M
aryanne squared her shoulders and walked into the drawing room.
Dash—Lord Swansborough—stood at the window, apparently looking out upon the bleak winter world. Water and mist hugged the panes, and gray clouds cast gloom into the room. Three burning lamps, along with a half dozen candles and a cheery fire, filled the room with light and warmth. Still, for her, all those flames barely fought the feeling of chill.
Of foreboding.
Maryanne stood still, the door open, knowing his lordship would sense her if she stared, but she couldn’t resist. His head was bowed, his gloved hand resting on the cool pane. Even in the gray light, his luxurious black hair gleamed.
Was he mourning his fate? In the daytime, most gentlemen wore a coat of color—green or blue—but he wore black. Nothing but black. A coat of black tailored to fit perfectly to his magnificent shoulders, his broad back. Snug trousers that cupped his muscular derriere. She thought of his back, naked and burnished with the hint of warm daylight, and how exotic and seductive his black silk blindfold had been against his slightly tanned skin.
And she thought of his rump, how it had flexed as he thrust in her, and how the light dusting of hairs had tickled her fingertips—
Before she could even shut the door, he turned. Her breath raced out in a whoosh.
She had not seen him for three months.
One dark brow arched, and his dimple appeared. “Verity.” He bowed to her.
She pulled the door shut, turned the key in the lock. Was she locking herself in with a panther? His lordship moved with the graceful stealth of deadly wild cat as he turned from the frosted window and walked toward her. Nervously she curtsied. She had no idea where to begin or what to say. She might be pregnant, but she was not wronged, and she felt her chest tightening.
She was not going to hide in propriety and offer him tea.
She straightened, finding the courage to glance up at his eyes. Beneath thick raven lashes, his gaze dropped to her waist, which meant he knew everything.
“What did Marcus say to you? What did he write in the letter he sent to you?” Maryanne felt her cheeks grow warm. Nerves had made her voice sharper than she’d intended. “I wasn’t allowed to look, of course. I apologize if he insulted you in any way. No one seems to accept that I am entirely to blame.”
What was he thinking? With his coal-black eyes shrouded by those lush lashes, she couldn’t tell. Last time, he had been drunk.
He stopped by the fireplace, his back to it, and he rested his beautiful hand—in a black glove—on the mantel’s corner. “Do you want this? Marriage?”
Seductive and deep, his voice reminded her of a growl—enthralling, dangerous, and sensual. That husky baritone brought her back to the way he’d spoken to her when she’d been in his bed. So teasing, so heart-wrenchingly intimate…
“Verity?” His lips lifted on the right in a brief smile.
She did—she had to want marriage, but at the sight of that smile, she blurted, “Not a forced marriage, no.”
“If it wasn’t forced, would you want to marry me?”
Yes, yes, yes!
But her face burned hot, and she couldn’t admit it. “Wouldn’t any woman?”
He pointed to the settee, obviously insisting she sit. “That’s not an answer, Verity. This time, I want truth.”
She didn’t want to sit and look up to him. It was bad enough that he towered over her when she was standing. She had to tip her head back to look at him. Just as she had in the balloon’s basket when he’d bent over her, his body pressed to her from behind, surrounding her, protecting her, scandalously making love to her….
“In truth, I didn’t think I wanted to marry at all,” she admitted.
His brow went up. “But you obviously enjoy sexual pleasures.”
She flushed at that, which was silly, considering what they’d done.
You must marry him. It’s the only way out. You must. You must….
But there was no solution. To protect her family from scandal and disaster, she was forcing Dash into one. She couldn’t make anyone happy in this—Venetia would be furious when she wed out of duty, Marcus would be enraged if she didn’t, and Dash would be forced into either a marriage or a duel.
“Please sit, love.”
Love.
A casual endearment. Was Dash using it to control anger?
She didn’t want to sit, but she realized she was shaking. Nothing in his stance—elegant hand resting on the elaborate mantel, booted ankles crossed—told her what he truly felt. With his face turned toward her, away from the fire, his dark eyes were hidden in shadow.
She moved to a wing chair by the fireplace, but she stopped behind it, the tall back between them like a wall of safety.
