The Dutiful Rake (22 page)

‘Oh, Delafield, how nice,’ said Meg. ‘Yes. Some tea in the library for me if you please. Jack?’

‘The brandy will be enough,’ he said, preceding Meg to the door.

Marcus, arriving home early from Cribb’s Parlour, headed straight for the library as had become his habit. He tended to put off going to bed these days. He was not sure if he dreaded more finding Meg in his bed or not finding her in his bed. Not that there was much chance of finding her in his bed again. His own curst pride had ensured that. It bothered the hell out of him.

And her growing friendship with Jack continued to terrify him. He couldn’t bear to think that they might…fall in love. The unspoken words seared themselves into his soul. And the thought of Meg giving herself to Jack as she had to him. It appalled him but he had made a bargain. A contract. And he hadn’t given her much cause to wish to renegotiate the terms of their marriage. But that was what he wanted. To cancel that sordid transaction and start again. Offer her his love. His adoration. And pray to God that she would forgive him and accept it.

His hand was on the latch when he heard voices within. He stopped dead, listening. A delightful ripple of feminine laughter bubbled up…that was Meg…followed by deeper tones…Good God! It couldn’t be! Surely Jack would not…had he behaved so badly to Meg that things had already gone this far? The thought was like a knife twisting inside him. For a moment he hesitated.

And then scorching, jealous rage ignited inside him. He had told Meg that she was welcome to her amusements, need not fear his wrath…so long as she was discreet—and there was no discretion about this, dammit all! And then, on a blinding flash of realisation; he would not permit it anyway! She was
his
wife and it was about time she was reminded of it!

He flung open the door and stalked in, expecting to find them in each other’s arms. Instead of which he found Jack standing in front of the fire, nursing a glass of brandy and Meg at the sofa-table, pouring herself a cup of tea from a very elegant basaltware teapot. He had to admit that if this
was
a seduction, then it was like none that he had ever participated in. Brandy, yes. But
tea?

Neither did their reaction remotely suggest that they were concerned at his unexpected entry. His wife, damn her, simply smiled and offered him brandy, which Jack moved to pour. All of which served to make him even angrier.

Despite the fact that he didn’t really believe they had been intending to betray him, he said coldly, ‘I’ll thank you to conduct yourself with more discretion, my lady. Entertaining a gentleman alone at this hour is not at all the thing.’

Meg was silent as colour flooded her cheeks and drained away, leaving her strangely white. For a long moment their eyes held and Marcus could see the wound he had dealt her reflected in them. He couldn’t speak. Horror that he could have said something so despicable to Meg held him speechless. How utterly brutal he had been! And she was looking as though he had struck her! What the hell was wrong with him these
days? He couldn’t remember ever feeling this bad tempered for so long at a stretch. It had to stop!

At last she broke the silence. ‘No doubt my lack of discretion bothers you more than my supposed infidelity.’ For all its soft tone her voice shook with suppressed pain and the cup and saucer rattled in her hand as she set it down.

He didn’t quite know what to say but Jack saved him the trouble. ‘Meg, why don’t you take that cup of tea up to bed with you and leave me to chat with Marc? It was good of you to offer to wait with me but, since he’s home now, you need not scruple to go up. Goodnight, my dear.’

Marcus flushed. If he could see that look of frozen pain on her face, then so could Jack. No doubt he was trying in his chivalrous way to protect her. From her own husband! Shame lashed him that his best friend could possibly think Meg needed protection from him. Suddenly he was flooded with relief that she had had Jack to turn to in her misery. But enough was enough. He had to reassure her, could not let her go thinking he believed her capable of betraying him.

He went straight to her and picked up the cup and saucer. ‘I beg your pardon, Meg. That was infamous of me. And quite unwarranted.’ He eyed her closely. ‘You look exhausted. Go to bed, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning.’ She nodded and held out her hand for the tea cup, again the calm Lady Rutherford who had held him at bay for the past month. He winced. She had accepted the apology at face value, but every line of her body was tautened to breaking point. She would not willingly drop her barriers again. And he could not force the issue in front of Jack.

