24
Benedick was determined not to look back. He could feel her dark blue gaze on him, almost like a brand. Damn the woman! As if things weren’t bad enough.
“She’s a pretty bit of pastry, ain’t she?” Harry said appreciatively. “I never realized how tempting Charity might be.”
“Not tempting for you, my lad,” Benedick replied. “She needs a good man, and I know from old acquaintance that you are most definitely not he.”
“I beg your pardon!” Harry protested. “I’m an absolute lamb!” He giggled. “Not that she’s the mistress type. She’s the sort to get leg-shackled or I miss my guess. Not out for bit of hide-the-sausage.”
Benedick controlled his urge to glare at him.
“Exactly. Which is why I’m keeping my distance, as well.”
“It didn’t appear that way a few days ago…
Elsmere’s closet seemed put to good use.”
How could he have forgotten that little tidbit? The woman was scrambling his brains. He still had the garter he’d taken from her. For some odd reason he carried it with him. Perhaps to remind him of how much trouble she was. “It was enjoyable enough,” he acknowledged. “But you’re right, she needs a husband whether she realizes it or not, and you might have a difficult time escaping.”
It had been exactly the right thing to say. Harry shuddered. “Heavens! That’s the last thing I want.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, Rohan thought. “And I doubt she’d be to your liking between the sheets. Despite my best efforts she lay there stiff as a board, and if you think you could get her to do anything more than lie on her back you’d be sadly mistaken. She thinks mouths were meant for closed kisses and nothing more.”
Fortunately Harry was too much of a shatter-brain to notice that tonight was the first time in their decades-long acquaintance that Rohan had ever participated in gutter talk. “Good God,” Harry breathed. “I’d best steer clear of her. Next thing I know she’ll start putting out her lures toward me, especially if you’ve dropped her. In fact, I believe she already has tonight. I count this a fortunate escape. Thank you, old man. I appreciate the warning.”
Rohan bared his teeth in what should have been a smile. “It’s the least a friend could do.”
He finally allowed himself to turn then, to glance back at her, but there were too many people in the way, obscuring her divan. Probably surrounded by more fawning young men, he thought sourly. He couldn’t very well scare them all off—he’d have to count on her unstoppable energy to terrify the rest of them.
“Merton!” A voice came from behind him, light and affected, and he turned around to find himself looking down into Arthur Pennington’s bloodshot eyes. Pennington glanced at him and an expression of uneasiness came into his eyes, and Rohan wondered why. Did Pennington suspect they’d been in the tunnels at Kersley Hall? But how was that even possible?
“Rohan,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “Didn’t know it was you.”
“Your servant, Pennington,” he said politely. “Have you been keeping yourself busy?” It was a loaded question, but he could hardly hope Pennington was about to confess to all his debauched pastimes.
He was surprised. Pennington’s tight grin was positively salacious. “Indeed, I have. Not that it’s for public knowledge, but a few of us have been having quite a grand time…”
“Lord Elsmere’s attempting to gain your attention,” Harry said suddenly, then giggled. “Excuse me, Pennington, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
But Benedick was not about to let Pennington go if he felt inclined to be informative. “Harry, would you do me the great favor of seeing if Elsmere is interested in a game of cards?”
A look of unexpected frustration crossed Harry’s face, but then he smiled again. “Of course. I need hardly worry that you’d believe any of Pennington’s fairy tales.”
Pennington failed to look offended, probably because he hadn’t heard Harry’s deprecating comment. “In fact I need to talk to you,” Pennington said, his speech slightly slurred. “It’s important.”
Harry’s affability had vanished, a singular occurrence. Benedick didn’t remember when he’d seen Harry less than amused by life.
“’Bout my plague-y sister,” Pennington continued.
Did he imagine the lessening of tension surrounding him? But why would Harry be tense? He couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to be involved with the Heavenly Host. As far as he knew, Harry, for all his talk, didn’t particularly like women, and he was far too good-humored to be involved in such a furtive, ugly affair.
Normally he’d fob Pennington off with some excuse. The last thing he wanted to do was be pressured into making an offer for Dorothea. For someone who had seemed so promising a month ago she’d devolved into his idea of hell on earth. He’d take Melisande first.
