The Bachelor Trap (24 page)

She pulled back a little to get a better look at him. “I think,” she said, “one of us had better lock the door.”

Did she know what she was saying, what she was implying? He looked deeply into her eyes, and what he saw there made him forget to breathe. She was completely, utterly his. This brave and lovely girl was his for the taking.

That was when he hesitated, and that was when Marion knew she could not let his scruples stand in the way of what she wanted with her whole heart. She didn't know what the morrow might bring. Shame. Heartache. The humiliation of pitying glances. Tomorrow she would ride out the storm. Tonight belonged to Brand.

She shook off his hands, padded to the door, and locked it. When she turned back, he was gazing at her with something like humor in his eyes, his arms folded across his chest.

The humor no longer worked on her, for she knew now that he used it as a last defense.

“Marion,” he said with a smile, “I'm flattered. Honored, in fact, but I don't think you've thought this through.”

“I have thought this through and I'm doing exactly what you told me I always do.”

“Which is?”

“I'm taking the lead.”

Slowly, sinuously, in a rustle of skirts, she moved toward him and stopped when they were toe to toe. “I'm done with talking,” she said.

“Marion,” he chided, and got no further.

With a small sound of impatience, she looped an arm around his neck and stifled his words with a searing kiss. He raised his arms weakly in a silent protest, but he was in the grip of powerful emotions. She was the only woman who had ever mattered to him, and she was soft and womanly and yielding. He didn't stand a chance.

Whatever she had learned from him, she put into practice now. Holding his head steady with both hands, she used the tip of her tongue to separate his lips. The small groan of pleasure at the back of his throat sent her pulse soaring. Fire danced along her skin.

Their kisses grew hotter, wetter, each more wanton than the last. She twined her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms round her and crushed her to his hard length.

For the first time ever, Marion felt the proof of a man's desire pressed intimately against her body. She wasn't shocked. She was a country girl and was well aware of the mating habits of farm animals. But this was different. She was dismayed. In spite of her bold words about taking the lead, she didn't know what to do next.

Brand felt the change in her, but he didn't know if he could let her go. For weeks, he'd fantasized about taking her to bed and making love to her the way he wanted. He'd curbed his fantasies because Marion was a gently bred, refined young woman who, he thought, had to be handled with kid gloves. All the same, it was the passionate woman he'd discovered behind the well-bred façade that fascinated him.

There was more to his fascination with her than passion, but damned if he knew what it was, except that she had insinuated herself into his life so that he could not imagine not having her there to spar with, argue with, give him grief when he was in the wrong or withdrew into himself. And he was perfectly sure that it was the same for her.

They were two of a kind, both knocked about a bit, but still fighters for all that. Only, in the last little while, Marion had taken some harder knocks than anyone could have expected her to withstand.

Was she having second thoughts? He could easily seduce her, but that did not sit right with him, not here, not in a hotel room, in a strange bed, with no ring on her finger. When all these details were settled, then he'd have her. And he wouldn't have to wait long. If he procured a special license, they could be married by the end of the week.

He held her at arm's length. “I'll understand if you've changed your mind.”

There was a suggestion of surprise in her voice. “I haven't changed my mind. It's just that my mind's a blank. Kissing is all I know.” She averted her eyes and fingered his lapels. “If you don't take the lead, I suppose I shall remain a virgin for the rest of my life.”

The corners of her lips turned up and she peeked up at him.

His good intentions quietly evaporated. He was only a man after all, not a saint. He looped his arms over her shoulders and linked his fingers behind her neck. “A tragic fate that will never come to pass, not if I have anything to do with it.”

She gave a gurgle of laughter.

“Let's begin,” he said, “by divesting ourselves of these clumsy garments, shall we? They just get in the way.”

Suiting action to words, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a chair, then did the same with his neckcloth. “Now, your turn.”

She was wishing now that she'd allowed her maid to undress her for bed. It seemed wanton to take off all her clothes with him watching her. When she thought of each article of clothing she'd have to remove, her cheeks became warm. She almost groaned when she thought of her stays. How could she remove them? Even her maid found her stays hard to undo.