So, shackling his urge to sweep her into his arms and
kiss her into surrender and oblivion, he smiled. ‘I’ll take it for you.’ And he escorted her to the door, opening it for her before giving her the cup. ‘Goodnight, Meg.’

He bent to kiss her gently on the cheek.

Her eyes widened in shock and instinctively her hand lifted to touch the spot lingeringly, as revealing as the sudden vulnerability in her eyes. Marcus felt an iron band tighten inexorably around his heart. Was that all he had needed to do? Could it possibly be as simple, as difficult, as that? Had he only needed to show her a little unashamed tenderness to breach her defences?

‘Goodnight my lord…M…Marc.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper and then she was gone.

Steeling himself, he shut the door behind her and turned to face Jack.

‘Very well. You don’t need to say it. I insulted both of you comprehensively. Your intelligence! Our friendship! Her virtue! You name it, I insulted it!’

‘You forgot your own intelligence,’ said Jack mildly. ‘I had not thought you could possibly be such a cods-head!’ He didn’t think it was the moment to admit that he had been aiming for this outcome. ‘You really are a sapskull, Marc!’

Marcus groaned and said, ‘For God’s sake, give me that brandy! What brings you here at this hour? I’ll accept that it wasn’t Meg’s charms.’

‘I escorted her home from Almack’s,’ said Jack. He hesitated and then said, ‘Since you are here, there’s something I wanted to say. Ask you actually.’

‘Mmm?’ Marcus took a reviving sip of his brandy. He supposed Jack was going to tell him what a fool he was making of himself.

‘Why is Meg so scared of Blaise Winterbourne? Did you or Di warn her about him? Because if you did, I
think you overstated the case a trifle. The poor girl is terrified of him. And surely he wouldn’t dare—?’

‘What?’ Marcus practically dropped his brandy. ‘Did she tell you she is scared of him?’

Jack’s amazement was writ large in his stunned demeanour. ‘She didn’t have to tell me, Marc,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious every time he approaches her or dances with her. At least it is to me. Probably would be to you too—if you were ever there, that is.’

Marcus felt sick. ‘He’s been dancing with her? And she let him?’

‘How can she refuse?’ asked Jack reasonably. ‘Although I think he makes quite sure she is in no position to do so, without calling attention to herself. She managed it tonight—that’s how I came to bring her home. And I hate to say it, but his attentions are beginning to be noticed. That cousin of Meg’s is doing her best to draw everyone’s attention to it.’

‘That bastard!’ Marcus exploded. ‘I swear I’ll kill him!’ His eyes narrowed to slits of icy rage, his fists clenched as though ready to strike. He began to pace like an enraged tiger. Raking strides took him back and forth across the room, his whole body alive with a searing anger not even Jack had ever seen.

Eventually he calmed down enough to say, ‘This must go no further, Jack. I’d prefer Meg didn’t even know I’ve told you.’ Briefly he told Jack what had happened on his wedding night, finishing with, ‘I let him go because I thought the risk to Meg of any scandal was too great.’

‘He tried to rape her?’ Sick horror sounded in Jack’s voice.

‘Came damn close too,’ said Marcus, shuddering as he remembered how close.

‘My God!’ said Jack. ‘It’s miracle she hasn’t collapsed from the strain! Why the hell didn’t she tell you?’

‘Because,’ said Marcus evenly, ‘I impressed it upon her that we were to lead separate lives, were not to tease each other and we have been doing just that. But not any more.’

‘Well, thank God for that!’ said Jack in relief. ‘You two have been at cross purposes for quite long enough. I was getting quite depressed at watching the pair of you make a mull of your marriage.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘Interfering did give me something to do, though.’

Taking himself upstairs half an hour after seeing Jack out, Marcus castigated himself for not realising that Meg’s façade hid unhappiness, for not forcing the issue when he had seen she looked unwell. He felt shamed that she could possibly have tried to carry such a burden alone, that she had been too hurt by his coldness to come to him. Never again, he vowed as he changed into his nightshirt. I’ll see her in the morning and put this right.