No, he wouldn’t, he reminded himself. At least Dorothea would leave him alone. Melisande would cling to whomever she ended up with. She would hover and suggest and scream bloody murder if he strayed. She would love him, and the very thought filled him with complete horror.
He gave his version of an affable smile, and Pennington missed the cold glint in his eye. “What may I do for you, Pennington?”
“It’s m’sister, don’t you know,” Pennington said, straining to be affable. “She wanted me to chat you up, give you a little hint. She asked me to invite you to our country place this weekend, and I told her I was busy but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“And are you busy, Mr. Pennington?”
If anything he looked even more strained. Pennington might not be very nice, but he was far from bright, either. “I am, Lord Rohan. So you see, I can’t possibly invite you. But Dorothea wouldn’t hear of it. She’s not getting any younger, of course, and she’s got the personality of a viper.” He suddenly realized how that might sound to a prospective suitor, and immediately attempted to regain lost ground. “A pet viper,” he said hastily. “A very nice tame one. And only to her brother, of course. Sisters are the very devil.”
Benedick thought back to his own younger sister, married to the monster. If Miranda insisted on staying with someone so completely unsuitable she might at least have had the grace to be miserable about it, instead of ridiculously, breathlessly happy.
No, he didn’t want his sister miserable. He just didn’t want her with the Scorpion. But that was the least of his worries right now. “They are, indeed,” he said politely.
“But you’ll come the following week, won’t you? You’re the closest she’s come to an offer in years. Men seem just about ready to come up to scratch when she frightens them off. You don’t strike me as a man who frightens easily.”
If he offered for Dorothea this would be another idiot he’d have to rescue from the machinations of the Host, he thought, annoyed. And possibly his old friend Harry, as well. Three of them, as well as Melisande’s virginal trollop. He may as well do his best to bring down the entire organization—it would be easier than picking and choosing.
“I’m afraid your sister has read too much into my attentions,” he said quite formally. “While I hold her in great esteem I was not, in fact, contemplating making her an offer.”
Pennington bowed, taking his refusal politely. “I told her that,” he drawled. “Told her you were too smart not to see through her.”
“But I’m interested in this weekend, Pennington,” he went on smoothly. “I haven’t heard of any particular social event being held. Have I somehow been deemed unworthy of an invitation? I confess I’m not sure how I could have offended.” An arrant lie. He very often offended people, and while he regretted it, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about it. One thing he could say for Melisande Carstairs—she was remarkably difficult to offend.
“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” Pennington said, assessing him. “It’s…well, you know, these things are all hush-hush, secret society mumbo jumbo and all that. A bunch of us have revived a…er…fraternal organization, and we’re holding a little gathering this weekend. You’re welcome to join us.” The invitation was automatic, and then memory darkened Pennington’s countenance. “Except, of course, that it is a secret society, and we don’t let anyone in who hasn’t been thoroughly vetted.”
Benedick gave him his slow, cynical smile. “Are you telling me I wouldn’t pass the standards of this secret organization? I believe my family has been the making of it.”
For a moment Pennington lost his cool composure. “I could ask, of course. Can’t see the harm in it myself, but you never can tell. Some of the members are downright ridiculous. But then, it’s supposed to be a special gathering. Some dashed pagan holiday or suchlike. Can’t pay attention to that sort of thing. Best wait till the next time. I can bring up your name at the meeting and see if anyone has any objections.”
He could just imagine what his brother would say. “Indeed. Enjoy yourself then, Pennington. And give my regards to your sister.”
“Won’t do that… She’ll simply berate me again. Told her she should concentrate on old Skeffington. He’s got just as much blunt as you do, but he hasn’t got a title, and he’s sixty if he’s a day. Stands to reason she’d prefer you. Though I have to say the thought of my sister in bed with anyone is enough to send shivers down my back.”
“Pray, don’t think of it,” Benedick pleaded, a little horrified himself. “I look forward to hearing of her engagement.”
If Harry had seemed slightly odd earlier in the evening, he was all affability and silly stories during their card game with Elsmere and several others. He lost a great deal, but then, Harry had always had a tendency to play too deep and lose too much. At the end of the night Benedick had yet to wrest an invitation to the weekend’s festivities, no matter how many broad and subtle hints he dropped, no matter how decadent he tried to appear. There was no choice for it; he was simply going to have to show up. He wondered if he could still find the old monk’s robes that hung in his parents’ wardrobe. He never knew quite why, and when he’d asked his mother she’d blushed, a singular occurrence, and his father had changed the subject. He’d decided he’d rather not know.
