Wicked Under the Covers, page 28
“No, I did not bed the lady. After being with you, my jewel, all ladies pale in comparison.” He anticipated her next question. “Aye, I kissed her, and kissed her well, for it had to be convincing. Lady Hipgrave had to believe I was following her dictates even if she had yet to lure me into her bed. I found no pleasure in it, though I would have kissed her again if it spared you the anguish she had planned for you. How long are you going to punish me for trying to protect you?”
The door burst open partway and struck the harpsichord. A disharmony of chords vibrated within its case. The duke howled in outrage that his men had struck the expensive instrument.
Fayre flinched as the door continued to batter the side of the harpsichord. “Maccus, I am not punishing you.”
“Really? You tossed my brooch at my face and ordered me out of your coach. What do you call that?”
“Being sensible!” she shouted back. “After Lord Standish, I never thought I could trust another gentleman.” Fayre stood up and gestured broadly with her hands. “And then you convince Lord Yemant to introduce us. My life has not been the same since you entered it. I am not the same person.”
The footmen shoved the harpsichord aside and charged Maccus. The duke looked mournfully at his damaged instrument before training his fuming gaze on the man responsible.
“Hold, sir,” His Grace ordered, withdrawing his cutlass from its scabbard and tossing the sheath aside.
Maccus ignored the older man’s command. He had too much to lose if he was captured now. Punching one of the footmen and dodging the lunge of the second, he grabbed Fayre’s wrist and pulled her toward the door.
“Not again,” she muttered, mildly exasperated by Maccus’s determination to drag her from room to room. Her father sliced the air with his cutlass as they passed. Fayre shrieked as his blade barely missed her and was buried deep into the gilded case of the harpsichord.
This insanity had to end. Her father had almost be-headed her in his attempt to halt their escape. Maccus weaved them through the growing crowd of spectators—made up of servants—and down the corridor. Fayre was certain she had heard one of the grooms placing a wager with the cook on the outcome. Maccus bundled her into the library and turned the key. Crossing her arms, she watched him build a barricade with a large desk and several upholstered chairs.
“Enough, Maccus. Between your antics and my father’s we shall not have a single usable door,” she said, frustrated by his stubbornness. “Let us end this now.”
“No!” he said, adding another chair to the growing tangle of furniture. “I won’t let you cut me out of your life, Fayre. I love you. You love me.”
She expected arrogance from him, but his confidence regarding her own feelings was galling. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Brawley.”
He curtly nodded. When he approached her, she expected him to haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless, demonstrating the passion between them. Instead, he walked by her and selected another chair. “I am. You wanted to murder me for kissing Lady Hipgrave.”
It was unwise of him to mention the countess. Her hands curled at her sides. “On the contrary, I wanted to murder Lady Hipgrave. You, on the other hand, I wanted to maim.”
Maccus hesitated at his task of fortifying his barricade. “Only a woman in love contemplates violence for a minor transgression.”
She suspected he was deliberately provoking her. Still, she could not refrain from replying to his taunt. “It was a major transgression. One I still might maim you for.”
Setting the chair down, he came after her. “Marry me, Fayre.”
She stumbled back, distancing herself from him and his unexpected proposal. “W-what? No, you do not want to marry me.”
“I don’t?” He studied her through his lowered lashes. “There is an enraged father beyond the door preparing to separate my head from my body at first opportunity. Why would I risk my life?”
Her mind was blank. “Pride?”
He lightly caressed her face. “I risk everything because without you I have nothing.”
“You exaggerate, sir,” she protested, backing away. “You may have a fondness for me, enjoy our lovemaking, but I am not the woman you seek to marry.”
There was a flash of pain in his gray eyes. “You still do not trust me.”
It troubled her to see that she had hurt him. Maccus did not understand that she had to protect herself. She had fought her feelings for him for so long because they bared her soul and gave him the power to shatter her. “It is not about trust. Maccus, despite your attempts to keep your past hidden, I have come to understand you. You are arrogant, ruthless, and ambitious.”
