then he let her hand fall and bowed briefly before turning away.

* * *

Mary watched him return to his friends, her heart racing.

“Miss Marlow.” The man who had led her into the dance, Lord Brooke, was at her side offering his arm.

She lay numb fingers on it.

They’d orchestrated the whole night, he and his friends.

“There are a dozen other heiresses he could court…” she said.

“But none as beautiful.”

“So that is what draws him, wealth and beauty?”

They walked across the floor, towards her parents, slowly, as people formed sets for the next dance.

Lord Brooke leaned closer. “Is it not his looks which draw your eyes to him?” It was not a whisper, his deep baritone made her skin prickle, and the note of condescension stirred anger inside her.

“Miss Marlow.” He straightened, lifting her fingers from his arm, as her parents came into view. “It has been a pleasure.” He bowed.

Then like Drew he walked away.

“Who were you with?” her mother asked, coming forward.

Mary, glanced across the room. Lord Brooke, Lord Framlington, Mr Harper and Mr Webster were leaving the ball.

Mary faced her mother. “Lord Brooke, Mama. Oliver introduced his friend to me and his friend introduced Lord Brooke.”

“And his friend was?”

“Mr Harper.” The slip of paper tucked within Mary’s glove itched. Had the whole endeavour been to slip her his address?

“Mr Harper? I think his father’s money came from sugar plantations.” Her father had moved beside her.

She shrugged. “I have no idea, Papa. We danced, we did not share life histories.”

He smiled. “No, I suppose not, but if it was that Mr Harper, avoid him, he has an appalling reputation, and Lord Brooke too. Avoid them both in the future.”

“Yes, Papa.”

She had been right; Lord Framlington consorted with men whose reputations matched his. His had been earned then, surely.

Her breath slipped out through her lips – and, he’d left his address within her glove. She would be the worst fool to communicate with him.

Her father’s fingers, tapped her beneath the chin. “Cheer up, sweetheart, there are plenty of decent men about, and here is one. I believe Lord Farquhar wishes a second dance.”

Mary turned. Daniel was approaching with a broad smile.

Why could not cupid aim steady arrows at her heart, ones which led to trustworthy men, rather than dangerous predatory rogues?

Chapter 7

Drew crawled into bed, three sheets to the wind. They’d retired to his bachelor apartments for a second evening, and it was now almost five of the clock. The first light of dawn crept about his curtains.

His friends had spent half the night commending him on his choice. The second half they’d spent constructing more verse, only this time Peter had said it should praise Mary’s nature, not her eyes. Apparently Mary did not take kindly to being complimented on her looks. She wished to be appreciated for more than her appearance. It was another credit to be notched in her favour.

A considerable amount of laughter had followed, and an inevitable quantity of wine.

When he woke he was hot and sweaty, his body thrumming with need for Mary Marlow – in his dreams she had not said no the other night.

He looked at his watch on the side. It was only mid-day but there was no way he would be able to sleep again.

He threw the covers aside and got up, then washed and shaved, planning to ride in the park and vent his frustration. Rewriting the latest letter would have to wait until he’d dealt with his painful surge of desire.

He could seek a willing woman to assuage it, but if he wanted constancy with Miss Marlow the idea seemed traitorous; he had abstained for a year, he would not break that now.

He was not interested in other women anyway. Not any more. Mary consumed him, mentally and physically. It was Mary he needed, no-one else.

His mouth dried, filling with a bitter taste, and it was not from last night’s excess of drink, it was from fear he’d fail and lose her.

On his ride he stretched out his mare, hurtling across the open meadow of Green Park, leaning low, hugging his body to the horse, pushing his bodyweight into his heels, and keeping balance with his shins, and his thighs, riding like a mad man.

He felt close to insanity – desperate.

Still, if she was easily caught he’d be bored of her in weeks. No, her determination to withstand him only bore out his belief that she was the woman for him.

She had strength of character, and that was to be admired.

Returning home he rewrote the letter his friends had constructed in their cups last night, and as he reached its end found his own words flowing from the quill, a diatribe falling from his mind onto the paper as the words had last night when they’d danced. He blotted the words briskly then folded the paper before he lost the courage to include his own words and sealed it with wax.

He found a young lad he trusted in the street and sent the boy off to deliver it.

* * *

“Miss Marlow.”

Mary sat alone in the family drawing room. She looked up at the butler who carried a silver tray.

“A letter.”

When the butler bowed to offer it, Mary saw Drew’s handwriting and her wicked heart flooded with joy.

Her mother and father, with John and Kate, had taken all the children on an outing to the park. Mary had declined accompanying them and bidden Mr Finch to say no one was at home if anyone called. She was not in a mood to entertain, or be social.

Images and memories of Lord Framlington kept spinning in her head.

Her heartbeat thumped when she took the letter.

She had a foolish heart.

When Finch had left she opened it, slipping her feet from her shoes and curling her legs sideways on the sofa.

It began with another poem, commending the extreme good nature of her soul, and then enthusing on her charm, her eloquence.

She smiled.

Lord Brooke had been telling tales.

