He appreciates how gullible you are, perhaps. But from now on, you’ll keep your flirtations, and that delectable little body of yours, for me alone.” Spittle flecked his lips as he raged at her.
“I hadn’t realized you were so, er, old-fashioned. Hardly anyone in the ton expects a faithful marriage.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it was accurate enough and suited her current purpose. “Perhaps we aren’t so well suited after all.”
“We’re well suited enough.” He stepped forward, closing a meaty fist around her arm. “I won’t have you sullied by another man. The right to your body is mine alone. I’m marrying a baron’s daughter, not a tavern slut.”
Bile rose in her throat at the idea of enduring intimacy with such a beast. Without thinking, she reached up and slapped him with all the force she could muster.
Her hand connected with his beakish nose—the only part of him where bones were more prominent than flesh—with a satisfying crack. He released her so swiftly she staggered.
“You vicious little bitch!” he bellowed, holding his nose.
“Get out. Just get out.” She pointed an imperious finger toward the door.
He stalked over to the door, then turned. “Don’t think this is over, Elizabeth. You may get away with this now, but as my wife you’ll learn to bend to my will. Bend, or break.” He shut the door behind him with enough force to leave it reverberating in its frame.
Elizabeth sat, limbs quaking, on the nearest available piece of furniture—an uncomfortable beige settee she usually avoided. She pressed a hand to her heart, then hugged herself tight. Her flesh still burned where he’d prodded her. There would be bruises tomorrow.
She’d thought for certain that Harold’s railing at her meant he was about to cry off. He couldn’t possibly treat her that way and still expect to marry her!
But, apparently, given his exiting remark, he did.
Rage and humiliation coursed through her. How could her mother care so little for her eldest daughter that she would see her married to such a pig?
Well, she wouldn’t have it. Elizabeth stood with renewed purpose. She’d told Charity she could work for a living, and so she would. Her mother might announce her engagement to Harold in every one of London’s papers, but Elizabeth wouldn’t be there to fulfill it.
Alex stared at his brandy. Darkness closed in on the windows of his study, his business for the day long since concluded. He’d thought to spend the evening at home, but the morning’s incident in the park kept replaying itself in his mind. Weakness. Why couldn’t he simply block it—her—out? The red-tressed chit was as mad as her father, for certain, but the hint of desperation he’d seen in Elizabeth’s misty green eyes ate at his soul.
She’d never have come to him if she’d known what he’d done. Or maybe, he reflected after a long swallow of the brandy, she would have. After all, he’d had a hand in the family’s destruction, however unintentional. Why shouldn’t he be the one to finish the job?
No. Irredeemable though he was, he’d not stoop that low. It went against his code.
The Code, as he liked to think of it, was a sort of modified creed of honor. It wasn’t going to get him nominated for sainthood, but there were lines even a dissolute rake such as he shouldn’t cross. Don’t hurt anyone, and don’t get involved with anyone who doesn’t know how the game is played. It had worked for drinking, gaming, and women. Except that once, last fall. And there was no atoning for it now.
Elizabeth’s hurt green eyes flickered into his mind. If only she knew.
It would have been no hardship, her suggestion. He could easily envision himself kissing the fullness of her lower lip, or the corner of her wayward smile. He’d explore the slim column of her body, the ripe curve of her breast, that impossibly smooth skin…
Alex tossed back the rest of his brandy and stood. Even thinking of her aroused him. Damn Medfords.
“Hanson!” he bellowed for his valet. He needed diversion. A night of cards and drinking. Since he’d pensioned off his last mistress, and had no liking for the bawdy houses, he’d restrict himself to the gentlemen’s clubs. Besides, another woman would only remind him of the one he was trying to forget.
Chapter Two
Alex arrived at White’s later that night, only a little drunk, and went immediately to his regular table. Lords Stockton, Wilbourne, and Garrett, veteran gamblers all, were already seated, engaged in the pleasurable pastime of betting obscene amounts on the trivial fall of the cards.
As Alex sat, a waiter appeared with a glass of his usual brandy. He quaffed it eagerly, as the three he’d drunk before leaving home had not sufficiently dulled his memory of the tempting minx who today had rashly offered up her own ruination. Nor had they dulled the memories of that same minx’s father.
The other men dealt him into a game of five-card loo. They played several hands, but Alex’s mind wasn’t on the cards.
“Do you ever wonder,” Lord Wilbourne joked as he raked in the cards after winning a hand, “how wealthy Beaufort would be if he didn’t insist on losing such large sums to me?”
Alex grinned, the additional brandy having softened his mood. “I won twice that sum from you last week, Wilbourne.”
Wilbourne’s bushy brows lifted. “Quite right. I’d forgotten. I suppose I’ll have to hope my luck holds a while longer tonight.”
Alex knew Wilbourne didn’t care one way or the other. The man was wealthy in the extreme, as were the others at the table. Playing with such companions made the game far more civilized.
They played some more, and Alex’s mind drifted back to a pair of beautiful but desperate green eyes. A waiter appeared to replace his brandy, and he mindlessly took a swallow of the new one.
Lords Stockton and Garrett began discussing some of the more outrageous bets in the book at the front of White’s.
Stockton, the eldest at the table, had a stodgy sense of propriety. Cards were well and good, but he couldn’t understand what possessed people to bet on such foolish things as the type of jewels a certain courtesan would wear to the theater, or whether Lady X’s garden party would be rained out—the latter of which Lord Garrett had bet in favor of and was devoutly hoping would come true, as he’d promised a friend to attend that unbearably dull annual affair.
“I just don’t see how you can engage in such trivia,” Stockton averred.
Garrett grinned. “I can afford it, and it keeps me entertained. What else is a man to do during the Season? Attend Almack’s?”
“God forbid.” Wilbourne shuddered at the mention of the marriage mart. “Even betting on the weather is better than that.” He dealt the cards again.
Alex picked his up and tried to concentrate, both on the game and the conversation. His friends could afford to bet on whatever ridiculous whims they chose, but their conversation reminded him too much of those who couldn’t but did anyway. He took another swallow of brandy and leaned back in his chair, allowing himself to float peaceably in an alcohol-induced haze.
“All
