3
Lord Andrew Framlington, fourth son of the Marquis of Framlington, in name only, hooked one arm over the back of the spindle chair and raised an ankle to settle on the opposite knee, modelling the pose of a dissipated rake. That was what he had been for most of his life. ‘The game is on with Pembroke’s little sister. I have settled on her. She is my choice,’ he told his friends.
‘Marlow’s ice maiden? Are you serious, Drew? The girl who freezes out all of dubious character?’ His friend Harry Webster’s speech slurred.
‘The same.’ Drew’s gaze passed around his small group of loyal friends.
Harry sat forward in his chair. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Yes, and as you know I have been improving my character.’ He smiled. They knew he had abstained from whores for nearly a year – the women to be paid. They did not know he had also kept away from whoring himself to the women who did the paying. ‘You will see. She shall be mine in a month, three at the most. I shall charm her into submission until she will be begging me to wed her.’
‘Knowing how women fall for you, she will be yours within a week,’ Mark Harper commented, as he tossed a four of spades onto the table, progressing their game of cards.
Drew looked at his cards. No spades. He would trump them all with a heart.
‘Didn’t Pembroke warn his little sister off you?’ Harry persisted.
‘He has warned her off every man with a speck of dust in his closet.’ Peter Brooke, Drew’s closest friend, smiled.
‘As if Pembroke can judge,’ Harry pressed. ‘That man is no saint, he is not spotless himself.’
‘But reformed,’ Drew answered. He un-looped his arm from the chair, leaned forward and set his card on the table, then looked at his friends, a wry smile twisting his lips. ‘Maybe the woman has a little contrary in her soul, though. Ever since he warned her off she has been watching me. Perhaps she just has a taste for risk or badness hidden beneath her cold denials. Or likes being naughty. Any of which appeal, they are all to my advantage.’
The group laughed.
Peter leaned forward and lay down his card. ‘Well, I would not cross Pembroke, or any of her family for that matter, they are too influential. Her father may be a second son but she calls a quarter of the House of Lords Uncle.’
Drew did not need reminding. Yet he intended winning her. He had waited a year, and given himself the time to be sure. He was sure. She had come back to town this season and her eyes had still searched for him across the ballrooms, and the first time he’d seen her again he’d felt slain. The girl was beautiful, rich, innocent and his best hope of constancy – and ever since the night he had danced with her, his thoughts were drawn to her. It was a physical feeling too, not simply a mental choice. She had lived with him for a year, in his waking and sleeping dreams.
But as certain as he was of his choice he was equally certain her family would not allow it. They would say no if he asked for her. His contrary streak itched. He did not like being told no. No was temptation. Like the girl running, it only made him want to chase. But he did not think she would run, not now – unless it was towards him. He smiled at his silent humour.
‘You are going to marry her then?’ Mark clarified.
‘I’ve no choice. The duns are on my tail. I need to marry money. She’s interested, available, and she has a fortune. Plus, she is remarkably pleasant to the eye.’
‘Pleasant…’ A sarcastic smile twisted Harry’s lips. ‘That is lacklustre. The girl’s the darling of society. Stunning. I would have a go at her if I thought I stood a chance, but she’ll not look twice at me. You, however…’
‘You have the looks and the knack, Drew,’ Peter expounded. ‘While we are left to petty jealousy.’
Drew laughed. ‘I have not won her yet, and you are as capable.’
‘We all know you will win her. I would not even waste a wager on it,’ Mark said.
‘The question is, what will you do with her when you have her?’ Harry grinned. ‘What on earth will you do with a wife?’
Drew looked past his friends at his small living quarters.
His rooms in the Albany were a decent enough bachelor’s residence, but he would need something more once he’d wed. He longed for a property of his own outside of London. It would need to be a place large enough to lose a woman in. In the last year, when he’d thought of marrying Miss Marlow he had never considered the detail beyond the wedding night and receiving the cheque. Nevertheless, once he’d wed, he’d have her dowry and he could buy whatever property he wanted, perhaps something with land, to make a profit from. She would understand that life and fill her time without his assistance.
His debts had swelled in the last year. Barely anyone allowed him credit now, and so he’d become increasingly reliant on Peter’s kindness. It unmanned him. But he refused to return to earning his living through sex.
But how the hell would he support a wife? The dowry would not last, and he had not one daisy petal of an idea how to manage land.
All the couples he knew spent their time cuckolding each other.
But that was why he had settled on Mary; he thought she was different from those women. He was also different from those men. He’d watched her family for a year. They were all in what society deemed love matches. Love! In his experience that word was false. A non-entity. People did not love. They used the word to wound and hurt.
His mother declared she loved the Marquis but cuckolded him constantly with younger men. While on the occasions the Marquis came to town he spent his hours with courtesans.
He had learned about their behaviour at fifteen, when one of his mother’s friends had initiated him into their world of fornication. Ten years on and society had not changed. But he had changed.
‘Drew, I am sure you’ll be well entertained in your bed, but you will not be saying goodbye to her come morning. I said, what will you do with her once you’re wed?’
He had no idea. Lock her away so she will not see other men. Or could he truly trust her. She was his best hope of fidelity. Though, theirs would not be a love match… He did not know how to love, he did not believe in it.
If this failed, perhaps he would follow his false father’s path and leave her to get on with it, find a country sanctuary for himself and rooms in town for her. At least he would have no debts.
Whisperings in his head said she would not be false. He hoped so hard for this… But that desire he was keeping secret from his friends. They thought him a pleasure-loving rogue with no deeper emotions.
