Kitabı oku: «The Wager», sayfa 2

Chapter Two

He was standing in front of one of the tall windows, looking out at the beautiful wild grounds, holding a teacup and saucer in his hand. The juxtaposition of savagery and civilization was curiously duplicated by the gentleman himself.

Mr. Peter Desmond was dressed in an elegant suit of clothing, of meticulous fit and the finest materials. The pants and jacket were so dark a blue as to be almost black, and the crisp white cravat and shirt were as representative of polite society as the delicate bone-china teacup he held.

But when he turned and looked at Marianne, his face and expression were as untamed and breathtaking as the scene outside the window.

He studied her for a moment without speaking. She was standing in a wash of variegated light, where the sun shone through a loosely woven lace curtain. Her traveling suit was of a light tan shade, to camouflage any dust clinging to the skirt or jacket, and with her dark golden hair and wide green eyes, she reminded him of a jungle cat. A young lioness, carefully stepping from the underbrush to suspiciously survey the landscape before her. The scene through the window behind her completed the image, with its suggestion of a tropical forest.

Her bosom rose and fell quickly and she watched him closely, a nervous creature ready to either attack or flee, depending on his next actions. The idea made him smile ever so slightly.

Marianne did not need the position of light and shadow to enhance the impression she got from the man, of a wild beast about to pounce. This was not the kindly older gentleman she had pictured to herself, with snowy white hair and palsied hand waiting to greet her. He was tanned and dark, as muscularly broad as Uncle Horace was narrow. His dark hair was too long, and his eyes, roving deliberately over her person, were a great deal too bold. His nose was straight and would have been prominent on his face if his brows had not been so black or his jawline not so pronounced.

When he turned to her, his black brows were drawn together in a thoughtful frown, almost a glower. In a moment, his fierce expression relaxed ever so slightly, but she did not feel any easier. She felt defenseless and somehow exposed as she stood before him, and the word that came to mind to best describe him was predator.

“Miss Trenton, how good of you to join me.” His voice was soft and low.

“Mr. D-Desmond,” she stammered. After a slight pause she remembered to execute an awkward little curtsy.

His smile deepened. The girl was perfect, just as Carstairs had described her. It was not Desmond’s habit, certainly, to gamble for young women, but doubtless among his varied business ventures Carstairs occasionally made certain “arrangements” between gentlemen visiting in the city and women of…free spirit. Desmond was amused that Carstairs had referred to her as his “ward.”

The proposition had intrigued him.

He had kept himself aloof from his neighbors since taking possession of Kingsbrook and so did not have any friends among the families living near him. When he was here on his estate he found himself virtually isolated from the surrounding community.

He did not regret the fact. He valued his privacy and saw enough of society in London and abroad to sate him. But the house did, on occasion, seem awfully silent, and it had occurred to him that having a woman in his home, in his bed, now and then, would compensate for any lack of ties to the local gentry.

Of course, bringing a mistress to stay with him in Kingsbrook would effectively bar him from any future ties with the local gentry, so just in case he ever wanted to court local favor, he could, as Mr. Carstairs had, present her as his ward. And she looked the part. From the outfit she wore, the style of her hair, even the youthful timbre of her voice, she almost seemed to be a schoolgirl.

“Come in, Miss Trenton. Sit down. Jenny has prepared an excellent tea for us. Let us not allow it to grow cold.” He motioned toward the short divan, and Marianne quickly sat, thankful for the offer to relieve the weight from the uncertain support of her knees.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Desmond joined her, in effect sitting down by her side.

“Tea?”

She nodded.

“Sugar? Milk? I do not see any lemon here. Shall I ring for Mrs. River?”

“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped. “Sugar and milk are fine. I like sugar and milk. I never put lemon in my tea. Well, sometimes I do, but I do not like it as well as sugar. And milk.”

“Sugar and milk it is then,” Desmond said, taking up a lump of sugar with silver tongs and pouring a measure of milk into the cup before passing it to her.

The cup rattled treacherously and Marianne set it down.

“And tell me, Miss Trenton…won’t you have a sandwich? Cress, I believe…how do you like Kingsbrook? Somewhat different from Londontown, is it not?”