A fine time to turn shy! She had more gumption than that.

She gave him a clear, level look. “You'll have to help me with the buttons.” And she turned to give him access to the row of buttons that marched down her back.

Her blushes were adorable, he thought, and made him all the more determined to go gently with her. As the edges of her gown parted, however, and first one shapely shoulder then the other was revealed, he couldn't resist brushing the pads of his fingers over her soft skin. It wasn't enough for him. He had to taste. Her flowery scent filled his mouth, his nostrils, his throat, his lungs, and settled in his loins. He gritted his teeth, struggling to remember her innocence.

Marion was having trouble breathing. Those languorous touches and open-mouthed kisses were having a curious effect on her insides. Her muscles were softening, her bones were melting, she could hardly hold up her head. In another minute, she would dissolve, and all that would be left of her would be a puddle of water at his feet.

Teeth still gritted, Brand labored to release every last button. When her gown slipped to her feet, much to his dismay, he discovered another barrier. She was encased in stays!

In very short order, having loosened the strings, he hauled her stays over her head and tossed them away. She was down to her chemise and drawers and her white silk stockings. Tantalizing.

He was mildly surprised when she moved away from him, but it was only to pick up her discarded garments and drape them over a chair.

After settling herself on the edge of the bed, she said, “Seems to me that you're no stranger to a woman's undergarments.”

“What?”

He was still savoring the delectable picture of Marion in her underthings. The silk chemise was practically transparent, revealing her lush curves and subtle contours.

She tipped her chin in the air and that small gesture got his attention. “What did you say?” he asked cautiously.

“My maid has more trouble undoing my stays than you do.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Marion, are you pouting?”

When she glared at him, he laughed and joined her on the bed. Lifting her hand, he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. “One of us had better have a little experience,” he pointed out, “or it will be a case of the blind leading the blind.”

Her chin dipped a little. “Only a little experience?”

This was one discussion he had no intention of embarking on. Against her lips, he murmured, “Less than a little. A pinch. A dash. A sprinkling…”

His weight carried her back against the mattress. He felt her smile when his lips touched hers, but the smile became tremulous when he palmed her breast. He shifted her in his arms so that she was open to him, a liberty he had taken only in his dreams. He had wanted her so long.

He propped himself on one elbow and looked down at her. Her skin was love-flushed, her eyes were glazed. Something fierce moved inside him, something entirely primitive in his nature.

He veiled that look when she gazed trustingly up at him. “Undress me,” he said.

She reached for the buttons on his shirt and as she undid each one, her breathing became shallow, more audible. She didn't know why he smiled.

He dragged his shirt over his head and flung it on the floor, then stretched out beside her again. To his extreme satisfaction, she did not avert her eyes or turn shy, but splayed her fingers wide and touched them to his chest. His satisfaction turned to something else when she began to brush those fingers along his bare skin, from his waist to his shoulders and down the length of his flanks.

Marion was both entranced and curious. Muscles she had not known that he concealed under his fine clothes clenched and rippled beneath her touch. His chest rose and fell with each harsh breath. He was a powerful male animal whom she had miraculously tamed to her hand. The knowledge humbled her.

She reached for him. “Love me, Brand, love me.”

“Oh, I will,” he whispered hoarsely before covering her lips with his.

Through the fabric of her chemise and drawers he kissed her breasts, her navel, her belly, lingering over the hollow between her thighs. His caresses became more intimate and more desperate, and where he led, she followed, returning kiss for kiss, touch for touch. She was too steeped in sensation to care about modesty when he removed first her stockings, then her chemise and drawers, too caught up in the moment to wonder at her own boldness when she helped him remove his own clothes.

With soft moans and sighs, they came together, warm flesh sliding over warm flesh. He told her that she was made for this, made for him. She told him that he was going too slow for her. He took her at her word.

His breath was rasping painfully in his chest when he spread her thighs. Reminding himself for the hundredth time that she was a virgin and he had to be gentle, he entered her slowly, giving her time to adjust to his penetration.

