Chivalrous Rake, Scandalous Lady

‘Let me assure you it does not,’ Jemma hissed, whitening with wrath at his insulting implication that she was ambitious for a title and childlike to boot. ‘And let me assure you of something else. My guardian is also quite taken with the idea of laying his hands on what is mine,’ she informed him acidly. ‘It makes no difference to him if I marry a noble or a nobody, just as long as he has the marriage lines as proof that he can legally claim my property.’ With a wrench she had her wrist from his grip. A phantom touch of firm fingers tingled warmly on her skin, making her rub in irritation at the spot. ‘I believe, sir, that in your arrogance you assume you are the only gentleman who received a letter from my guardian.’ She could tell by the hardening of his features that he had not heard rumours in clubs about the others, nor had Theo put him wise to it. A harsh little laugh bubbled in her throat. ‘You may or may not recall that you were just one of many gentlemen who offered for me five years ago. Every one of those fellows who lacks a wife has been invited by my doting cousin to renew his proposal.’ Jemma elevated her shapely little chin, looked up boldly into eyes that were glittering dangerously. ‘I fear I must go on to dent your ego, Mr Speer…’ she sighed with mock regret ‘…but say it I must: there is nothing special about you.’

‘Except perhaps that I am no longer unattached, and well you and Wyndham know it,’ Marcus returned quietly.

His answer was calm, and undeniably correct, yet oddly it disturbed Jemma more than a scathing outburst from him might have done.

* * *

Marcus could feel his temper rising, as was a part of his anatomy over which, it seemed, he had no control when in this little vixen’s vicinity. She could infuriate a saint with her acid tongue, and he was tempted to haul the infuriating chit against him, but whether to kiss her or throttle her he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been so close to her in five years, but he remembered well enough how she could stir his blood with just a saucy smile or a deliberately subtle scuffing of her skin on his. Once she’d captivated him to such an extent he’d risked ridicule when she’d rejected him. Inwardly he’d pined for her for a year; outwardly he’d seemed to become polite society’s most predatory rake.

But he could admit to himself what he’d been keen to keep from others. At the time a girl barely out of the schoolroom had brought him to his knees—quite literally—he’d proposed in traditionally humble pose. Then she’d gone home to her swain to find a broken heart awaited her in Essex. When he’d heard about it he’d briefly felt a sense of malicious satisfaction that she’d tasted her own medicine. But much as he might have wanted to continue using the balm of vengeance, it had lost its efficaciousness, leaving him simply feeling bereft. He’d hoped her father might bring her back to London during the following Season. But she’d not appeared, and he’d wondered whether he might find the humility to travel to Essex and propose for a second time.

During those twelve dark months when his moods were unpredictable and his business dealings neglected, his uncle Solomon had watched quietly from the sidelines, keeping his own counsel on the matter of Miss Jemma Bailey. But Solomon had had no hesitation in taking him to task over bad business deals and impatiently had guided his nephew’s investments back on course. Thus it had been left to Marcus alone to decide whether to swallow his pride and follow his heart or to salve his wounds in customary male fashion. His pride had won. He’d stayed in town and submerged his sorrows by carousing nightly with licentious friends and promiscuous women. After two years had passed he’d been sure he’d forgotten all about Jemma Bailey. At Christmas time, he’d travelled through Essex to see his mother and new stepfather in Norfolk and not once had it occurred to him during that trip to take a minor detour from his route and go past Thaxham House, John Bailey’s small estate. His healthy ego had helped him survive his first disastrous encounter with falling in love. He’d been determined not to appear a maudlin fool in front of his family and friends. Thankfully he had not. And now he was over her.

* * *

Jemma fidgeted as the tense silence between them lengthened. She’d been very rude and regretted it. Yet she wasn’t sure why she felt guilty when his implied insults had equalled her spoken ones. A moment ago she’d been ready to sweep away from him, feeling victorious. Now something about his attitude held her quiet and still. Instinctively she knew what was in his mind. He was brooding on what had happened between them five years ago.

She glanced about. Passers-by were starting to take an interest in them. Sidelong glances and sibilant whispers alerted her senses to potential trouble. The last thing she wanted was to stir more gossip.