Marianne, having taken one of the proffered sandwiches and bitten into it, could only nod.

“But then, that has been my goal. To make this place as unlike any town as possible.”

He smiled at her over his cup, and Marianne swallowed the bite of sandwich, which then became a heavy, solid lump in her throat. She swallowed again. “It appears you have succeeded,” she offered breathlessly at last.

“I hope you will not miss the bustle and noise of London,” Mr. Desmond said, his tone of perfect politeness not calming her nerves at all. “I find Kingsbrook very peaceful, though I suppose some could find the quiet oppressive.”

“Oh, not me, sir. I love the quiet, but then, Mr. Carstairs’s house was not frequented so often that it ‘bustled,’ anyway.”

Marianne gave a wavery smile, but Desmond had looked away. He did not want to hear about Carstairs nor the business that went on in his “house.”

“I see,” he said, choosing one of the tittle cakes from the tray Mrs. River had provided. He held the tray out to Marianne, but she shook her head. The idea of the colored icing mixing with the chewed watercress in her throat nearly made her gag.

“I hope by that you mean you will not find your change of abode too jarring,” Desmond continued, putting the tray down again.

“Not at all,” Marianne said, then, taking a breath, added, “in fact, I have been waiting the opportunity to thank you, Mr. Desmond, for your kindness in bringing me here. Kingsbrook is a lovely place and I shall endeavor to meet your expectations.”

“I am sure you will,” the gentleman said, smiling into her eyes and then allowing his gaze to slip down even farther.

“And you must tell me if there is anything I can do for you,” she offered.

“Oh, you may rely upon that,” he said, with a smile that did not brighten his dark eyes.

Another moment of silence ensued, during which he studied her and she studied her teacup.

“It was a long ride,” she mumbled at last, the only thing she could think of to say. “And warm. Very warm. Rickers warned me it would be warm today when he came this morning. And it was. And still is. Very warm. One does not notice it as much in the shade outside there, and, of course, inside here it is perfectly cool. But the ride itself was warm. And long.”

The dampness at her hairline would have seemed to refute her claim that the house was cool, but it, like her babbling, was a sign of her nervousness.

“Yes, I suppose the ride was exhausting,” the gentleman murmured, directly into her ear, so that his breath tickled the fine hairs at the base of her hairline. “You would probably like to rest and unpack before we get any better acquainted.”

“Yes. I…that would be lovely,” Marianne whispered. But she could still feel his breath on her neck and was not completely clear on what it was that would be lovely.

The gentleman smiled slowly. “Very well,” he said. He stood and offered his hand to assist her to her feet, a gesture that was not entirely superfluous, given her nervous state. “Rest yourself, Miss Trenton, and I will meet you at the supper table tonight.”

He reached behind her, and for one giddy moment Marianne thought he was going to embrace her. Instead, he pulled a cord hanging against the wall, hidden behind the draperies.

Mrs. River answered the summons promptly. “Mr. Desmond? You wished something?” she asked. She had stopped short the moment she entered the room and discovered the gentleman and the young woman in such close proximity, and her voice was decidedly chill.

“Miss Trenton is feeling exhausted after her trip from London. Take her upstairs and have Tilly or Alice draw a bath.”

“Certainly, sir. This way, Miss Trenton.”

Marianne left with Mrs. River, not sure if she would rather be in the company of the unfriendly housekeeper or stay with the unnerving Mr. Desmond. Either way, she suspected that by leaving Uncle Horace’s she had jumped from the frying pan directly into a roaring bonfire.

Following Mrs. River’s brisk orders, Tilly drew a bath, while Alice helped Miss Trenton unpack.

Tilly, the older maid, was a taciturn woman with lined face and dumpy figure. She did not even acknowledge Marianne’s presence. Alice offered her a shy smile when Mrs. River summoned her, but after a look at the housekeeper and her dour expression, the little maid withheld any other friendly overtures. With eyes downcast, she silently took the articles Marianne extracted from her bags.

Marianne regretted the coolness she sensed from the staff. But her rooms were very grand and the bath positively decadent in its luxuriance, and she tried to let her troubled thoughts float away with the fragrant steam. She followed the bath with a much-needed nap.