“I didn’t mean to trap you.” Her voice was a mere squeak.
“But you did, sweetheart.”
“And I’ll pay the highest price—I’m the one who will bear a babe!”
Pain contorted his handsome mouth, and she regretted the slicing words. His sister’s loss must still be a raw wound.
“Venetia and Marcus were at daggers drawn over this. They were arguing just before…” She floundered. “I can’t have them fighting about it—I can’t! I think the fighting brought on the birth.”
Fire roared into the quiet, and the clock marked the endless wait. Her tummy made pirouettes inside her. She needed a biscuit.
Finally he spoke. “And so, despite the fact you don’t want to marry me, you would agree to spare her any more distress?”
Despite his light tone, Maryanne shivered. She nodded. “I’m sorry—it isn’t very considerate of me. But it wouldn’t help. Venetia doesn’t want me to marry you.”
“And why in blazes not?”
“You…you’re too lewd.”
A raw, masculine laugh rang in her ears, a laugh that made her skin suddenly aware of sensation—the brush of warm air, the pulse of her own blood, the nearness of him.
His smell teased her, reminding her of how delectable it had been to hold him close and bury her nose against the sweaty hair on his chest and the warm, shaved skin of his throat.
Beneath lowered lashes she saw him move from the fireplace. Foolishly she shut her eyes.
His blend of sandalwood and leather and clean skin surrounded her—a scent that made her nipples harden and her quim pulse. For her, it was the smell of desire. She let her lashes part a bit, enough to see his gloved hand approach. His fingers touched her chin, tipped her face up. “Thank you for the truth, but where is your fire, Verity?”
Mystified, Maryanne stared into those black eyes—as dark and gleaming as jet, as unfathomable as a dark lake.
“That night, you were a fireball, love. Every bit as lewd as I was. And now you’re cowering before me—when I’m the one who ruined you.”
“My fire?” Shame and fear and confusion sat like a cannonball in her belly. Or rather, like a baby growing in her womb. “My fire burned too brightly and left disaster. You should reject me. You should walk away. I’ve no right—”
He abruptly moved his hand back. “I would never walk away from responsibility.”
Dear heaven, she’d offended him. Offending him by implying he would want to take her offer to run. She didn’t understand what he wanted. He wouldn’t want to marry a wanton—why was he worried about her fire?
“Why did you go there, love? Why would Trent’s sister-in-law go to the rescue of a courtesan?”
Helplessly she looked into midnight eyes. “That was just a story. I heard the…the courtesan’s name and…and used it.”
And how are you going to explain why you need all that money?
“Then why did you go? What did you want?”
“Excitement,” she breathed. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “Adventure like Venetia had.”
“So I was an adventure?”
“You were…” How to explain what she didn’t know? “Temptation. I just couldn’t resist.”
A purely wicked, utterly heartbreaking smile touched his lips. It vanished quickly. “How are you feeling? Are you sick?”
“Yes, but I’m told by my sister it’s good to be sick.”
“Sweetheart, my child is in your belly. Neither of us has a choice about marriage.”
“But it wasn’t your fault. And you know nothing about—!” She clapped her hand to her mouth.
“About what, sweet?”
Around her hand, she whispered, “My father. Who he is.” She’d leaped at the first lie she could think of—she couldn’t tell him about her debt. “No, that’s silly.” She blushed. “Of course, you do. You know he is Rodesson, of course, because you know Venetia, but—”
“I can assure you I am not worried about your parents. Or your illegitimacy.”
She cringed. It wasn’t the stigma that made her spine jerk at the word. It was what it meant—that her mother had surrendered to love and made a dreadful mistake.
“What will your family think?” She must be mad. She was trying to talk him out of marriage, when marriage was exactly what she needed.
Venetia had been accepted by the
ton
but only because no one in Society—except Dash—knew Rodesson was their father.
“My sister won’t care. As for the rest of Society, no one will dare insult my wife.”
His wife.
“No—I can’t. This is wrong!”
His dark brows shot up at that.
“It is. Wrong.” She was floundering again, lost in the harsh set of his mouth. “You have to make do with someone so…inappropriate simply because you…bedded me—”
“Hush.”