The following paragraphs spoke of commitment, of life long happiness. They were only words. They meant little in reality.

But the last paragraph… The strokes of Drew’s writing seemed somehow sharper, and the words on the page lifted out with feeling.

My Mary, you are you know, mine. You always will be, accept me or not. You and I are meant to be one, half to become whole. Put us together Mary, darling, make us one, a single being. I want you. I cannot say I love you, not yet, I do not even know what on earth love is, but I do know that I cannot sleep for thinking of you, or avoid dreaming of you. I think of you and I lose my breath, I see you and my heart begins to pound, I hear you and my spirit wants to sing. I am yours, Mary. Be mine. I cannot simply walk away. I will not.

Think of the possibilities. If this is love? If this is our only chance? If we are meant to be, would you throw that away? Throw me away?

Do not! Let us be.

Yours truly,

D

The words were spoken as though he stood with her and read them.

She barely knew him and yet she felt as if she’d known him all her life. She had not been drawn to any other man – perhaps it was true, he was meant for her.

A sigh slipped past her lips. If she let him go he’d marry someone else. He needed an heiress. He could not wait forever.

Her gaze drifted to the window. Birdsong permeated the glass. She would not marry unless someone else made her heart race as he did. If no one ever did, she would definitely never marry. She sighed again. She had thought that last night, and yet she had not thought about what he would do… She may never marry but she’d be forced to watch him with his wife.

Oh, why did her heart have to fall for someone forbidden?

He was mystery. Challenge. There was so much to learn about him.

Her heart was caught up with him and she did not know how to break free.
I don’t want to be free
.
I want to be his wife
– to understand the complexity in his eyes.

She didn’t see a bad man in his eyes.

Was that a dreadful admission?

John would be furious if she chose Drew. Her father and mother would be disappointed. But they would not disown her. They’d forgive her, because they loved her.

She folded the letter and took it to her room. There, she searched out the paper on which he’d written his address. Then she sat at her writing desk.

Her quill hovered over the paper. She could not make promises yet. She was afraid to do what her heart wished and say yes.

Could she have her family and Lord Framlington?

Could she trust him to look after her and love her?

How could she bear to hurt her family?

Yet how could she bear it if Drew turned to someone else?

Make me believe, if you wish
. she began to write.
You make us be
.
Prove that I may trust your words.
Prove that you will love me and not hurt me.

She wrote no more. She could not think of anything else to say. His ego was too big to offer him compliments. He’d only bask in them.

Folding the letter she reached for wax, and melted a little to seal it. She smiled when she rose from the desk.

Was she really doing this?

It appeared so.

Her feet carried her downstairs, the letter fluttering in her fingers to dry the wax.

When Mary reached the hall, avoiding Finch, and any unwanted questions, she carried on into the servants’ stairwell, heading for the stables.

There she found one of the boys who fed the horses and cleaned the stalls, gave him a half-penny and sent him to deliver the letter.

Less than an hour later, the boy burst into her private sitting room with a broad grin, waving a reply in his grubby hand. “The gent sent this back, Miss. I brought it up meself ’cause he said it was a secret between you and me. I’ve snuck through the house. No one saw me, Miss.”

Fortunately.

Mary rose and took it. Then found out another half-penny for the boy.

Drew had probably given him one too – the price of deceit.

“Wait here a moment.”

Breaking the seal, she turned and walked into her bedchamber then sat on the edge of her bed.

How may I prove it to you? Tell me, and I will do it. Anything. I will climb the highest mountain for you, swim a lake or run across a continent. Only tell me and I shall prove it, Mary, darling.

Are you alone? How long for? Look from the window.

Oh heavens!
He’s outside!

She went to the window.

Carriages passed in the square below and people walked the pavements. She saw him. He stood against the central railing of the square on the far side of the street from John’s house, looking up and smoking a cigar, in a nonchalant, blasé, pose, the rim of his hat tipped forward shadowing his eyes.

She returned to the sitting room where the stable lad waited. “Let the gentleman in, Tom, please. Take him to the summerhouse and tell him to wait there. But remember this is a secret. I will reward you for your silence later. No one must see him, you understand?”

“Yes, Miss.” The lad gave an awkward bow, tugging his forelock, and then he raced out of the room.

Mary hurried back into her bedchamber, checked her hair in the mirror on her dressing table, tucked a loose strand into the comb holding up her hair, then raced downstairs, gripping her blue muslin day-dress to lift her hem from the ground.

A dozen butterflies took flight in her stomach when she saw Finch in the hall. She slowed immediately, half-way down the stairs.

He looked up and bowed, as did the footman he spoke with.

Mary stepped from the bottom stair. “I’m taking a book out to read in the summerhouse, Mr Finch. I may sleep, please don’t let anyone disturb me.”

“Of course, Miss Marlow,” the old bulldog answered. He was her family’s guardian, and now she was deceiving him too. Her parents would send her home to the country if they knew.

She went to the library and picked up a book from a side table, without even looking at its title, then let herself out through the French door into the sunshine.

Heat touched her face as she crossed the lawn. She had not put on her bonnet. But she didn’t hurry in case Finch watched from the house.