He sighed resignedly. “They are not very noble qualities.”
“I disagree.” She took up his hand and frowned, noticing the bloodied nicks and scratches. “You needed strength to escape the shackles of a dark dangerous past I cannot even begin to fathom. I can admire that part of you.”
His gaze felt like a caress as it moved over her face. “I will never be completely free of my past, Fayre, though God knows I’ve tried. My father and brother will always remind me that the life I have built for myself here is an illusion.”
Fayre placed light kisses on his superficial wounds. “It is not an illusion, Maccus. You became the man you desired to be. You have found a place in the polite world; have earned respect and admiration from your new friends. Within you I have discovered more compassion and honor than could ever be found in a dozen Lord Standishes. You just have to learn to reconcile that Mac the smuggler also resides in you.”
Maccus’s fingers tightened around her hand. “Is that why you won’t marry me? You can’t accept my less than noble past?”
“No. Your past does not trouble me,” she replied truthfully.
“Then it is my family that you can’t bear.”
Hours earlier she had stood almost in the exact spot while his father waved a pistol in her direction. She was certain he was harmless. At least he had threatened her with an unloaded weapon. “I like Trevor just fine. He is young and needs someone other than your father to guide him. As for Seamus—”
Maccus pulled her up against him. Staring keenly into her eyes, he asked, “Will you have me as husband if I promise to keep them out of your way?”
“An admirable promise.” She grinned at the sudden heated pounding at the door. “Though not very practical. Family has a way of intruding on one’s life, usually uninvited.”
He did not think her observation was humorous. “What can I say to convince you? I love you, Fayre.”
Her heart flared to life beneath her breast at his words. It hurt to know she did not deserve them. She released his hand. “Please, now you are being cruel.”
He circled around her and refused to allow her to walk away from him. From them. “I am being cruel by telling you that I love you?”
Maccus would not be satisfied until she spoke her fears aloud. “Yes, because I know I am not the lady you desire.”
His temper blazed at her confession. “What nonsense is this? Not desire you? My lady, I have made love to you so many times my cock hardens just at the thought of you.” As he rubbed his hands up and down her arms, his face softened. “I love everything about you; your eyes glazed with passion, the sweetness of your smile; even your tenacity when the odds are against you as they are now. Marry me.”
She felt her resolve weakening. In defense she blurted out, “What about your perfect paragon, your virtuous lady, the one without a scandalous past? The one you saw sitting primly at your table and bearing your heirs? The wife you desired and have been discreetly seeking within the ton?”
Understanding lightened the harsh lines in his face, filling his gaze with hope. “Fayre, my love, you are everything I hoped for in a wife.”
“I have a past.”
“As do I,” he reminded her softly. “We belong together. Marry me.” He dug into his watch pocket and revealed the brooch he had given her. “On this brooch, I make a promise to you, Lady Fayre Carlisle. No man will ever love his lady as much as I do. Marry me, and make me the richest man in England.” Maccus pinned the brooch onto the bodice of her dress.
Fayre stared up at his handsome face in wonder. He loved her. Not for her family or their influence, but just her. Even now, she saw the fear and strain in his expression because he expected her to reject him.
An ax broke through the paned window. Withdrawing, the head of the ax reappeared and knocked away bits of wood and jagged glass shards. Maccus instinctively placed himself in front of Fayre and the window. The Duke of Solitea was armed like a brigand with a cutlass in one hand and a loaded pistol in the other.
Keeping the pistol aimed at Maccus, her father stepped through the opening. “I have had enough of this idiocy. Stand down, sir.”
Fayre had faced too many pistols for one evening. Moving in front of Maccus, she ignored his quiet, urgent order for her to remain behind him. “Papa, you cannot shoot Mr. Brawley.”
His Grace snorted at her imperial request. “I disagree. If you move to the side, I can adjust my aim.”
Maccus kept trying to move around her, but she held her position between the two men she loved. Undeterred, Fayre glanced sorrowfully at her father. “He has ruined me, Papa. I have to marry him.”