He would have liked to go to her then and there, but she was probably asleep. And if he got into bed with her he would not answer for his behaviour…still, it would do no harm to peep through the door quietly. If she were asleep he could go away again…if not…

Accordingly he took a candle and padded through the bathroom, trying not to think about the night he had found her in the bath. He tapped very gently on the door. She would hear it if she were awake. There was no reply.

He was halfway back to his bedchamber when a muf
fled cry of fright pierced through him. In a flash he was across the bathroom and through the door.

A small lamp was burning on the nightstand and by its light he saw Meg sitting up in bed, obviously dazed and shaken, clutching the bedclothes in trembling fingers as she shuddered convulsively.

‘Meg!’

She turned to him, her eyes wide and unseeing as the nightmare held her in its lingering grip. For how long, he wondered, had she been having these nightmares? Days? Weeks? No wonder she had been looking ill! He strode across the room and sat down on the edge of the bed to take her in his arms. She was not really awake, but she seemed to settle as he held her and murmured comfort in her ear. He silently cursed his pride that had blinded him to her sadness. He had thought she looked unwell because she was indulging her social ambitions, when all the time she had probably been plagued by nightmares.

He had let himself believe that she was, after all, no different from any other woman who would have married him for his money. Despite the fact that she had refused to accept his charity and had only accepted his name when he persuaded her that it would be a fair bargain. No doubt if he could hide his hurt under a surfeit of pleasure-seeking, so could she. He should have gone to her the morning after she had refused him her bed and had it out with her. Instead he had indulged his pride and left the hurt to fester, in both of them, it seemed.

She moved slightly in his arms, murmuring in distress.

‘Meg, sweetheart. It’s just me, Marc,’ he soothed her. ‘You’re safe now. Nothing can hurt you. Go to sleep.’

‘Marc?’ She sounded barely awake.

‘Yes, love.’ The endearment slipped out unconsciously. He froze as he heard it on his lips.

‘Not Lord Rutherford…just Marc.’ And with an odd little sigh she suddenly relaxed completely in his arms and fell deeply asleep.

What the hell did she mean?
Not Lord Rutherford…just Marc.
It made no sense. They were the same person, weren’t they? Or were they? He thought about it as he climbed over her and settled down with her in his arms. She had called him Marc when she was ill, when she was relaxed with him, when he had made love to her. Ever since their quarrel he had been
my lord
and she had been
madam
or
my lady.
It did make sense. The man she had called Marc was a far cry from Lord Rutherford. She hadn’t even tried to tell
him
about Winterbourne.

Then it dawned on him. That night he had found her in his bed—she had asked to see him the next morning. She had started to say something about Winterbourne, about coming to find him. The realisation of what he had done exploded through him. She
had
come to him. And he had turned her away, had not bothered to listen. Instead he had indulged his pride again, spouting arrogant nonsense about his rights, making it impossible for her ever to confide in him, or indeed approach him at all.

With the result that she had suffered a month of sheer hell that would have broken most other women. Not only had she had to endure Winterbourne’s attentions, but she had endured them in the belief that the one person whom she might have expected to protect her, was the one person she could not tell. She had endured it in the belief that he would not, in fact, give a damn.

She stirred slightly as his arms tightened unconsciously. A small sigh of content breathed from her. Marcus rested his face against the silken locks. His little Meg. Somehow he would have to make quite sure she knew that Lord Rutherford was gone for good. Somehow he had to convince her that Meg was safe with Marc and would not need to hide within Lady Rutherford any more. Not with him, anyway.

M
eg woke quite early feeling more refreshed after her night’s sleep than she had in weeks. She lay in a contented doze. Her dreams last night had not been so terrible as they usually were. Somehow, at the last minute, the vileness that was Winterbourne had transformed into Marc, whose strong arms had banished the strangling terror, whose voice had comforted her.

