8
Drew strolled into White’s, his gentleman’s club, seeking masculine company, a game of cards and conversation.
He found his friends in their usual place. Harry Webster, Mark Harper and Peter Brooke sat in the first salon.
‘Fram!’ Harry called. ‘I thought you were courting Miss Marlow.’
Drew smiled. ‘She is attending a musical soirée, a place where it is impossible to pursue the chase.’
His friends laughed. Drew signalled to a footman to bring him a glass of brandy.
‘How goes the seduction?’ Mark asked when Drew sat beside him.
‘If it were simply seduction it would be done, but as I am seeking a wife the game is more complex. Despite allowing me certain favours, Miss Marlow has given not a single indication she will agree to become my wife.’
‘Favours?’ Peter smiled.
‘Do tell,’ Harry said.
Drew leaned back into the winged leather chair, letting his hands rest on the arms and grinned. ‘I will not tell and tarnish the reputation of my future wife.’
‘Your brother tells all about his wife.’ Harry returned the grin, smiling for a different reason.
Drew looked over his shoulder. Sure enough his eldest brother sat a distance behind him, accompanied by their brother-in-law, Lord Ponsonby. Ponsonby had married Drew’s eldest sister. Neither man was an example Drew wished to emulate. His grin became a sneer.
The only member of his family who had not broken their marriage vows was Caro. However, her husband, the Earl, frequently did. Kilbride had a violent streak too, which poor Caro constantly lived in fear of.
Caro was the only member of his family Drew felt close to.
Drew turned his sneer on Harry.
‘I take it you will not then,’ Peter quipped.
Drew looked at his best friend. ‘Definitely not.’
The others laughed.
A footman appeared with a tray bearing Drew’s brandy. Drew took his drink, and sensing something, looked to the room. His eldest brother was now looking at Drew.
Drew lifted his glass, in a mocking salute, his teeth grinding. His whole body was in a state of restlessness as he waited for each minute to pass until he would meet Miss Marlow tomorrow evening.
* * *
Mary hurried along the garden path on light feet, nervous that the lichen on the paving may stain her satin slippers. They were made for dancing not walking through gardens.
She had left at the commencement of a set of six dances, which were to be danced with one partner, hoping her family would think she was dancing and not notice her absence. They were engaged in conversation, not looking about the room.
Her hosts had not intended that people stroll in the garden; there were no lanterns lighting the way. But the moon did its best to break through the clouds, its light shining through the shrubbery that arched above her, creating variated patches of light.
The path turned a corner and faced the glasshouse. There he was, at the end of the path. A gap in the clouds meant the moon shone all its light on him. Etching his figure in light and shade. He looked a little menacing in the darkness, she ought to be afraid. She only knew him by reputation and that was bad. Yet she had never felt so pulled towards someone, and her instincts about people had always been right in the past.
‘Miss Marlow.’ He stepped forward.
Her heart skipped and her stomach spun like a top. She had no appetite since she had last seen him and her thoughts had danced reels preventing sleep.
She had to end this. But she wanted to be alone with him one last time.
His lips lifted into a smile when she reached him. His hand rose and his fingertips touched her cheek. He had removed his gloves. ‘I was not sure you would come. You’ve barely given me a glance this evening.’
She smiled too but removed his hand from her face. It left her holding his hand. He glanced down and laced their fingers.
‘I did not want my family to suspect anything. I am in the mire for speaking to you in the park.’
His other hand rose to the back of her neck as his head bowed and he twisted her arm behind her back with their joined hands so her body arched forwards as his lips pressed against her. The kiss was beautiful. She was short of breath when it ended.
He was short of breath too.
His dark eyes held her gaze. ‘We should go inside in case someone walks this way.’
She had forgotten the risk. ‘Yes.’
With their hands still joined, he led her into the large glasshouse and closed the door. If she believed John, Lord Framlington thought nothing of her; he only cared for her money. Yet, the gentle hold on her hand claimed her. It said he treasured her, that this was not a meaningless liaison.
Orange, lemon and lime trees in terracotta pots lined the pathways, and the scent of warm earth merged with the floral aroma of citrus blossoms.
He turned and faced her. Moonlight reached through the glass and painted him in silver. His smile shone in his eyes. He stepped back a pace, then another, pulling her with him, leading her deeper into the glasshouse. ‘Has the exemplar Miss Marlow fallen from her pedestal?’ he said, teasing.
‘Perhaps a certain lord has pulled her from it.’