When Alice knocked on her door to announce dinner at half past eight, Marianne was already carefully dressed and prepared, if she ever would be, to dine with the master of the house.

Alice went ahead of her into the dining room, but passed through the door beyond, which led to the kitchen. Marianne found herself alone.

The long table was covered with white linen and set for two with china, crystal and silver, all shined so flawlessly that she could see the reflected image of her forest green gown as she paced, waiting for the disconcerting gentleman. The dining room was at the back of the house, and lined with long windows just as in the front. Darkness had fallen, and she could also glimpse her reflection in gaps between the imperfectly drawn drapes.

She was wearing one of the few dresses that she had brought from her home when she came to stay with Uncle Horace. As she touched the folds of the skirt, she remembered her mother saying it was too old for her, but that she would grow into it someday. And probably she would, though she had not yet. The sleeves were off her shoulders, the bodice was tight and the neckline dipped provocatively. It was a gown made for a mature figure, though with the aid of pins and tucks, and in the dim light, Marianne’s scant form appeared to fill it adequately.

Finally, after desperate thoughts began to present themselves about being left in here alone all night, or worse, being required to eat by herself at the forbidding table, the double doors to the dining room were thrown open and there stood Mr. Desmond.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” she exclaimed nervously. She had not meant to voice her thoughts, but somehow the words escaped her.

“Miss Trenton. Not at all. The afternoon got away from me, though. I did not even take time to dress for dinner.” He stopped to consider the picture the girl presented in her dark dress in the midst of the room filled with light and sparkle. The green gown called to mind his initial impression of the cat and the jungle. “I see now I should have.”

“Oh, no. You look wonderful.” A dull flush mounted the girl’s cheeks.

“Well, let us continue our admiration of each other over a bowl of soup. I assume you are hungry? I am starved, and I had more to eat at tea than half a cress sandwich.” Mr. Desmond stepped to the table and rang the little silver bell near one of the plates. Evidently his plate.

Mrs. River answered the summons. Marianne had the distinct impression Mr. Desmond’s house and life flowed along so elegantly and effortlessly because of the housekeeper’s careful attention.

“We are hungry, Mrs. River. Convey my apologies to Mrs. Rawlins for being late and see that supper is served immediately, if you will.”

Mrs. River murmured her acknowledgment and left.

Desmond held out a chair, and Marianne sat. A bowl of clear broth with a hint of onions appeared in front of her. She supposed she ate it, because after a while the dish was cleared away, replaced by a plate holding a lean slice of beef and a selection of hot vegetables. She saw Mr. Desmond eating, and she made a conscious effort to choose the same fork he picked up for whatever course was in front of them. But she honestly did not remember eating.

She did not recall anything about that meal except Mr. Desmond’s deepset eyes, which one discovered were dark gray if one was fortunate enough to be very close to him, and his soft, low voice, which was mesmerizing. He spoke of exotic parts of the world, places of which she had never even heard. He recited passages of literature, words full of fire and passion that brought the blood to her face.

The clock struck ten.

He told her she looked bewitching in her gown, with her hair arranged so.

The clock struck eleven.

Five minutes later it struck twelve.

“Listen to the quiet,” Desmond murmured, tilting his head as if he were hearing faint strains of stillness wafting to them on the night air. “The house is so solid it does not even creak in the night. And all the servants have gone to bed. Even Mrs. River. There have been times when I thought Mrs. River did not go to bed at all.” Desmond smiled and rose. “Let us follow their example,” he said, pulling Marianne gently to her feet.

He did not release her hand, but led her through the dim halls and up the darkened staircase. They turned on the landing and started along the balcony overlooking the front hall. Desmond stopped at one of the doors and opened it, drawing her inside. In the darkness, Marianne, being unfamiliar with the house, believed it was her room and stepped across the threshold.

Mr. Desmond followed with the candle, and by the time her senses registered the fact that it was the wrong room, he had closed the door behind them.

“This is not my room,” she told him, still believing he, like she, had made an understandable mistake.

“No, it is my room.”

At last, at long last, far past the time when such a reaction would have been understandable and advisable, Marianne felt the cold stab of panic in her heart.