Gradually she became aware of a heavy weight across her waist and another one pinning her legs to the bed. Puzzled, she turned her head and encountered her husband’s sleeping face, strangely relaxed and gentle in slumber, with the cold eyes hidden. Fascinated she stared at it. The straight aristocratic nose, the square chin with the veriest suspicion of stubble. With a delightful shiver she remembered how sensuously it had rasped across her tender breasts when he made love to her. He had chuckled at her shocked reaction the first time, a deep seductive rumble and had promptly done it again…and again.

Somewhat belatedly she wondered why he was in her bed. Did this mean that he had come to claim his rights and had been too considerate to awaken her? Suddenly
she remembered her dream, that Winterbourne had been transformed or rather had been banished by Marc. Had it been a dream? Or had Marc heard her? She knew she had woken up crying out several times in the past weeks.

His eyes opened, putting an end to her speculations. For they were warm and tender and he smiled at her, a glorious, beckoning smile as he whispered, ‘I’m a bloody fool, Meg. Will you forgive me?’ The arm lying over her waist tightened, an iron band drawing her to him.

She went willingly, her soft curves yielding to the hard strength of his body and felt him stir against her.

‘Forgive
you?
Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry!’ Tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean all those awful things I said!’

He kissed the tears away and said in a light tone belied by the depth of tenderness in his eyes, ‘Didn’t you? Well, you should have, because I deserved the lot of them!’ And then desire took over for both of them, rendering all the extended apologies they had intended utterly obsolete.

Over a month’s abstinence had Marcus straining at the bit like a half-wild stallion and Meg discovered that her hitherto gentle husband could be fiercely possessive and demanding in his lovemaking and that having her nightgown ripped off by the right man was really quite exhilarating. And Marcus found that his shy, inexperienced bride could, with the right encouragement, become quite inventive in her efforts to please him.

Afterwards they slept again, wrapped in each other’s arms in the blissful exhaustion of utter fulfilment.

Meg woke again later to find herself alone and a note on her pillow.

With a happy sigh Meg sat up and swung her legs out of bed. Only to be assailed with a wave of dizzying nausea. In her joy at being reconciled to Marc, she had quite forgotten to get up carefully and slowly, ring for a cup of tea and get straight back into bed before the nausea could really take hold. Frantically she dived for the nightstand and was copiously and comprehensively sick into the wash basin.

Feeling extremely plain and quite unlike the seductive siren who had so thoroughly pleasured, and been pleasured by, her husband an hour or so earlier, Meg rang the bell and got back into bed to wait for Lucy.

Meg had in the end decided to keep Lucy as her maid without asking anyone’s advice. She liked Lucy and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought anyway. But she did wish Lucy did not seem quite so delighted by her puzzling bouts of sickness. She even seemed to think Meg ought to be delighted. Oh, well, as long as she brought hot water to make a pot of tea, Meg was prepared to overlook her ill-concealed delight at this fresh evidence of Lady Rutherford’s weakness.

Perhaps, thought Meg hopefully, now that she and
Marc were sharing a bed again, the nightmares would stop. She was sure the sickness was only because she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Even when he was cross with her, Marc had said she would make herself ill if she didn’t let up.

It turned out to be one of her worst mornings. The cup of tea helped only marginally and the thought of breakfast revolted her. Lucy, more than usually heartless, brought up some dry toast and insisted that she eat it. Mrs Crouch, she said, had insisted it was just the thing for a lady who was feeling a mite poorly and the mistress was to eat it up and no nonsense.

Meg did as she was bid, thinking that Di had been quite right in her prophecy that the staff would accept her. Lucy and Mrs Crouch were as kind as Agnes Barlow could have been.

Marcus whipped through his accounts that morning with only a cursory blink of amazement at the trivial nature of the bills with which Meg had presented him. Despite Di’s encouragement, Meg had spent very little on herself. Except, he noted with a rueful grin, at Hatchard’s. The bill from there did make him raise his eyebrows a trifle. Obviously Jack, whom he knew to have taken her there the first time, had been far more successful than Di in persuading her to extravagance.

