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Peter leaned forward to lay his card. “Well, I would not cross Pembroke or any of her family for that matter, they are far too influential. She calls a quarter of the House of Lords Uncle, even if her father is only a second son.”
Drew did not need reminding.
Yet he intended winning her. He had waited a year, given her, and himself, the time to be sure. He was sure. She had come back to town this season and her eyes had still searched for him across the ballrooms, and the first time he’d seen her again he’d felt slain. The girl was beautiful, rich, innocent and his best hope of constancy – and ever since the night he had danced with her, he’d felt pulled into choosing her. It was a physical feeling, not simply a mental choice.
She had lived with him for a year, in his dreams, both in the day and at night.
Yet as certain as he was of his choice he was equally certain her family would not allow it. They would say no if he asked for her.
His contrary streak itched. He did not like being told no. No, was temptation. Like the girl running, it only made him want to chase. But he did not think she would run, not now – unless it was towards him. He smiled at his silent humour.
“You are going to wed her then?” Mark clarified.
“I’ve no choice. The duns are on my tail. I need to marry money. She’s interested, available, and she has it. Plus she is remarkably kind to the eye.”
“Kind to the eye.” A sarcastic smile twisted Harry’s lips. “That is lacklustre. The girl’s the darling of society. They all fawn over her. She’s stunning. I would have a go at her if I thought I stood a chance, but she’ll not look twice at me. You however…”
“You have the looks and the knack, Drew,” Peter expounded, “while we are all left to petty jealousy.”
Drew laughed. “I have not won her yet, and you are just as capable.”
“No. But we all know you will win her. I would not even waste a wager on it,” Mark enthused.
“The question is, what will you do with her when you have her?” Harry laughed. “Now that is what I would like to see, however, after that, what on earth will you do with a wife?”
Drew looked past his friends at his small living quarters.
His rooms in the Albany were a decent enough bachelor’s residence, but he would need something more once he’d wed. He longed for a property of his own. Somewhere outside of London and he would need space to lose a woman in. He did not wish to be crowded. In the last year, when he’d thought of marrying Miss Marlow, he had never considered the detail beyond the wedding night and receiving the cheque.
Still once he’d wed, he’d have her dowry and he could buy a bigger property, perhaps something with land, to make a profit from. She would understand that life and fill her time without his assistance.
His hands itched to be out of town and free of his reliance on Peter. His debts had swelled in the last year, barely anyone allowed him credit now and so more and more he’d become reliant on Peter’s kindness. It unmanned him, but he refused to return to earning his living through sex.
But how the hell would he fit in a life with a wife…He had not one daisy petal of an idea how to manage land, let alone how to manage with a wife.
All the wives he knew spent their time cuckolding their inattentive husbands.
But that was why he’d settled on Mary, chosen Mary – he thought her different to those women. He’d watched her family for a year. They were all in what society deemed love matches.
Love – that word was false, in his experience. A non-entity. People did not love. They used the word to wound and hurt.
His mother declared she loved the Marquis, but cuckolded him constantly. While on the occasions the Marquis came to town he spent his hours with chorus girls. His mother’s favoured companions were the sons of society and she was regularly in town.
Their behaviour was typical; he knew that because his mother’s friends had begun his initiation into their world of fornication when he’d been fifteen. Ten years on and society had not changed.
But he had changed.
“Drew, I’m sure you’re thinking of what the woman will be like in your bed, but you will not be saying goodbye to her come morning. I said, what will you do with her once you’re wed?”
He had no idea. What the hell will I do with a wife?
Lock her away somewhere so she will not lay with other men. Or could he truly trust her.
She was not like them. Miss Marlow was his best hope of fidelity and yet she would not be in love with him… and he would not be in love with her. Theirs would not be a love match… He did not know how to love, he did not even really believe in it.
Perhaps if all failed he would follow his false-father’s path and leave her to get on with it, find a country sanctuary for himself and rooms in town for her.
But quiet words whispered in his head, she would not be false.
Deep down, he hoped so hard.
That desire was another secret he was keeping from his friends. They thought him a pleasure loving rogue. He was still, in a way, but…
God, how they’d laugh if they knew a man with his reputation hated the women he was meant to seduce. He could not stand female promiscuity anymore. Not since he’d discovered a group of women who abhorred such things.