‘Shall we walk and talk, Miss Bailey?’ Marcus had also become conscious that they were under observation. With studied gallantry he offered Jemma his arm. ‘It might be wise if we do not appear to be involved in a tiff in the middle of the street.’

Jemma hesitated but a moment later nodded. She knew he was heading home, and so was she. Her small town house on Pereville Parade was not fashionably situated, whereas his mansion on Beaufort Place was in a prime spot. But they had to walk in the same general direction before their paths diverged. It would be silly for one of them to stay a step or two in front or behind to avoid the other’s company. She knew too that it was sensible advice to maintain an appearance of civil acquaintance rather than one of being at loggerheads. Her small fingers hovered over the crook of his arm as a poignant feeling fluttered in her chest. Once she’d adored having the feel of his clothed muscle beneath her hand when they’d danced or promenaded. Yet all the while she’d felt so terribly guilty that she’d found him attractive for she’d believed Robert to be patiently awaiting her return to Essex so they might elope.

‘What did you say to Theo?’ Jemma forced her eyes up to his and her mind away from painful memories. She looked at him, really looked at him, and the ruggedly hewn, handsome features close to her made icy fire streak through her veins. He looked only slightly older than he had at twenty-six. There were a few silver threads in the thick blackish hair springing back at his temples and the grooves bracketing his thin yet sensual lips seemed a mite deeper than when last she’d studied his face. Her eyes diverted to the long firm fingers close to her own and unwanted images of being intimately touched by them made blood fizz beneath her skin. She’d been wanton—at such a tender age, too! It was little wonder that a moment ago he’d looked at her, spoken to her with such lustful amusement. He hadn’t forgotten her lack of restraint either.

She hadn’t been wholly to blame! The excuse ran back and forth in her mind, calming her embarrassment. She’d been a naïve young débutante under the spell of an older, more experienced man. He’d known exactly how to tease a response from her on those nights she’d allowed him to take more liberties than any young innocent ought. Had her papa known what he’d done to her beneath intoxicating moonlight on midsummer evenings he’d have called for his pistols. She recalled the whispered cautions from envious young friends when Marcus had invited her to step outside for a little air at the Cranleighs’ ball: He’s a rake…a terrible flirt…tell him no…he’ll break your heart. In the event he had, but she’d had no one to blame but herself and circumstances had forced her to lick her wounds in private.

At seventeen she could have been married to the dashing heir to an earldom. Instead she had yielded to her conscience and gone dutifully back to Essex and to Robert Burnham, whereupon she’d had her loyalty tossed back in her face. But by then it was too late to contact Marcus and humbly say she’d changed her mind. She’d known him only a matter of a few months but during that time she’d learned enough about his character to understand he’d refuse to be her second-choice husband.

Within a week of returning home she was thankful she’d not written to him, abasing herself with pleas and promises and the laying bare of her soul. She’d had a letter from her cousin Maura describing the latest tattle doing the rounds. It had concerned Marcus and a new opera dancer who had been the toast of Drury Lane. It seemed to Jemma that for many months after that first awful communication every letter she received from her cousin contained a fresh tale of Marcus Speer’s debauchery.

Finally Jemma had accepted that he hadn’t fallen properly in love with her, as she had with him. He had never told her he loved her, and now she knew why that was—for him it had been just an infatuation and he’d settled too quickly on her to fill the role of his wife. She’d thanked her lucky stars she had not married a man who would doubtless betray her with a string of mistresses before they’d reached their first wedding anniversary.

A dispiriting truth had then settled on Jemma: Marcus would never come, in true romantic style, to Thaxham House and rescue her from her sorrow and loneliness. He would, at some time, be an Earl, but he wasn’t the noble hero of her wistful dreams.

As though Marcus could guess at her memories his mouth tilted into half a smile and a smouldering grey gaze was slanted at her softly skewed mouth.

‘I thought it was neither here nor there to you what I said to your guardian.’ His smile deepened as she looked away with a regretful frown. She’d been so lost in her private thoughts that she’d forgotten she’d announced herself uninterested in the outcome of the heated meeting he’d had with Theo. ‘I said nothing to your cousin that could be repeated to a demure young lady.’