The duke roared and in his shock inadvertently discharged the pistol. Fortunately, his aim was a little wide. The bullet missed Fayre and Maccus but put a sizable hole in the door. That was the fourth one destroyed that evening.
20
Sitting in her dressing room, Othilia read the missive that had arrived that morning from her husband, Lord Hipgrave. The earl was demanding that she return to the country immediately. It was the third such command she had received from him in the past fortnight.
“At the zenith of the season? The man is not only old, he is insane,” she scoffed, tearing the paper in half and tossing the pieces into the hearth. Othilia sat down at her writing table.
She had not replied to his previous letters, and she sensed his increasing impatience. It was prudent to respond to this particular letter. Picking up her pen, she pondered what excuse she could offer her husband that would persuade him to allow her to remain in town. After all, she was having too much fun in London to leave, especially now that she had Maccus Brawley within her grasp.
Mr. Brawley was an unparalleled specimen of manhood. She adored his eyes. He had an intense manner of looking that had her toes curling within her slippers. The man made even Lord Standish, who had always been beautiful and virile in her opinion, seem effeminate in comparison. At first glance, Othilia had desired them to be lovers. However, she had refrained from acting impulsively. Maccus Brawley was his own master. He was not one to be led by his desires, nor would he permit a mere woman to rule over him. Handling him had taken delicacy and with relish she anticipated the day desire would overrule his instinctive caution and they became lovers.
Othilia stared at the blank paper on the desk and sighed. She could hardly explain to her husband that she was awaiting the lovemaking of another man. Perhaps she should write that she was still indisposed due to the complications of the miscarriage she had told Lord Hipgrave she had suffered. The internal workings of the female body were a mystery to most gentlemen. Since he abhorred speaking of delicate matters, if she worded her letter cleverly the earl would readily agree that she should continue her recuperation in London.
Then she could dedicate the rest of the season to Maccus Brawley. Soon he planned to cruelly end his brief dalliance with the Carlisle chit. Othilia was certain the grief and gossip about two ill-fated love affairs would send Lady Fayre Carlisle into seclusion at her precious Arianrod. The Duke of Solitea would have to face that his daughter had played the whore for his ex-mistress’s lovers. Othilia planned to spread the dreadful news throughout the ton with Mr. Brawley at her side.
Later, when they were alone in her bed, Othilia intended to lavish her appreciation on the man for his immeasurable assistance in her revenge against the duke. Naturally, she would give up Lord Standish. As lovely as the man was, he was faithless and lacked the ambition she admired so in Maccus Brawley. Only last evening, she had overheard several gentlemen discussing Standish’s abominable play at the gaming tables. It was only a matter of time before the Marquess of Pennyfeather cut his son’s purse strings. An impoverished second son was positively unworthy of her attentions, she decided, mentally discarding her former lover without remorse. Her thoughts returned to Maccus Brawley. She wondered if he was a possessive lover? She squirmed in her seat just at the thought of him claiming her.
The blank page gleamed at her.
Tapping the pen against the inkwell, she grimaced. Lord Hipgrave would not be put off forever about begetting his heir on her. Othilia shuddered, recalling his last clumsy fumbling in her bed. She had actually praised him for his prowess, when in truth all she had wanted to do was be sick. If she gave him a son, then she would be free to indulge her whims far away from the old fool.
Othilia tilted her head in contemplation. Perhaps there was a way she could satisfy both her and Lord Hipgrave’s desires. As she tucked her fist under her chin, her lips turned upward into a devious smile. What if she were already carrying Hipgrave’s heir when she returned to him? Of course, she could not reveal her delicate condition until she had shared her husband’s bed once or twice. It was positively wicked of her to consider birthing a changeling as the true Hipgrave heir. Though her husband deserved what he got for being so old and disagreeable. Othilia happened to know the perfect gentleman to sire the Hipgrave heir, too. Maccus Brawley was as ruthless as she was. She imagined if she confessed her daring plot to him, Mr. Brawley would enthusiastically dedicate himself to the task. The man had few weaknesses, but she had immediately sensed he was bothered by his own ignoble birth. The notion of his son being heir to an earldom would be a temptation few gentlemen could resist. Othilia placed her hand over her womb. Perhaps today she should seek out Mr. Brawley so they could begin their pleasurable alliance.