The Pembroke women had become like idols to him.
He met Harry’s gaze, his friend waited on his answer with an inquisitive grin, as the others carried on playing cards.
A self-deprecating smile twisted Drew’s lips. “The devil knows.”
“Pass her on to me!” Mark laughed. I’ll entertain her when you’re bored.
Drew’s jaw stiffened, his hand itching to form a fist.
He threw down another heart, the knave, and claimed the trick.
Then he forced his shoulders to relax and leant forward, to pull all the cards towards him. But while he did so, he shook his head. It was an adamant, no.
“Why not share, you’re hardly the monogamous type.” Harry laughed.
Drew tidied the cards into a pile at his elbow. Then looked at Harry, and Mark. “Perhaps not. However, I require that quality in a wife. She shall be monogamous, and if any of you touch her…” His gaze passed to Peter too, “I shall call you out.”
They all laughed.
Drew did not. It was not a jest.
“My God, Drew, have you fallen for her?” Peter charged. He knew Drew too well. They’d known each other since they were six.
Drew made a face at Peter, calling him ridiculous. “No, why would I? That is hardly my style. I just do not fancy being done to—”
“As you have done to others… Chickens coming home to roost, Fram?” Harry threw Drew a broad smile.
“Exactly, I’ll not be made a fool of.” He’d willingly admit that much.
Let them know he would insist on a faithful wife, he just did not wish them to know how important it was, or that he planned to be faithful to. They would think him a fool.
* * *
A week had passed since the Jerseys’ garden party, a week to contemplate her foolishness. Yet no matter how stupid Mary knew it was she had not ceased looking for Lord Framlington at every event. Her traitorous body refused to heed the frequent warnings of her conscience and her common-sense.
She had not seen him, but tonight, as she walked into the crush of another ballroom, on her father’s arm, her eyes immediately identified her heart’s quarry.
He stood in the far corner, with his elbow on a marble bust, leaning forward and speaking with a woman, the Marquis of Kilbride’s wife. A beautiful blonde woman. Mary’s heart sank and she looked away before Lord Framlington felt her observation as he always did.
John is right. She’d told herself so a thousand times in the last few days, and yet even as she said it her mischievous mind recalled the press of his lips and the feel of his hand cradling her breast.
Heat rose across her skin and awareness leaked into her senses, prickling along her nerves.
Why am I so attracted to him? This emotion never clawed at her when she looked at other men, and she had danced with dozens. It was just Lord Framlington her heart and body craved.
Ninny! her common-sense screamed. But her senses still whispered Lord Framlington’s nearness.
He walked past, barely feet away as if he knew his proximity made her senses sing.
Yet he did not look at her.
Mary gripped her father’s arm more firmly. I will overcome this attraction.
There must be some man she could feel as much for. A man who did not have a wicked reputation. Who she could trust not to treat her ill.
“Miss Marlow, I would be extremely honoured if you will allow me this dance.”
Mary turned and faced Mr Gerard Heathcote, one of her staunch admirers. He bowed deeply. He was a wealthy merchant’s son who’d courted her last season. Her family liked him. He was charming, in a genteel way.
He’d made her an offer last season. She’d refused, saying it was too soon to settle on a husband. But that had been kindness. He was good natured, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. But her heart craved dark brown locks and laughing brown eyes with a wicked glint.
However Gerard was a good dancer and he’d become a friend, as were many of her beaux. But none of them were anything more. She felt nothing beyond like.
Mary swallowed back her growing impatience, letting go of her father’s arm. She offered her hand and Gerard drew her away. Usually she enjoyed dancing, but tonight it was one endless boring whirl.
Since when did I become so jaded?
Since the rogue kissed me.
From this moment on, unless Lord Framlington repeated his kiss, her life would be dull.
* * *
Arms folded across his chest, with one hand loose, the stem of his wine glass dangling between his fingers, Drew watched the dance floor.
She was dancing again. Her hand held that of the young heir to the Earl of Warminster as she skipped along an avenue made by their set. It was a boisterous country dance. The boy was smiling as was Miss Marlow, brightly, giving her beau all her attention, and Drew had none of it.