God, how they’d laugh if they knew a man with his reputation idolised the Pembroke women for their lack of promiscuity.
He met Harry’s gaze, a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips. ‘The devil knows.’
‘Pass her on to me!’ Mark laughed. ‘I will entertain her when you are bored.’
Drew’s jaw stiffened, his hand itching to throw a punch. He shook his head in an adamant no, as he tossed down a card, another heart, the knave, and claimed the trick. He forced his shoulders to relax as he leaned forward and slid all the cards towards him.
‘Why not share, you’re hardly the monogamous type,’ Harry said with a smirk.
Drew tidied the cards into a pile, then looked at Harry and Mark. ‘I may not be. However, I require that quality in a wife, and if any of you lay a hand on her…’ his gaze fell on Peter too, ‘I shall call you out.’
They burst out laughing.
Drew did not. It was not a jest.
‘My God, Drew, have you fallen for her?’ Peter charged. He knew Drew too well. They’d known each other since they were six.
Drew pulled a face at him, calling him ridiculous. ‘No. That is hardly my style. I merely do not fancy being done to?—’
‘As you have done to others… Chickens coming home to roost, Fram?’ Harry threw Drew a broad smile.
‘I will not be made a fool.’ He admitted that much.
Let them know he would insist on a faithful wife. He just did not wish them to know how important it was, because that would make him appear weak and vulnerable.
* * *
A week had passed since the Jerseys’ garden party, a week to contemplate her foolishness. Yet no matter how stupid Mary knew it was, she had not ceased looking for Lord Framlington at every event. Her traitorous body refused to heed the frequent warnings of her conscience and her common sense.
As she walked into the crush of another ballroom, on her father’s arm, her eyes immediately identified her heart’s quarry.
He stood in the far corner, with his elbow on a marble bust, leaning forward and speaking with a beautiful blonde woman, the Marquis of Kilbride’s wife. Mary’s heart sank and she looked away before Lord Framlington felt her observation as he always did.
John is right. She had told herself so a thousand times in the last few days, and yet even as she said it her mischievous mind recalled the press of his lips and the feel of his hand cradling her breast.
Heat spread across her skin and awareness prickled along her nerves.
Why am I so attracted to him? This emotion never clawed at her when she looked at other men, and she had danced with dozens. It was just Lord Framlington her heart and body craved.
Ninny! her common sense screamed. But her senses still whispered Lord Framlington’s nearness.
He walked past without looking at her, barely feet away, as if he knew his proximity made her senses sing.
Mary held her father’s arm more firmly. I will overcome this attraction. There must be some man she could feel as much for. A man who did not have a wicked streak. Who she could trust not to treat her badly.
‘Miss Marlow, I would be extremely honoured if you will allow me this dance.’
Mary turned and faced Mr Gerard Heathcote, one of her devoted admirers. He bowed deeply. He was a wealthy merchant’s son who had courted her last season. Her family liked him. He was charming, in a genteel way.
He made her an offer last season. She had refused, saying it was too soon to settle on a husband. But that had been kindness. He was good-natured, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. But her heart craved dark brown locks and laughing brown eyes with a wicked glint.
However, Gerard was a good dancer and he’d become a friend, as had many of her beaux. But none of them were anything more. She felt nothing beyond like.
Mary swallowed back her growing impatience, letting go of her father’s arm. She offered her hand and Gerard drew her away. Usually she enjoyed dancing, but tonight it was one endless boring whirl.
When did I become jaded?
Since the rogue kissed me , she answered her thought.
From this moment on, unless Lord Framlington kissed her again her life would be dull.
* * *
Arms folded across his chest, with one hand loose, the stem of his wine glass dangling between his fingers, Drew watched the dance floor.
She was dancing again. Her hand held that of the young heir to the Earl of Warminster as she skipped along an avenue made by their set. It was a boisterous country dance. The boy was smiling as was Miss Marlow, brightly, giving her suitor her full attention and Drew none of it.
He was beginning to wonder if instead of increasing her interest he had jumped his fences with that kiss and made his horse bolt. He had not once caught her looking at him tonight. She was instead doing everything she could to avoid looking at him.
She spent the night amid a group of young people – a mix of her female friends and their beaux.
The boy she danced with laughed at every word she said. Drew suspected he would laugh no matter what she said, and undoubtedly Miss Marlow was bored. But even so, her eyes focused intently on her idiotic companion.
Irritation burned in Drew’s veins.
He expected Miss Marlow to at least come closer. He had even given her a clue earlier, by walking past her, suggesting a silent game they could play, passing close without touching, in secret acknowledgement. She had not picked up his gauntlet. She left it where it lay, kiss and all, and instead blatantly ignored him.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, silently seething. He had thought this the victory leg, but despite her youth and innocence Miss Mary Marlow was not going to be easily caught.
A challenge. He sighed, suddenly, letting the tension in his muscles ease with his outward breath. A challenge was like a chase, it whispered to his instincts. He liked to be challenged. What fun would there be in life if everything came easily?
Raising his glass of wine to his lips, as the dance ended, he watched young Warminster let go of her hand.
Immediately, her next partner came forward. She took her place in the line of the new set. Then her head turned and her gaze reached across the room. It was a scarce glance, only an instant, but in that instant their gazes collided. She had looked for him. She knew he was watching and she had known exactly where he stood.
The music began. She clapped to the rhythm, watching another couple skip along the middle between the line of women and men.
You will be my wife, Mary Marlow. You will. And you will beg me to make a marriage offer for you.
He was going to have to change his tactics, though. Perhaps she needed less subtlety and a little more urging.