She gasped, and went as taut as a bowstring. After a moment or two, her breath came out in a sighing moan and she relaxed beneath him. “That wasn't so bad,” she said.

His one and only virgin, he promised himself. He couldn't go through this again. He reared back and thrust through the last barrier, fully embedding himself, and Marion's back came clean off the bed. Tears of pain stood on her lashes. Droplets of sweat beaded his brow. When she gave a fainthearted laugh, the knot of tension in his chest quietly dissolved.

“No more pain,” he promised against her lips.

“You should have told me.”

“How could I know? You're the only virgin…” He stopped, appalled.

She didn't take offence, quite the opposite. Pleasure bloomed in her cheeks and she wrapped her arms around him. “And you're my only lover, or you will be if you ever finish this.”

Eyes locked, smiling, they moved together in perfect rhythm. Eyes glazed over, smiles slipped, their movements became faster, then frenzied. Her body began to shake. He buried his face in her hair. At the last, when she crested the peak and shattered into a thousand pieces, Brand was only a heartbeat behind her.

Stunned, weak as a kitten, she made a purring sound and collapsed against him. By the time Brand covered them with the bed quilt, she had drifted into sleep.

It was still dark outside. The rain had stopped. Candlelight flickered behind her lashes. She came awake slowly, languorously, then with a start when she realized she wasn't wearing a stitch. Hauling herself up, she stared at the figure who sat at the small polished table sipping from a glass.

“So, you're awake,” said Brand. “I fetched a bottle of wine from the taproom and two glasses to go with it.” He got up and crossed to the bed. He was wearing his shirt and breeches, putting her, she felt, at a disadvantage. Clutching the quilt, she raised it modestly to cover her breasts.

A smile flickered in his eyes. “Put your robe on. We have a lot to talk about, but we'll do it over a glass of wine and away from the temptation of the bed.”

She accepted the robe he held out while managing to preserve her modesty. “Thank you” was all she could think to say, because she felt awkward. She couldn't reconcile the wild woman who had seduced him in this very bed an hour or so ago with the reserved girl she knew.

Sighing, he covered her lips with his in a slow, persuasive kiss. When he pulled back, he was unsmiling, unsmiling and faintly unsure.

“Tell me you don't regret what happened between us,” he said.

His uncertainty put her awkwardness to flight. She smiled into his eyes. “That,” she said, “was the most wondrous experience of my life, so don't talk to me of regrets.”

He kissed her again, this time long and deep. When she responded with equal vigor, he pulled back and arched a brow. “If we don't move away from this bed, before I know it, you'll be having your wicked way with me again. So put on your robe while I get the fire going.”

As she slipped into her robe and tied it, she watched him at the fire. I love him, she thought. She wasn't surprised or awed, because she'd known it for a long time, but this was the first time she had dared to admit it to herself. He might not be a knight in shining armor, but he was the right man for her. She hoped she was the right woman for him.

A shadow covered her heart and she shrugged it off. Nothing was going to dim her happiness, not tonight.

She was at the table, sipping from her glass of wine, when he joined her. He looked like a big cat, self-satisfied and replete after feasting; she wondered if she looked like that, too.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I won my party's nomination. I'll be running in the by-election.”

His words jarred her. “I thought you said that you had only an outside chance of winning the nomination.”

“Seems that I was wrong. The other candidates withdrew their names. They couldn't garner enough support and did the gentlemanly thing without putting it to the vote.”

Now she understood why he looked so replete. He had just won a major victory. She should feel happy for him, not all at sea. But this was something she had never expected. Elliot Coyne was the favorite to win.

Forcing a smile, she said, “That's splendid. What do you think your chances are of winning the by-election?”

“Fair to middling.”

“And what does Lord Hove think?”

He swallowed a mouthful of wine and grinned. “Oh, he thinks that nothing can stop my momentum. I'm on a winning streak.”

She made sure her smile was fixed. “Let's drink to that.”

They clinked glasses and sipped.