He already knew that she kept a careful eye on the household accounts. Mrs Crouch had indicated that the mistress was doing just as she ought, learning the ways of a fashionable London household and then making shrewd suggestions where necessary. He snorted. No doubt Great-uncle Samuel would be proud of her now.

When he had finally ascertained that he had dealt
with all the bills for the last month he gave his secretary directions for settling them and ordered his curricle to be brought around.

He returned an hour later with an oddly shaped parcel under his arm and a spring in his step as he went in search of Meg. Delafield informed him that he believed the mistress to be in the drawing room.

Upon entering the drawing room, Marcus thought that either Delafield must have made a mistake or that Meg had left the room. It appeared to be empty at first glance. He was about to leave when an odd circumstance caught his eye. The crimson drapery on the pedestal table was half off. Startled, he went to investigate.

And found Meg lying unconscious behind the table, half-covered in the drape, her face white. For a moment he was frozen in shock and then with a strangled groan he dropped the parcel on the table and knelt beside her, gathering her into his arms. He lifted her effortlessly and carried her to the sofa to lay her down upon it as though she might break.

Chafing her hand, he said, ‘Meg, sweetheart. What’s wrong? Meg?’

Her eyelids fluttered open. ‘Where…what happened?’ She looked completely dazed, her eyes unfocused.

‘Are you all right, Meg?’ He held her comfortingly against his shoulder.

‘Y…yes. I felt so strange…and then…I was looking out the window and I turned to hold on to the table…’ She sounded very puzzled.

‘You must have fainted,’ he said worriedly. She just wasn’t getting enough sleep, he thought. And what about the nightmares? ‘Meg…’ He was very hesitant. After all, they had only just made up their differences—
at least, he hoped they had. ‘Meg, how much sleep have you been getting? Have you been having nightmares, apart from the one you had last night?’

Her sigh of relief breathed through them both. ‘Every night,’ she whispered, with an involuntary shudder.

His arm tightened protectively as his eyes closed in pain at the thought of her waking up alone and scared, unable to come to him for comfort. ‘The night you came to find me—’

‘Yes. That was the first one.’ She began to cry softly. ‘I tried to bear it, Marc. But in the end I was so frightened to sleep that I just tried to avoid it as much as I could. Put off coming home…read…anything…anything but sleep…’

‘You’ll sleep in my bed from now on,’ he said quietly. She stirred in his arms. ‘No, don’t argue. There is nothing for
you
to be ashamed of. If I hadn’t been such a bloody fool that morning, this wouldn’t have happened. In fact, if I hadn’t been too top-heavy to think straight when I came up to bed that night I would have just got into bed with you. Instead of which I went back down to the library and spent a damnably uncomfortable night on the sofa!’

She twisted around to look at him. ‘You did
what?
’ Stunned disbelief echoed in her voice, all her tears suspended.

Shamefaced, he nodded. ‘Told you I was a bloody fool. The crick in my neck lasted for days!’

‘You mean you didn’t…you just let me think…’

He nodded again. ‘So, you see, I did deserve all the things you said to me. Even if not for quite the reasons you thought I deserved them for.’

They sat quietly for a while until Marcus bethought himself of the forgotten parcel and fetched it.

With a teasing smile he said, ‘I have something here for you, my sweet.’

She stared up at him, her heart pounding. He had something for her, for Meg. With hands that trembled, she took the package and unwrapped it on her lap. The coverings fell away and she sat dazed, staring at a silver teapot.

Lifting her eyes to his, she said huskily, ‘But we have lots of teapots…’ Her voice cracked with emotion.

His sounded wobbly too. ‘But this is for you, Meg. Just for you.’

Tears flooded her eyes. ‘For Meg? Not for Lady Rutherford?’ she whispered. And flushed scarlet. He’d think she’d lost her wits.

But with a groan he caught her into his arms, teapot and all, and said harshly, ‘It’s for Meg—from Marc.’ She could feel his lips on her hair, his arms warm and hard, holding her safely. It was just for her—for Meg, from Marc. Not something the Earl of Rutherford thought his countess ought to have to present a good appearance. She would not need to hide any longer.

