The Passionate Love of a Rake. Jane Lark
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and broader.
He surveyed the gathering from his vantage point at the top of the stairs as though he assessed and judged everyone.
She’d considered this meeting thousands of times in the years since their last and she’d pictured herself armoured in sophistication, someone he would respect and admire. Yet, now, she felt completely the opposite: unworthy and unsure.
The gulf he’d left in her life ripped open wider. He was magnificent – she insignificant. If he’d been attractive as a nineteen-year-old youth, he was a demigod as a man in his late twenties. His physique was muscular, yet lean and athletic.
His hand rose and swept long fingers through his chestnut-coloured hair, swiping a loose lock from his brow. A gesture she had seen him do a hundred times as a child.
Still, he did not move, just looked, watching, appearing self-absorbed.
His confidence had not been there in the zealous youth, full of adventure and expectation.
She felt tears in her eyes and an ache in her chest, inspired by the could-have-beens and if-onlys which had haunted her throughout her married life.
It was a long time since Robert Marlow held her dear. In the intervening years, he’d toured the continent, establishing a reputation in the vices of a gentleman. His prowess in the sexual arts was renowned. He was no longer the young man she’d adored. He was a very different beast, one whom she’d no experience or knowledge to understand.
When he’d returned to claim his father’s estate a few years ago, his reputation had endured. He was one of, if not the most, profligate rakes in the ton.
She’d never been able to stop herself seeking his name in the gossip columns of the papers Hector left lying on the breakfast table.
Robert’s gaze passed across the dancers and reached towardss her. Jane turned, covering her face with the fan, hiding. She needed to regain command of her wits.
Her feet led to the refreshment room, where groups and couples stood with glasses in their hands, and servants hovered around the tables bearing the giant bowls of punch and orgeat. The sweet scent of almond and orange blossom permeated her senses as a footman held out a silver tray and offered her a glass. She refused, waving a hand and walking on towardss a door in the far wall.
She knew it opened into the hall. She would go to the ladies’ retiring room. She was in no state to face the ghost of her past when she had yet to master the demon of her present.
“Oh!”
As if summoned, when she stepped through into the hall, the very man she had come to the capital to escape was there, blocking her path.
“Jane, are you going somewhere? Perhaps I could accompany you?” He posed it as a question, but she knew he meant to give her no choice, as the oppressive size of the current Duke of Sutton, Joshua Grey, her stepson, presented a solid barrier.
She stepped back so she could look him in the eye, rather than face his cravat, and used the moment to assess her situation. Two footmen stood by the front door, and the hall was a thoroughfare for a number of gossiping women, passing to and from the retiring room.
She met the silent, venomous anger in Joshua’s eyes and swallowed her inner panic. “I do not recall giving you permission to use my given name, Your Grace.”
“I did not ask your permission, Jane.” His fingers gripped her elbow, and although she discreetly tried to pull away, his strength was beyond hers. There was nothing she could do but follow his lead, unless she kicked and screamed, and she did not wish to make a fuss; it was better for appearance’s sake that her fear went unnoticed. Joshua would not attempt violence in a public place.
Would he?
He drew her through an open door beside them, into the shadows of the Duke of Weldon’s library. Then he shut the door and pressed her back against it, his hands gripping her shoulders, his thumbs and fingers incredibly close to her neck.
“Did you think you’d escaped me, Jane?”
No, she’d known it was only a reprieve. “I have no need to escape you, Your Grace. I am merely visiting a friend.” The defiance in her voice was entirely at odds with her racing heartbeat, and he knew it; the pad of his thumb caressed the pulsing vein in her neck. But she refused to let fear paralyse her. She had endured enough years of this. She would not suffer any more. She would not give in.
His gaze dropped, descending to her cleavage.
She felt her breasts press against the low neckline of her gown as she snatched a sharp, deep breath. But before he had the opportunity to react, she stole the chance of his distraction and twisted free, slipping beneath his arm.
She could not escape the room; he stood before the door. Instead, she backed away, watching him all the time, setting about ten feet between them.
“Jane.” His voice was conciliatory and coaxing. “When will you accept you shall never win, and give me my inheritance?”
“Never. And you must accept that, and leave me alone!” she hissed.
“No, Jane?” His white smile breached the low light of the dark room. “Perhaps there are ways I could persuade you.”
Her heart stopped and her mouth dried.
“I have always found you attractive, you know. I understand a little of my father’s obsession. Perhaps I will let you keep some of his fortune if you are good to me. Would you be good to me, Jane?”
No. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back as cold sweat dampened her palms. “I would die before I let you touch me.”
“Do not give me ideas, Jane.”
A shiver ran up her spine. “I would rather sleep with a hundred men than you!”
She had gone too far. Like a whiplash, he moved forward, snatching for her as she tried to dodge his grasp and run about him. She failed. He caught her upper arm in a vice-like grip and drew her body hard against his chest. His arm was like an iron bar as it wrapped about her waist, and his other hand grasped her jaw, anchoring it, forcing her face to turn to him. His teeth nipped her lower lip, then her neck.
“If I want you, you will not deny me,” he whispered in a threat by her ear.
She tried to hide the shiver which ran across her skin, but she knew she failed, and fear constricted her chest, trapping the air so her breaths were shallow.
He pulled away a little, the white of his eyes glimmering in the darkness as his glare reiterated the threat. “And even if I do not want you, I’ll not let another have you. So, if you have come to London to seek a protector, you’ll find none. I will make that certain.”
He thrust her away, his grip releasing her so fiercely she fell to the floor, landing on her derriere with her hands at her sides. She looked up, hating to be so disadvantaged. He leaned over her. “Do you understand me, Jane?”
Oh yes, she understood. She understood she had never wanted anything more than to take every man in town to her bed except for him. Impotent and unable to find a single word in retort, she was left to watch as he turned away and strode out the door without looking back.
Her limbs trembled, and her heart still thumped a tattoo in her chest as she stood up. She brushed the creases from her skirt and fought for calm, then touched her hair, checking for loose pins. It did not feel too disturbed; she could fix it upstairs. At the door, she held still a moment, regaining her poise and catching her breath before she left the library. When she stepped out, she let herself show nothing but fashionable disinterest, denying that anything had occurred.
She crossed the hall and climbed the stairs, refusing to look for any reaction in the faces of the footmen who must have speculated on what had gone on in their lordship’s library.
In the haven of the ladies’ retiring room, Jane took a deep breath.