Her mind was teeming with all the implications of Brand successfully winning the by-election, so that she missed his next words. She shrank into the folds of her robe as a chill settled over her. Her happiness had been short-lived.

Brand's warm hand covered hers. “No need to look like that. I should have told you at once that I've taken steps to ensure that he'll never try to blackmail you again.”

“What?”

“David Kerr. That's why I came to your room tonight, to talk about Kerr. He thinks I'm buying the evidence that proves your father's first wife was still alive when your mother and father set up house together. I have other plans for David Kerr that need not concern you. You're safe, Marion. You and your sisters are safe. That's all you need to know.”

She sat back in her chair and stared at him with huge uncomprehending eyes. Now he had her full attention. “How can you be so sure? You don't know David as I do. Don't let his looks fool you. He's as devious as a snake. You may think you're getting the better of him, but he'll twist out of your grasp and strike when you least expect it.”

He gave a short laugh. “He won't be in a position to strike at me or you. I'm going to defang him, Marion. All that needs to be decided is the when and the how. Meanwhile, we've made a bargain. I'm not just buying his silence. I'm buying the evidence he has to prove that your father and mother were not married.”

She was incredulous. “You're
paying
him? What good will that do? He'll only come back for more.”

“He can't blackmail me if I have the evidence he threatens to use against you.”

“How can you be sure you'll have all the evidence?”

“It won't matter.” He gave a rueful, half-mocking smile. “You see, Marion, I'm not as nice as you think I am. When I have to deal with scum, I can be the meanest bastard on earth, quite literally.”

He expected his little joke to win a smile from her. Instead, she pulled her hand from his. “Marion, what have I said?”

“You're not thinking of calling him out?”

“No. That's against the law, and my colleagues might take a dim view of that. But I promise you that Kerr will get his just deserts.”

It was a respite of sorts, but that's all it was. Even if he took care of David, it wouldn't be enough. If anyone ever decided to investigate the Dane sisters, the truth would come out.

Wasn't that what she'd been telling herself since she'd looked up to see David tonight? The truth would come out, and what would Brand's colleagues make of that?

He said softly, “Marion, it would help if I knew everything there is to know about your parents and how Kerr came to know they were vulnerable to his blackmail. Are you up to telling me?”

She knew that whether she was up to it or not, he would persevere until he had the whole story. She might as well get it over with.

“I hardly know where to begin.”

He squeezed her hand. “Tell me when you first learned that your father…wasn't married to your mother. Take your time.”

She was silent for a long time, her eyes staring at the wine in her glass, then she began to speak. “My mother told me. I don't think she knew who I was. She was heavily sedated with morphine. It was near the end.” She swallowed. “She said that she had done Lady Penrith a great wrong and an even greater wrong to her own daughters. She wanted me to forgive her.” She looked up at him. “I can't remember all that she said, but I understood her drift. This went on for several days. Whenever my father came into the room, it had a calming effect. They truly loved each other.”

She sighed. “I was too cowardly to raise the subject with my father. He had suffered enough, and I half believed, hoped, that my mother was delirious. I waited too long. My father suffered a stroke and I could not ask him then.”

She made a small sound, grief or impatience with herself. “When he died, I went through all his papers, hoping to find records, marriage lines, anything to prove that my parents were married. There was nothing. I was relieved, then, that there were no sons in our family to inherit the title. Thank God for Cousin Morley! Can you imagine the straits my sisters and I would be in now if one of us was the earl? Doesn't Parliament investigate every claimant to a title?”

She looked into his eyes. “I thought we'd had a lucky escape, and that's when I opened a letter to my father from David Kerr. He hadn't known that my father was dead. But he left me in no doubt of what had transpired all those years ago when he broke our engagement. It was all there in the letter. His only interest in me had been to calculate how much money he could squeeze out of my father. But his funds had run out and he desperately needed more money.