As if he had read her thoughts he said, ‘Lady Rutherford may throw as much dust in the eyes of the
ton
as she can, but I want Meg.’ He held her at arm’s length and looked deep into her eyes.

‘Oh, Marc! I…’ Her heart nearly tore apart with the torrent of love that poured through it. The words were nearly out, when she remembered. He didn’t want to love. And despite all he’d said, he hadn’t said he loved her. She choked the words back. Forced them into submission. He was her friend again, her lover in only one sense.

‘Meg?’ His fingers had tightened on her shoulders. His eyes burnt into hers.

She forced herself to smile. ‘Then…then we are friends again?’

In his turn Marcus forced a smile. ‘Friends.’ He pulled her back into his arms and stared despairingly over her head.
Friends.
For a moment he had thought, had hoped, that she loved him. But she had drawn back. As he must. It was too soon to tell her how much he cared. He’d have to show her first, regain her trust.

Belatedly he remembered he’d suggested a drive in the park and reminded her of it.

‘Just the thing to bring some colour back to your cheeks,’ he said firmly, overriding her protest that she really didn’t feel at all the thing. ‘Fresh air will help,’ he insisted. ‘We’ll go to the Park. If we take Burnet, he can look after the horses while we have a gentle stroll.’

Meg argued no more. The thought that Marc wanted to spend time with her out of bed was too wonderful to be gainsaid. She vowed that this time she would do nothing to disturb the happiness she had been granted. It was too fragile.

Half an hour later in Marcus’s curricle, Meg was regretting profoundly that she had not been more assertive over her qualms about taking carriage exercise that morning. The rocking of the well-sprung vehicle on the cobbles was making her dreadfully queasy. Her stomach roiled in protest and she felt cold and clammy. Determinedly she gritted her teeth and tried to think of something, anything else. Marc, thank God, had his eyes on his horses and had noticed nothing amiss. If they could but reach the Park so that she could get down!

Finally, just as they turned into the Park, she could
control herself no longer and gasped, ‘My lord…Marc…stop! Please! I must get down…’

Marcus glanced down at her and swore. She looked about as green as the grass. There was a barouche directly behind them; he could not possibly stop in the gateway. Frantically he drove in and pulled his team over.

Before Marcus could so much as open his mouth, Burnet had let go of the straps, leapt from his perch and was at the wheelers’ heads. But Meg was even faster. The horses’s hooves had not stilled before she was on the carriageway, retching violently.

Marcus was beside her in a trice. ‘Meg! Why did you not say you felt so unwell?’ Dear God, was she really ill? Was it more than just a lack of sleep and unhappiness? And she had not told him!

Recovering slightly, Meg said, ‘Oh, Marc! I’m so sorry…in front of everyone!’

‘Damn and blast everyone!’ he said, to the intense delight of the Ladies Castlereagh and Sefton, who passed by in a barouche at that moment. ‘It’s
you
I’m worried about!’ He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her mouth gently.

Despite looking distinctly green, she smiled at him radiantly. ‘I shall be all right. I am always much better after lunch for some reason.’

He stared at her in disbelief as the implications of what she had said crashed in on him.
Always much better after lunch.
He could remember his mother being affected the same way—when she was increasing!

‘How…how long have you been feeling sick in the mornings, Meg?’ he asked very quietly.

She thought carefully. ‘A couple of weeks, maybe three.’

‘And you didn’t think perhaps you should mention this to me?’ He couldn’t believe that she would not have told him something of
this
magnitude. Even if they had been at odds! Exultation warred with shame that she had not told him.

‘Tell you I felt a bit sick in the mornings? Why?’ Meg was puzzled. Belatedly Marc remembered; in her experience, gentlemen were never interested when one was unwell. Samuel had never bothered with her, even when she broke an arm, and now she raised questioning eyes to his face. But it went further than that…she was not in the least flustered, just puzzled. Puzzled, for God’s sake!