His smile broadened. ‘I am sure it was deadly dull on it.’
Yes. It was. And lonely at times. Perhaps she’d been ripe for his temptation. She could not justify feeling lonely in a large loving family but she had no space to be an individual, to discover who she was without them. Sometimes she felt like a marionette puppet, dressed up to perform at parties.
She looked beyond him, not voicing her disloyal thoughts.
A small wrought-iron table stood on a paved area among the plants, with a few chairs gathered about it.
Lord Framlington raised their joined hands, brought her fingers to his lips and kissed the back of them. His dark eyes gleamed. ‘May I remove your gloves?’
She nodded.
He freed the button at each wrist, then pulled each fingertip loose before he stripped off one glove then the other. He tossed them onto the table behind him. Beautiful sensations skipped up her arm as his lips pressed on her bare knuckles.
Was everything which felt good wicked?
His lips pressed a light kiss on each of her fingertips.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
When his lips reached her little finger, he sucked the tip gently.
She pulled her hand from his. ‘You should not do this.’
‘You should not be here.’ His voice was deeper than usual. ‘But you are.’ His hands rested on either side of her waist.
She was suddenly aware of the danger she faced. They were a long way from the house. No one would hear her cry out if he forced himself on her.
Her heart raced harder. She held his arms and felt the strength of the muscle beneath his clothes.
‘You do not trust me.’ It was a statement, not a question.
She did not. How could she? ‘I barely know you.’
‘Apart from your brother’s tales.’
She nodded.
The moon struggled to break through the cloud again, and he stood in shadow. What had seemed an enchanted place suddenly felt like a scene from a gothic horror novel.
‘I shan’t hurt you. Don’t heed him. Mary, darling, I want you to be my wife, why would I hurt you?’
‘I… I…’ She struggled to find the words.
His gaze dropped to her lips. She turned her head, so he could not kiss her. He kissed her cheek instead.
A tremor raked her muscles as his lips touched her earlobe, then her neck.
‘Why does John dislike you?’
His head lifted. ‘He sees himself in me. He was not always so saintly. He had an affair with my eldest sister.’
‘No…’
He smiled. ‘Yes. I suppose he never mentions that. He cuckolded Lord Ponsonby, not that I think Ponsonby cared. It was when we were in Paris.’
‘You were in Paris with him…’ His palms felt heavy on her waist.
‘Yes.’
John had spent seven years abroad. She wrote to him, but he had rarely replied and she had been too young to hear much of how he lived. He married Kate soon after his return.
‘If you do not believe me, ask him. I doubt he would lie. A young man’s recklessness is part of life – a part your brother now claims to be above. I am the same as him, beyond my lack of wealth.’
‘But your reputation.’
‘Ignore it. Your brother had a reputation. Now he has a wife. This is about us, no one else. You and I are all that counts.’
‘Only because you need my money.’
‘What I need right now, Mary, is not your money. I need you.’
Turbulent emotion writhed inside her.
When his lips touched hers, longing overrode everything. She forgot doubt, responding as his tongue slipped past her parted lips. When his tongue withdrew, she dared to slide her tongue into his mouth. He caught it lightly between his teeth, for an instant, before sucking it deeper.
It was so intimate…
Her fingers combed through his hair.
I love you. The words whispered through her thoughts unbidden. She did, though, she loved him, no matter what John said, no matter the risk. She loved him.
His lips left hers and pressed a path of kisses along her jaw, then down her neck.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, against her skin.
She shivered. ‘And rich,’ she whispered into the air, forcing her mind to stay aware.
His head lifted and a soft laugh left his lips. ‘Yes, you are rich, but there is far more to you than money.’
His hands rose, and his fingers gently tugged the short sleeves of her gown down from her shoulders, the neckline hung loose and her bodice sagged. His gaze dropped to her breasts, in the moment before his heated palms cupped them.
Mary’s mouth dried. She looked up and saw a faint image of them reflected in the glass. His dark hair against her pale skin, as his lips touched the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse flickered.
His fingers slid beneath the fabric and embraced her breasts.
A sweeping sensation plunged through her middle. She ached for him.
He eased one breast free as his head lowered, then his lips covered her nipple, his tongue cradling her, and he sucked.
Her bones dissolved and her fingers curled into his hair, as she watched the mirror image above them. This was wicked, but delicious; the sensations more intoxicating than wine.
Still sucking her breast, his hands began lifting her dress.
Cold realisation drenched her, he was not going to stop. ‘No.’ She grasped his shoulders and pushed him away. ‘No.’ She had not lost all sanity.