He was beginning to wonder if instead of increasing her interest he’d jumped his fences with that kiss and made his horse bolt. He’d not once caught her looking at him tonight. She was instead doing everything she could to avoid looking at him.
She’d spent the entire night amidst a gaggle of youths – a mix of her female friends and their beaux.
The child she danced with laughed at every word she said. Drew suspected the boy would laugh no matter what she said, and undoubtedly Miss Marlow was bored. But even so her eyes focused intently on her idiotic companion while her female friends fluttered their fans, along with their eyelashes and cast their gazes about the room seeking to hook some unsuspecting male.
Irritation burned in Drew’s veins.
He’d expected Miss Marlow to at least come closer. He’d even given her a clue earlier, by walking past her, suggesting a silent game they could play, passing close without touching, in secret acknowledgement. She had not picked up his gauntlet. She’d left it where it lay, kiss and all, and instead blatantly ignored him.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall silently seething. He’d thought this the victory leg but despite her youth and innocence Miss Mary Marlow was not going to be easily caught.
A challenge. He sighed, suddenly, letting the tension in his muscles ease with his outward breath. A challenge was like a chase, it whispered to his male instincts. He liked to be challenged. What fun would there be in life, if everything came easily?
Raising his glass of wine to his lips he watched her let go of young Warminster’s hand.
Then she turned to take her place in the line of the set. Her eyes lifted, and her gaze reached across the room. It was literally a glance, only an instant, but in that instant their gazes collided. She had looked for him. She had known he was watching her all along and exactly where he stood.
A smile curved his lips as she looked away and began to clap, watching another couple skip along the middle.
You will be my wife, Mary Marlow. You will. And you will beg me to offer for you, when I do.
He was going to change his tactics, though, perhaps she needed a little less subtlety and a little more urging.
* * *
Lord Framlington’s gaze made Mary’s skin prickle on the back of her neck as she looked along the line of dancers. He’d stared at her for an hour. What he expected her to do she did not know. Perhaps he thought she would seek an assignation with him. She could even hear his words in her head,“Come and meet me, Mary, outside where it’s cooler, where it’s quiet”.
It was nonsense of course, she was not psychic. It was her urge. Yet he’d applaud her weak conscience if he heard it and say, “Listen to it, do what you want to do, not what you should”. It was his voice she heard.
“I know you feel the same for me as I feel for you! Stop running and come back to me!” he’d called when she’d run away from him, along the pathway.
How could he know, and how had Lord Framlington managed to invade her thoughts so utterly after one kiss? But it had not just been since his kiss, ever since she’d danced with him she’d heard his voice and seen him in daydreams, and when she slept.
His gaze left her, like a physical touch slipping away.
Mary looked to see him set his half empty glass on the tray of a passing footman before he strolled away, leaving the ballroom, and she presumed the ball.
A sense of desertion tugged somewhere in her stomach and an odd ache settled like a cloak about her heart.
Was that it then? Was it over? Had she spurned him successfully? That had been her intention, to cut him dead and she’d succeeded until that final moment when she’d dropped her guard and glanced his way.
Perhaps he’d taken the hint regardless and tired of playing with her. There were a dozen other heiresses on the market, she was not his only choice.
But you are his choice. Her traitorous, wicked heart thought it a compliment that a man of Framlington’s looks and reputation wanted her as his wife.
“Idiot,” Mary said aloud, to her heart. Unfortunately as the dance drew to a close, Derek heard it too when he took her arm to walk her to her parents.
“What have I done to deserve that charge? Did I step on your toes?”
Patting his arm she shook her head, forming the false smile she’d relied on tonight. “I was speaking to myself, sorry. I agreed to dance with two partners for the supper set, I will have to apologise to someone.”
He accepted the excuse, without hesitation. Why would he not? Mary had not been in the habit of lying, until the day of the Jerseys’ garden party. Now she had lied twice.
When she reached her parents Lord Derek gave her knuckles a chaste kiss and bowed. The kiss did nothing to her innards. Unlike the kiss on her lips that had twisted in her stomach like someone hurriedly coiling embroidery threads.