Melisande had left by the time he emerged from the card room, and he felt a moment’s guilt, coupled with disappointment. He should have at least made certain she had an escort home. Clearly she’d taken care of it herself, and he should be relieved. He wasn’t. He’d been looking forward to sparring with her. To telling her he wasn’t going to touch her. Right before he did.
It was after two when he let himself into his house. The servants were all in bed. For once even Richmond wasn’t hovering. He took a candle and started up the stairs, his mind in turmoil. By the time he reached his rooms on the second floor he was yawning. His bedroom door was ajar, with faint light spilling out, and he closed it behind him, setting the candle down to unfasten his neckcloth.
And then froze as he realized he wasn’t alone.
She was sitting in the middle of his bed, waiting for him, and he stared at her in disbelief. She was wearing a nightdress, a warm, old-fashioned one, buttoned all the way to her neck, voluminous and practical. Her long, tawny hair was in two braids, and her face was scrubbed and clean. She looked like a schoolgirl ready for bed—all she needed was a stuffed doll to complete the picture.
“I’d almost given up on you,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was cold, clipped. He’d been trying so damned hard to do the right thing, and she was stopping him at every turn. He looked at her, and he was furious.
“I would think that would be obvious.” Clearly he’d done his job too well in assuring her she was desirable; there was only the faintest note of uncertainty in her voice.
“Do you really think appearing in a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night is a good idea? Men tend to be the ones who initiate these things.”
“Why?”
“Men have stronger appetites.” He watched her through slitted eyes.
“That’s ridiculous,” she announced. “You’ve already teased me on more than one occasion about my fondness for sweets.”
As if he’d needed any further proof of her innocence. “Not that kind of appetite, you little idiot. I’m talking sexual appetite.”
The word sexual made her blink, and he allowed himself an evil half smile. She wasn’t nearly as bold as she was trying to convince herself she was.
“But if women have weak…sexual appetites then how do you ever manage to have affaires? It seems terribly mismatched.”
“Those with strong appetites tend to drift together, just as couples with little interest in bedsport do, as well.”
“Which are you?” she inquired in a dulcet voice.
It was a weak attempt to rile him, and he didn’t allow himself to react. “I think you know perfectly well the extent of my sexual appetites, Lady Carstairs.”
“You called me Melisande before.”
“And clearly you mistook it for a carte blanche. How can I make this any clearer? Bribery won’t work. I’m not going to let you get involved in this mess any longer, and all the offers won’t have any effect on me. I don’t want you. I don’t desire you. You have nothing I look for in a mistress—you’re inexperienced and clumsy, and your choice of a life of continuing celibacy was probably a very wise decision. Now put your clothes on while I go summon my coach.”
He was almost at the door when he heard the sound. It was just a small noise, something choked back, and he paused. He who hesitates is lost, he thought. And turned.
He’d expected her to rage at him. He expected fiery eyes and flashing words and high dudgeon. Instead she looked as if he’d shot her puppy. Despite the silly high-necked nightgown, she looked stripped bare, whipped and broken, and he cursed his nasty, vicious tongue that he’d never been able to control.
She struggled, bravely, beautifully, giving him a ghost of her insouciant smile as she pushed back the covers. “You know, I think I’ve changed my mind.” She swung her legs over to the side of the bed, and he could see the strapping on one foot.
It was her toes that did it. He’d forgotten about her lovely, straight, pink toes. Absurd, because he never noticed women’s feet—there were always too many more interesting parts to observe somewhere to the north. It was the fragility of them. The humanity of them. He’d been sparring with her for days, thinking of her as an annoyance, entertainment, the enemy, and yes, a sexual toy.
Now she simply looked human, and shattered by his deliberately cruel words. They’d done what he’d intended. She would never come near him again, never look at another man.
And he couldn’t bear it.
He leaned back against the door, closing it again, and he reached behind his back and locked it, pulling out the key. “Too bad,” he said. “Because I’ve changed my mind, as well.”