The door opened behind her. “I told you that I did not want to be disturbed,” she snapped in irritation.
“Forgive me, madam. Lord Hipgrave said that he waits for no lady, especially his wife,” her maid said, stepping aside for the earl’s entry.
“Good morning, wife,” her husband said gravely, looking about her dressing room. “I pray I have not disturbed you.”
Othilia placed the pen in its holder and rose to greet her husband. She curtsied and kissed him boldly on the cheek. “My lord, this is unexpected. I just received a missive from you this morning and was preparing to reply.” She gestured at the blank paper on her writing table.
The earl meandered about the room. “Then I have saved you the chore. I assume you were complying with my wishes and have alerted the staff to pack your belongings.” He opened the door to her bedchamber and peered inside.
She suppressed a frisson of panic. Lord Hipgrave was acting suspiciously, as if he expected her not to be alone. “My lord, I have not recovered fully from the loss of our child. I had hoped to remain in London with your permission.”
“It is with regret that I must refuse you, Othilia, though it pains me to deny you since you have suffered so for both our sakes.”
She demurely lowered her gaze and sniffed. “I pray you will forgive me for my inadequacies, my husband.”
“As I hope you will forgive me mine, dear wife. Someone reminded me that I have been remiss in my attentions to you. Cast in that harsh light, I have come to make amends.”
The man lived in an uncivilized part of the country. There was not a soul within miles of the estate except for the servants. Had someone in town been corresponding with her husband? “Who has filled your head with falsehoods, my lord? You have been the kindest of husbands.”
Leaning heavily on his walking stick, he waved away her protests. “It is considerate of you to spare my feelings. However, I am prepared to do my duty by you. I have already alerted your staff of our departure this afternoon.”
He was taking her away from London, from the life she adored. “Afternoon,” she echoed weakly.
Lord Hipgrave’s somber features were resolute. “Once we have returned home, I shall summon the finest physician to examine you. A month of rest should heal the residual ills plaguing you. With the physician’s blessing on your good health I shall return to your bed, dear wife, and endeavor to fill your arms with the children I had promised you on the day we wed.”
Othilia wanted to stamp her foot in indignation. She did not want to retire in the country with an old goat of a husband. If he was planning to give her a month to improve her health, why could she not remain in London? She opened her mouth to propose such an option. Something in his level gaze prevented the words from escaping. Lord Hipgrave was staring at her, not with the blind adoration he had always given her, but with cold derision. Somehow he knew that she had taken lovers while in town. He was keeping her under a physician’s watchful eye for a month to insure that she was not with child before he began filling her womb with his own.
A lump formed in her throat. “My lord, if I may explain—”
Her husband patted her cheek. “There is nothing to explain or apologize for. I blame myself for your careless ways, Othilia. A babe in your arms and a quiet life in the country will keep you out of mischief.”
Genuine tears blurred her eyes. Her earl planned to keep her locked in a gilded cage for the rest of her life. Whoever had warned her husband of her faithlessness had been ruthlessly thorough in their revenge. Her life was ruined. Othilia could not help but wonder if Lady Fayre Carlisle had finally gained the revenge she had promised months earlier at Mewe Manor.
Maccus stood in the middle of the Duke of Solitea’s conservatory contemplating his fate. He had slept little since Fayre had announced to her father that Maccus had ruined her. The duke had taken the announcement better than most, Maccus supposed. Instead of shooting his daughter’s seducer, he murdered yet another door. The notion that his daughter had narrowly missed his blade and the shot he had fired had subdued His Grace’s temper swifter than any explanation either he or Fayre could have offered in their defense.