“I think it will be better this way, do you not agree?” Desmond said, turning to engage the lock on the door. “By this arrangement, you may keep your rooms to yourself, where you can be alone and enjoy your privacy.”

Coolly he began to loosen the buttons of his pants. Horrified, Marianne watched him pull his trousers off completely, exposing long, dark, exceptionally hairy legs.

“Then when we are together,” he continued, speaking as casually as if they were exchanging opinions on the weather in a public salon, “we will be in here. Our rooms are even close enough that you may retire to your bed afterward, if you wish. Though I certainly hope you would choose to spend some nights with me.”

Marianne’s eyes were very large, though in the uncertain light of the single candle, Desmond may not have recognized the fear that filled them. Or perhaps he simply chose to ignore it, or to interpret it as something else. Desire, perhaps.

But it was fear in her eyes, in her mind, in her heart. She took a step away from him, but the distance she put between them was negligible, and without moving, he reached out and grasped her arm, encircling the slender limb with his long fingers. He pulled her against him and was excited to feel her heart pounding in her chest as rapidly as a sparrow’s.

“What—what are you doing?” she gasped, pulling her head back, but unable to free her arms.

He wrapped his own arms around her, holding her head with one hand as he bent toward her.

“I am taking you to paradise, my little fawn,” he murmured as he nuzzled the creamy indentation of her neck and kissed the pink lobe of her ear. “And I absolutely guarantee you will enjoy it more than anything old Carstairs has given you before.”

Suddenly his lips were on hers. For a moment, for a split second, Marianne was lost in the sensual pleasure of their warmth, their moistness, electrified by the feel of his tongue against her lips. His hand at her back, caressing the exposed skin of her shoulder blades, pressed her to him. She was aware of the tense strength of his thigh muscles as he worked his knee between her legs.

But as her legs were forced apart, as he drew his other hand up to the bodice of her dress, her head cleared with the realization of what he was doing, what he was going to do to her. She pulled away, trying to get her arms between them, turning her face away from his kisses.

“No, no!” she gasped.

He stopped his efforts for a moment and looked into her eyes with a puzzled expression.

“Your resistance is not very flattering, my dear. I would not have imagined this was the best way to get ahead in your profession.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered, unable to catch a full breath of air because of his tight embrace.

“I mean, you owe me this. I intend to collect on Carstairs’s wager.”

“Mr. Carstairs’s wager? What wager?”

“The wager he lost and I won. You, Miss Trenton.”

“Me? But I am Mr. Carstairs’s ward,” she gasped.

He smiled. Of course. Rather than being unskilled in her field, the girl was, quite to the contrary, very good. She was acting out her role of “ward.” Delightful.

With no further ado, Desmond picked her up in his arms and carried her to the big, dark, four-poster bed in the middle of the room.

“No…no, you mustn’t!” she cried. “Oh, please, no.”

But Desmond, believing it was all part of her “ward-andguardian” game, ignored her pleas as he pinned her arms with his left hand and with his right loosened the bodice of her dress. The buttons were frustratingly small and he was tempted to rip the material, but he focused his concentration on the little bits of obsidian and at last unhooked them all, without puiling any of them loose.

The dress fell open and he quickly pushed her confining undergarments out of the way.

As he freed her firm, young breasts, he released her arms, meaning to cup the tender morsels to his mouth. But the girl beneath him swung her freed hand, delivering a resounding slap to the side of his face.

Intoxicated by passion, Desmond only flinched in surprise and then chuckled. It was a dark sound, a sound without mercy, and Marianne’s heart clenched tightly.

“You are a little spitfire, are you not?” he said with a laugh.

He captured her hands again and started to pull at the material of her skirts and petticoats. He had expected cooperation, but the girl was very good, determined to make it exciting for him.

Her gown was like a maze. He would work his hand under one length of material only to find another blocking his path. But at last his fingers touched the smooth skin of her thigh, warm and yielding. He rubbed the inside of her leg delicately, trailing his palm over the silky skin, pushing aside confining undergarments here, as well. He nuzzled her exposed bosom, taking the tender mounds into his mouth.