“I can't believe now that I was ever in love with such a snake.” She swallowed a mouthful of wine without being aware of it. “I was heartbroken when he left Keswick. It took me a long time to get over him. But that was as nothing to what I felt when he came back into my life demanding money for his silence. I was distraught. I didn't know what to do or where to turn. My parents, my father…” She shook her head. “We were still in mourning, and my sisters looked to me to take our parents' place. So I did what my father had done. Though we hardly had enough for our own needs, I paid him off.”

Brand felt his hand fisting, and lowered it to his knee where she could not see it. He didn't want to interrupt her train of thought or let his anger distract her. One thing he knew for certain: When he was finished with David Kerr, Kerr would be sorry he'd ever heard the name Lady Marion Dane.

“What happened next, Marion?”

She looked at him blankly, as though she had forgotten he was there, so he repeated the question.

“Not long after that, Aunt Edwina died. I remember feeling guilty because her legacy saved us and gave me hope. So we went to London to take in the Season. Can you believe it? What a fool I was! I thought I was finished with David, but he turned up in London and asked for more money.”

Fire came into her eyes and her voice was strong and hard. “I was going to call his bluff, then I was attacked in Vauxhall and afterward at the theater. What could I do? I was afraid he would turn on my sisters. So I agreed to meet him in Hatchard's bookshop, and I gave him the only thing of value I had left, my mother's emerald drop earrings and ring. I knew they were worth a great deal of money, but he told me tonight that he got a pittance for them.”

He made a mental note.
Hatchard's.
That's why she'd been so reluctant to talk about it. There would be a reckoning, he promised himself.

“He denies that he had anything to do with those attacks on you,” he said.

Her laugh was edged with sarcasm “Oh, he would. Then how do you explain the notes he left after each attack? ‘Let sleeping dogs lie'? ‘Silence is golden'? They had to come from David.”

Brand did not debate the question of who was responsible for the notes. They would get to that later when they reviewed things point by point. “Tell me about your father's first wife,” he said.

She replied bitterly, “You mean my father's
real
wife?” When he was silent, she lifted her shoulders and sighed. “No one in Keswick knew her, because my father didn't inherit the title until after he and my mother were supposedly married. Before that, we lived in Leeds. Everyone knew he'd been married before, but they thought he was a widower.”

“Did you know he was married before? I mean, did you think he was a widower?”

“Yes. But we never spoke of his…his first wife. Most of what I know comes from Cousin Fanny, and she believes what she was told, that my father was a widower when he married my mother. ‘Poor Rose,' she used to say, ‘she had to be locked up for her own good.' I took that to mean that she was a danger to everyone around her.”

When she paused, he said, “Kerr told me that you were seven years old when your father's first wife died.”

“Was I? Oh, I suppose he got that from the date of her death in the parish records. All I remember is that I was born long before she died. What are you thinking?”

“I'm trying to put myself in your father's shoes. I could not put things right for you, but I'd make damn sure that any other children I had would be legitimate. I'd have married your mother if I were he. That's what any sane man would have done.”

“Yes, I thought of that, too. But there's no proof. I told you, I went through all my father's papers. I went to the solicitor and asked whether my father had given him something to keep for me. There was nothing.”

“Yet Kerr told me that you said your parents had married.”

The hopeful look in her eyes died away. “That was bravado, wishful thinking, based on nothing more substantial than a gown my mother kept wrapped in tissue in its own box. She said it was her wedding gown and she hoped that her own daughters would wear it when they got married.” She took a healthy gulp of wine. “My poor mother. It's sad, isn't it? I'm beginning to know what she must have suffered to keep up the charade, even with her own daughters.”

And he was beginning to understand why Marion had had to forgo a Season in London and her presentation at Court. Her father had a lot to answer for. Yet he couldn't wish that the earl had waited until he was a widower before he met and married Marion's mother, because there would be no Marion.

That was a puzzle for philosophers to debate.

He said quietly, “I think you're wrong, Marion. I think your parents did marry. I don't know what happened to their marriage lines, but I think I know where they likely said their vows. I think it's close by. Oh, not in Longbury. Your mother's name was too well known there. In one of the other parishes, perhaps.”