‘In sending those letters Theo acted outrageously and without my knowledge or consent.’ Jemma’s voice was hoarse and forceful, her cheeks burning. His mocking levity made it clear he considered her far from demure. If he was hinting at her wild behaviour at seventeen, he’d a right to his scorn. But she wouldn’t have him think her a brazen hussy now because she had designs on trying to steal him from his fiancée. ‘Do you believe me?’ Jemma gazed earnestly at him.

‘Why should I?’ Marcus enquired casually. ‘From past experience I would say you hardly inspire me to put trust in you.’

It was out! The first heavy hint from him that he had not forgotten or forgiven how she’d led him on like a common tease. Annoyingly she felt spontaneous tears start to her eyes. She swung her face aside so he might not see them.

Marcus slanted a look down on the top of a bonnet from which tumbled an artless array of thick chestnut curls. He felt the embers of desire within him become hotter. She looked little different to how she had as a teenage débutante. Perhaps her figure was fuller and her face slimmer, honed to classical perfection. But her little gestures, the tone of her voice, the success she’d had in rousing him, enticing him—those bittersweet things seemed the same. She was beautiful, spirited…and he realised with some irritation that he still wanted her.

Marcus dragged his eyes from Jemma’s alluring presence as a familiar sight at the edge of his vision drew his attention. Beneath his breath he cursed. From the moment he’d read Wyndham’s astonishing letter this afternoon, thoughts of his mortally ill uncle had been pushed to the back of his mind. Now he could see a carriage bearing the Gresham crest slowly patrolling the street as though the coachmen were searching for someone. He knew they were looking for him. Dr Robertson had sent for him earlier than he’d expected and he’d been away from home when the message had arrived. He’d told Perkins, his butler, he’d be visiting Wyndham and would be no more than one hour. The coachmen had doubtless been despatched to Hanover Square to find him.

A feeling of deep remorse washed over him, yet still, to his shame, he felt reluctant to quit Jemma’s side. Abruptly he removed her arm from his. ‘I think we must continue this conversation another time, Miss Bailey.’ He executed a curt bow. ‘Unfortunately I have pressing matters to attend to.’ With that terse farewell he forced himself to take two crisp backward paces so a space was immediately between them. A moment later he’d stepped past and was striding towards the carriage, raising a hand to hail it as he went.

‘Indeed, there is no need to talk further about any of this, sir.’ Jemma felt mortified to be so abruptly abandoned. But he was moving with such speed and purpose she could tell that the sharp words she’d sent after him had gone unheeded. A knot of sorrow tightened in her stomach. She had a feeling that if they’d continued walking and talking just a little longer perhaps they might have gone their separate ways more contentedly than they’d come together. As it was, nothing about the situation had improved. Pulling her bonnet brim low to shield her hot, watery eyes, she plunged her hands into her coat pockets and moved swiftly on.

Chapter Four

Marcus paused on the threshold to his uncle’s bedchamber to dart an astonished enquiring glance at the physician. A glimmering hope that his uncle had made a miraculous recovery was dashed as Dr Robertson slowly shook his head. The prognosis was the same despite the fact the Earl of Gresham was once more conscious and propped up on a sumptuous array of satin bolsters and pillows.

On one side of the bed, ensconced in an armchair, was an elegant, elderly lady. Marcus had expected Mrs Paulson would still be here. She had been sitting quietly embroidering in the very same position when he had quit the sickroom earlier that day. He gave her a nod and a wonky smile, hoping that it adequately conveyed that her constant presence pleased him.

Victoria Paulson had been his uncle’s mistress for three decades and was a similar age to Solomon. At times Marcus had wondered whether, if the couple had come together sooner in life, when Victoria was young enough to bear children, she might have given Solomon a son. They would then have married to legitimise the union and the child, and the course of his own life might have taken a very different turn.

Having pressed Solomon’s hand and returned Marcus a hushed greeting, Victoria rose from her chair and left the gentlemen alone.

Solomon’s exhausted smile for his nephew was curtailed as a cough rattled out of him. On hearing his master gasping, a servant sprang forwards, thrusting out a beaker of milk. Solomon flapped feebly at the fellow. ‘If you’ve got nothing stronger to offer me, then go away,’ he wheezed and tugged a burgundy velvet coverlet against a chest that was pumping erratically. ‘Might as well let me have a brandy,’ he threw peevishly at Dr Robertson. ‘Ain’t as if it’s going to kill me.’