How could he make such a soft word sound like a curt command?
He took two strides and stopped at the other side of the chair. “We will marry. And make the best of it.”
It was the command of a peer, and she knew it. Her shin bumped the wing chair, and she realized it was like a wall between armies—they were using it as a defense while they sized each other up.
Dismay rose, and she bent her head to blink away sudden, silly tears. Was this to be their future? Anger, duty, and awkwardness?
Dash’s warm fingers brushed her arm, and she quivered at the intimate touch. No glove now—he’d taken it off. Just his bare, long-fingered hand, stroking.
The curved wood back of the chair dug into her right hand. Her fingers drove into the silk cushion.
She belonged to him now, and he was caressing her.
Could she enjoy his caress, or should she feel guilty?
She was going to marry him, and she knew nothing about him, nothing except the warnings she’d heard, the rumors of debauchery and wickedness and scandal.
He hung a woman upside down and pleasured her that way
, Venetia had admitted.
Matrons gossiped, and girls whispered about him.
He wears black because his heart and soul are black, because he is like Lucifer, because he is dark and tragic….
He had made love to a woman who dangled from a hook in the ceiling. He was willing to have sex in a hot-air balloon.
But then, so was she. And it had been glorious.
“In truth, I never planned to marry either,” Dash said.
That startled. It made sense for her, a penniless country girl born in scandal, with a shocking father who painted erotic art. It did not make sense for a peer of the realm. Did she dare ask why?
“And I’m loath to force you to enter my world, love.”
His world? He’d said she would be accepted by society. “You mean your…orgies and brothels?”
“My family, love. Not my sister—the rest of them. Anne is mourning now, which worries me, but she’s got the warmest heart of anyone I’ve known. She’s the only one in my family who is sane. I’m worried, love, that it will be hard for you.”
“W—what do you mean?”
“I’ll give you the truth, Verity,” Dash murmured. “What you need to know.”
His fingers stroked along her neck; the gesture of simple possession made her cunny throb.
“My uncle is mad. He was a tyrant when I was young, filled with thwarted ambition, and he hated me. My cousin wishes me dead. My aunt lives in a world of her own, and my uncle’s mistress, a lady he has kept for twenty-five years, lives in their home. She rules the west wing, my aunt the east. On top of that, my sister-in-law is having an affair with Craven, who makes me look like a blessed angel.”
His intense, dark eyes watched her. Was he waiting for her to turn and run?
Perhaps, because in a silky murmur, he asked, “So which of us has trapped the other into disaster, Verity?”
But then she saw the lines around his sensual mouth, the tension there. She saw his throat move as he swallowed hard. He was afraid of what she would think. He, a wealthy viscount and wild libertine, feared her rejection.
She couldn’t credit it. “My mother ran away with Rodesson to Gretna Green but, in the end, they did not marry. Perhaps because both knew that an earl’s daughter who hoped for love and a wild artist wouldn’t suit. My mother’s father, the Earl of Warren, disowned her, of course, because she was ruined and pregnant. She lived in a small village and invented a sea-faring man named Hamilton to be her husband and our father. I grew up pretending to be the daughter of a fictitious man while my father lived an artist’s flamboyant life in London and Italy. You might bring dotty relatives, but I bring a fabricated past built entirely on deceit.”
Dash laughed, natural and deep, as though truly entertained. “Then perhaps, sweeting, we were meant to be. It wasn’t chance that sent you careening into that study at Mrs. Master’s. You are owed marriage, Verity.” His voice washed over her, as potent as his touch. How could simple words make her chest so tight?
His finger followed the neckline of her gown, slipping in to skim across the swell of her breasts. She knew the sensation of soaring again, as she had in the balloon basket, with stars surrounding her and the world at her feet.
“We enjoyed making love,” he murmured. “Marriage is to produce a child, which we’ve certainly proven we do very well. There can be more—we’ll enjoy that. And children will give you pleasure.”
Even as his hand cupped her neck and she whimpered in desire, she abruptly dropped back to earth—like the balloon’s basket landing with a bump. She knew what he meant behind those words. Children would give her the love he could not.