By now he had raised all her skirts and petticoats out of the way. He was excited to feel the smooth, cool length of her bare legs against his own. He pushed his thigh between hers and began to rock gently.

At any moment she would begin to relax and respond. She would move beneath him, shifting to accommodate him. They would push against each other, the heat building between them, until they melted into one another.

With his lips against her ivory skin, he moaned softly, lost in the smell and feel of her. He expected to hear a soft murmur from her in response.

But she did not give voice to her passion. The form beneath him did not relax, did not move to accommodate him. She remained cold and stiff. She might have been petrified. And then he noticed a hitch in the rise and fall of her chest against his mouth.

He freed his hand from the intricacies of her undergarments and raised himself to look into her face.

Tears were streaming from under her clenched eyelids, wetting the hair at her temples and the pillow under her head. Her lips moved, and in the sudden stillness in the room he heard her murmur, “Please, no. Oh, dear Lord, please do not let him do this to me. Please, no.”

He released her hands and rolled off of her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He glanced behind him and pushed his fingers through the wild tangle of his hair.

What did she mean by this? What was happening? This was not what Carstairs had promised him.

Desmond took a breath and told himself to think. His breathing became deeper and slower, as the fire in his loins cooled. What exactly had Carstairs promised him? The man had offered him his “ward.” His ward? Was it possible…?

“Marianne?” he said at last, very softly.

The girl did not open her eyes, but her lips stopped moving.

“How old are you, Marianne?” he asked.

There was a long pause, during which the girl hiccupped and Desmond gently smoothed away the tears on one of her cheeks with his thumb.

“Sixteen,” she whispered.

Sixteen? Was she as young as that? He studied her unlined face.

There was no question. He had been a blind fool.

“And you…you have nevei done this before, have you?”

She shook her head.

Desmond withdrew his hand from her face, almost expecting to see her cheek stained by his touch. He was suddenly filled with a great revulsion. A revulsion for Carstairs, who had delivered the young woman to him, fully aware of her probable fate. The wager had been offered and accepted with a mutual understanding as to what they were playing for.

But he also felt revulsion for himself. Carstairs was a pig, but what was he?

It was very silent for two or three minutes. The girl’s tears had ceased, though her sobs occasionally shook the mattress.

Desmond appeared to be completely lost in thought, totally unaware of the girl, but in fact he was consumed by thoughts of her, considering what her life must have been like, wondering what had brought her to this place tonight and where the path on which Carstairs had planted her would eventually lead her. If this was her first time, Carstairs must not have tried this ploy before. But since his wager had been accepted once, it would be again. Probably often. Until she was no longer worth the bet. Even though Desmond would not touch the girl again, if he sent her back he would be delivering her straight into a life of prostitution, into the the jaws of hell. He would be no better than Carstairs.

He grimaced. He was no better than Carstairs now, for he had brought her here expecting to collect his “winnings.”

“Mr. Desmond?” the girl whispered.

Desmond started in surprise and turned to look at her.

Her eyes were open, red rimmed and swollen, focused on him with an expression Desmond would have thought only executioners saw in the eyes of the condemned.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“What?”

“Is it over? Can I go back to my room?”

“Yes. Go. Go,” he said hoarsely, turning his face so he would not have to watch her struggle from the bed.

She rolled to her side and swung her legs toward the edge. She had to work her way across the wide mattress before she could reach the floor, but at last she stood. Aware of the man on the bed behind her but not daring to look in his direction, she pushed her skirts down self-consciously and fumbled to refasten the bodice of her dress.

With slumped shoulders and heavy tread, she walked to the door and struggled to release the lock. He could not help raising his eyes to watch her when a relieved sigh signaled that she had finally succeeded. He saw her pull open the door of his room. Before stepping out into the hallway, she pushed the hair back from her face, squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

He was touched by her bravery and determination. But before his door shut her completely from view, he saw the line of her shoulders slump again as if with a terrible weight.

Desmond felt crushed with remorse. There was no question about the physical damage he had almost done to her, but what spiritual blow had he actually delivered?

He could not keep her here at Kingsbrook, subjecting himself to the accusations of her presence. But neither could he send her back to her former home.

He had played for a ward and he had won a ward, but now that he had her, what was he to do with her?