Dr Robertson relented, gesturing to the footman to carry out his patient’s request. At that Solomon found enough energy to weakly grin and brush together his dry palms.

Marcus swiftly approached the dais at the centre of his uncle’s bedchamber upon which was set a huge four-poster bed. He stopped with one hand splayed against a square mahogany post, feeling as awkward and apprehensive as he’d been at eight years old when introduced to his noble guardian for the first time. Instinctively he knew that this was to be their final meeting in this life.

Solomon beckoned him closer with a fragile-looking finger but, when Marcus immediately extended his hand, it was gripped with surprising strength.

‘You look much improved, sir,’ Marcus began. ‘Perhaps cognac is not wise as you are a little better.’

The old boy exhaled a breathless chuckle and set free his nephew’s fingers. ‘Looks ain’t everything, y’know,’ Solomon imparted in a droll whisper. ‘I’m still dying. I’m still able to appreciate a good brandy, too.’ Marcus’s hand had dropped to rest on the velvet coverlet and he gave it a fond pat. ‘Don’t look so miserable, m’boy. I’m ready. I’ve had a good innings. I saw off three score years ‘n ten eight years ago. That’s six years more’n Patricia achieved.’ An increased glitter appeared in his sunken black eyes as he recalled his spinster sister. Patricia had pre-deceased him just last summer despite being in fine fettle up until two weeks before her maid had discovered her dead in bed. ‘And it’s a deal more years than your father saw.’

Marcus bowed his head, nodding it slowly in acknowledgement of the sorrow they shared at Rufus Speer’s unconscionably early demise at the age of thirty-two.

His father had been a military man and away on campaign for a good deal of Marcus’s early childhood. Major Rufus Speer had been killed in action a few days after his only child’s eighth birthday. Thereafter, Rufus’s brother, Solomon, had taken Marcus under his wing and treated him like an adopted son. It was widely held that Solomon Speer, Earl of Gresham, had felt it unnecessary to marry in order to produce an heir. In his eyes he’d had one since the day his younger brother had died with a Frenchman’s bullet lodged in his chest.

‘I know I’ve said it before,’ Solomon whispered, ‘but he’d have been mighty proud of you, m’boy.’

‘He’d have been equally proud of you, and grateful for what you’ve done for me, as I am,’ Marcus returned simply. ‘I should have told you that more often than I have.’

‘Don’t get maudlin on me.’ Solomon clucked his tongue in mock irritation. He gave the hand resting on the bed another affectionate pat. ‘As for Rufus…I would have expected as much from him had our stars been swapped. He was a good brother. He wouldn’t have let me down. So, like it or not, I had no choice but to take you on and make the best of things.’ Solomon’s doleful tone was at odds with the twinkling eyes that settled with paternal pride on his beloved nephew.

Marcus mirrored his uncle’s wry grimace. Solomon was requesting that the full extent of his dues stay, as ever, unuttered. No fuss, no fanfare, no expression of the great affection that bound them as close as father and son. If that was how Solomon wanted it to be to the end, so be it. Marcus simply wanted to grant this finest of gentleman everything he desired during their precious final moments.

The branched candelabra set on a dressing chest was throwing wavering light on his uncle’s face, highlighting the patches of feverish colour on his parchment-like cheeks. As Solomon sank back further in to his downy pillows, Marcus could tell that his little show of strength, his lively conversation, had sapped his vitality. A piercing glance at the doctor, grimly vigilant, answered Marcus’s unspoken question. His uncle was unlikely to rally from unconsciousness a second time.

‘Had a visitor this afternoon—no, I had two,’ Solomon corrected himself with a flick of a finger.

Marcus found a suitable spot on the bed and, careful not to disturb his uncle, perched on the edge. He felt tightness in his chest and a lump forming in his throat, but he would not allow mournfulness to mar what little time was left. There would be days a-plenty to indulge his grief. ‘Let me guess on that,’ he said, mock thoughtful. ‘Munro came to chivvy you in to letting him have the chestnut while you’re still able to sign the sale sheet.’

Solomon’s desiccated lips sprang apart in a silent guffaw. Finally he knuckled his eyes and gasped, ‘The old rogue would, too—he knows I’m about to pop off.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Don’t you sell that little mare to him either, when I’m gone,’ the Earl instructed his heir with feigned anxiety. ‘Cost me a pretty penny and it’s your duty now, y’know, to maintain the Gresham reputation as the finest stables in the land.’