His gaze cut through the darkness as his fingers let her dress fall, his heavy breaths echoing around the glass.
‘Mary…’
She would have stepped back but his hands cupped her buttocks and held her closer, pressing the column of his erection against her stomach through their layers of clothing. ‘See what you do to me.’
‘Let me go.’ She pushed his shoulders.
He conceded and stepped back. ‘You have no need to be afraid of me.’
Her fingers shook as she righted her bodice and lifted her sleeves, unable to look at him.
‘I would not hurt you.’ The tone of his voice had hardened as John’s did.
Fear lashed out. What if her instinct was wrong? She had good cause not to trust him. It was not only John who thought ill of him, he was an outcast, ignored by most.
‘For God’s sake, Mary.’ His pitch lifted to anger.
Her chin tilted to a defiant angle. She must stop this now. ‘I will not meet you again.’
‘I did not hurt you,’ he insisted.
She stepped away. This was the end. ‘I did not say you did, but I cannot do this. I will not meet you again. I won’t hurt my family. I cannot keep betraying their trust.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ he shouted.
‘I came to tell you it has to stop.’
‘If that was your intent, you took your time saying so. You came to be made love to,’ he growled.
Mary held up a hand, warning him to stay away. ‘Love has nothing to do with this. I am no fool either, Lord Framlington. You may convince me you are attracted to me but you will not persuade me this has anything to do with love.’
At least not on your part.
That was the saddest thing, because she knew now she loved him. She had probably fallen at the first sight of him.
* * *
Moonlight broke through the clouds and caught in Mary’s eyes.
Pain shone there.
He’d said he would not hurt her, but he could see he had. He thought of Caro and himself as children. The only time when perhaps he could compare his feelings to understand Mary’s, when he had cared more deeply for someone other than himself. It had always hurt more to see Caro beaten than being beaten himself.
Damn , he was unused to women with a heart – a woman who knew love. A woman who’d been surrounded by it her entire life.
His error glared him in the face. He should not have wooed her with passion. It was not her body he had to persuade – it was her heart. She wanted to be loved. Of course she did.
‘Andrew,’ he stated bluntly. Why had he given her his full name? He always introduced himself as Drew.
Her chin tilted higher, reminding him of her brother’s stubborn countenance.
How the hell do I make you love me?
‘What?’ Her tone rang sharp.
She did not even know his name. He’d wooed her physically and not even let her in so far as to tell her his name.
His voice lowered to a calmer pitch. ‘My name is Andrew, although most people call me Drew. I think you should stop calling me Lord Framlington.’
She looked confused. Perhaps she also realised how many favours she had allowed him without even knowing his name.
‘Would you say it?’ His voice held the undercurrent of the desperation humming in his blood. He could not let her walk away. Everything hung on him winning her. The idea had fermented in his head for so long, he could not choose anyone else, not now. He could not bear to be with anyone but her.
She took a breath. ‘Andrew. Though, Drew suits you better. It has a dangerous ring to it.’
A fist gripped hard and firm in his gut, and warmth seared in his chest.
‘You deem me dangerous… I’m not the devil, Mary, just a man. A man who wants you to be his wife and wake up in his bed every morning. And when we retire each night I’ll make love to you, slowly and thoroughly, so you will know it is not a marriage solely for money.’
Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. But he knew he could not progress. He needed to regroup and think of a new strategy. One that would win her heart.
Damn . He knew nothing about love.
But if she came to love him, he’d rejoice. It was what he wanted – a faithful, committed wife. He had no idea how Mary would fare once they were wed, but surely if she loved him it could not go awry.
‘If you need to be loved, I will love you, I swear it. I am half in love with you already.’ It was surely true, the emotions inside him were a turmoil of desperation, need and hope.
Her eyes turned cold. ‘Or half in love with my dowry.’
The stubborn insistence that he only desired her money made him angry. ‘You were right earlier, you do not know me. Money is not everything to me.’ He picked up her gloves and thrust them at her.
She took them. ‘I must go.’
He caught her elbow before she could leave. ‘Next time?—’
‘There will be no next time!’ Her elbow pulled from his grip, and then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness.
Bloody hell , he had lost more ground than he had gained tonight. If she would no longer come to him then how the hell was he to progress? He could not approach her, that would make her family suspicious. They would remove her from town.
When he left the glasshouse, he did not bother heading back to the ball. He needed to drink, and think, and the best place for that was at his club.