‘And so I shall,’ Marcus promised and gripped at his uncle’s hand to lend him support as he fidgeted and tried to draw himself up in bed.

Once settled again, Solomon opened his beady eyes and regarded Marcus with brooding intensity. ‘Cleveland came to see me this afternoon; so did Walters.’

Marcus knew that his future father-in-law was an acquaintance of his uncle’s. So was Aaron Walters, who was also the Earl’s stockbroker. Aaron was known as a stalwart of White’s club and an incorrigible gossip whilst in his cups within its walls. Marcus had a feeling that his uncle was about to recount to him something of interest that Walters had told him. He further surmised he might have an inkling of the tale’s content. But Solomon approached the matter of the gossip surrounding Theo Wyndham’s outrageous letters from a different tack to the one Marcus had been anticipating.

‘I know I said that before I turned up me toes it’d be nice to know you’d continue the Gresham line…What I didn’t expect was that you’d settle on the first pretty lass you bumped in to at Almack’s.’

‘And nor have I done so,’ Marcus replied lightly. He was aware that beneath his uncle’s heavy lids his old eyes were fixed on him.

The footman appeared and gave the Earl a glass half-filled with brandy. A moment later the servant and the doctor discreetly withdrew to a corner of the room, leaving uncle and nephew in private.

‘You courted Deborah Cleveland for a very little time…Could’ve filled it to the brim…’ he tacked on whilst rotating his glass to eye its mellow contents from various angles. Despite his grumble he sipped, smacked his lips in appreciation, then nestled the glass in a gnarled fist curled on the coverlet.

‘I knew straight away she would be suitable.’

‘Suitable…?’ Solomon echoed quizzically.

‘Yes…’ Marcus corroborated mildly. ‘Do you think she is not?’

‘I think it is not for me to say what a man needs in a woman with whom he must share his life and his children.’ Solomon took another careful, savouring sip of brandy.

‘Is Gregory Cleveland having second thoughts about marrying his daughter to me?’ Marcus asked. He recalled that his uncle had said the Viscount had visited the sickroom earlier and wondered if doubts had been voiced about the match. Marcus knew without any conceit that he was worthy of being regarded as a good catch, but so was Deborah Cleveland, who would bring her husband a large dowry and equally impressive connections to his own.

‘Gregory seems pleased as punch with the arrangement; he says Julia is equally delighted and eager to have you as her son-in-law.’

Marcus nodded, his mood little altered on knowing that his in-laws thoroughly approved of him. He was, however, glad to know his uncle hadn’t been bothered by any aspect of the forthcoming nuptials. His relief was short-lived.

‘Yet something is not right,’ Solomon murmured, his lids falling over sunken, watching eyes.

‘Perhaps the Clevelands suspect Deborah might change her mind.’ It was a level statement, no hint apparent that Marcus had a suspicion why his fiancée might want to do so. Neither did the possibility of her crying off seem to bother him.

‘Cleveland said nothing of the sort to me,’ Solomon answered. ‘Do you think the lass might get cold feet?’

‘My offer was accepted quickly. Perhaps a mite too quickly.’ Marcus shrugged, added mildly, ‘She is very young; perhaps she would have liked to enjoy more of her début unattached with her friends and the gallants doing the rounds of the balls and parties. I don’t want to spoil her fun. A betrothal of about a year is quite acceptable to me if that’s what she wants.’

‘You sound besotted by your lady love,’ Solomon offered drily. ‘Cleveland did say he hoped you might find the time to turn up and join them at another of the grand functions soon.’

Marcus smiled at the irony in his uncle’s weak voice. So the Viscount had made a little complaint after all—damn him!

When his engagement had first been announced, Marcus had shown his commitment to it by accompanying Deborah and her family to several notable occasions. But once they had been properly established as a couple he’d discreetly withdrawn to the company of his friends and his mistress. He had little liking for the vacuous social whirl that was a part of the annual London Season. Usually he would not be seen dead in such a place as Almack’s ballroom, but this year it had proved its point even to a hardened cynic such as he. He had found his future bride there. With that in mind he realised he would be grateful if Deborah remained satisfied with the arrangement between them. He hoped never to again set foot in the place.