Regency Rogues: Rescued By Temptation

‘You have a good card, good enough to beat me?’ Randall asked, sitting back, his tight voice an encouragement when it should have been a warning.

‘Perhaps I don’t or perhaps I do.’ She lowered her eyes, trying not to gloat at the small victory as she slid the queen of hearts from her hand and laid it on the table.

‘I think not.’ He laid his card on top of hers. The ace of spades.

The heat in her went cold, the worried widow rushing in to replace the daring coquette.

‘You cheated,’ she blurted without thinking.

‘Careful, Cecelia, or I’ll demand satisfaction.’ The dark suggestion deepened the shadows of his eyes and played on the desire still smouldering in her body. He looked like a wolf ready to pounce and she felt the tide of power turn, trapping her.

‘You have the humour of a schoolboy,’ she hissed.

‘And the skills of a man.’ He reached across the table, took her hand and turned it over.

His thumb slid slowly across her palm, the movement subtle but strong as it made small circles on her hot skin. She struggled to breathe, barely noticing how he plucked the cards one by one from her fingers with his other hand. All she could sense was the gentle sweep of his skin against hers, his touch reaching to her very core.

Her fingers tightened over his thumb, covering and capturing it within the hollow of her palm, willing it to be still and to stop the aching tease. With a sly wink, he slid his hand out from beneath hers, his fingernails raking the skin on the back of her hand, his thumb caressing her fingers as he withdrew.

She laid her palms on the cool table, easing the heat which still burned her skin. Pushing against the solid top to steady herself, she rose. He matched her movement, towering over her as she struggled to maintain her dignity against the butterflies warring inside her. ‘Thank you for a spirited game, Lord Falconbridge.’

He leaned towards her with a bow more predatory than polite. ‘We have not yet begun to play.’

She grasped her reticule as she backed away, moving as slowly as she had the morning she’d stumbled on the copperhead snake coiled in the sun behind the brew house. Only when she was a safe distance did she turn her back on him, feeling more vulnerable than when she’d faced him.

He’d be relentless in his pursuit now.

She froze, her panic taking off like a pheasant scared out of the grass, the Season spreading out before her as one constant effort to dodge his advances, her time and energy devoted to keeping him away instead of encouraging any man who took an interest in her or Theresa.

This was how it had started with General LaFette.

She flicked open her fan, waving it furiously in front of her face, trying to calm her racing heart. Would Randall be as cruel as the General when she spurned him, spreading vicious lies and ruining all her and Theresa’s chances at happiness?

‘Are you all right, Mrs Thompson?’ Lord Strathmore’s voice made her jump and she whirled to find him behind her.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Her glance flicked over his shoulder to the table where Randall sat, only to find it empty. ‘I’m just very hot.’

‘Then let me fetch you a glass of punch.’

She didn’t have the stomach for Lady Thornton’s tart punch, but if it kept the Earl away until she could calm herself, she’d gladly drink a cup. ‘Thank you.’

He made for the refreshment table and she bolted for the open balcony doors, trying not to run, yet eager to reach the cool of the darkness where she could be alone and think.

Her fingers tapped an uneven beat on the stone as she stood at the railing, drawing in deep breaths of the cool night air. Staring at the tendrils of smoke rising over the London roofs and illuminated by the low moon, she felt her panic settle and with it her thoughts. Whatever happened between her and Randall, she knew he wouldn’t be as cruel as General LaFette. Despite all the scandals attached to his name, not one ever accused him of spreading vicious rumours. He might have ruined Lord Westbrook, but Randall was right, the young man should have stopped the game before betting his estate.

Just as I should have stopped the game before it began. She hadn’t, she couldn’t, not with her ego pushing her to get the better of him, not with his wicked smile tempting her. Beneath the desire to best him lingered another truth, one she was loath to admit, even to herself. She’d enjoyed playing him more than anything else in London, and for the length of the game, she’d felt like a young woman in love again, the possibility of happiness as real as Randall’s thumb against her palm.

She turned over her hand, the skin cold from the stone. Opening and closing her fingers, she wished she were rich enough to accept everything hinted at in Randall’s touch. Even if his adoration proved fleeting, for a while she could enjoy the long-forgotten feeling of being wanted.

Footsteps sounded behind her and her fingers tightened into a fist. She turned, expecting to see Lord Strathmore, and gasped.

‘Randall.’

He stood in the doorway, the angles of his shoulders silhouetted by the light from the room behind him. Without a word, he slid one arm around her waist and drew her into the shadows next to the door, out of sight of the drawing room.

In the faint light, his eyes held hers, the desire smouldering in their depths burning away the cold loneliness which gripped her. Need and fear pulled her in opposite directions and she didn’t know which urge to follow. He wanted her and, for the moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

She tilted her face to his and he kissed her, his mouth demanding she relent and she did, all reasons against it fading as his tongue swept over her lips. She opened her mouth, accepting the penetrating caress, and his arms tightened around her, his body steady against the tremors racking hers. This was the Randall she remembered, his soft touch strong enough to make all the troubles of her life fade like the far-off voice of the singer. If he sought to possess her now, she’d gladly surrender, if only for the chance to know again something more tender and beautiful than heartache and loss.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ A male voice sounded from somewhere in the distance.

Randall’s hands tightened on her back and she clung to him, refusing to relinquish this moment of happiness to the reality beyond the balcony doors.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ Lord Strathmore’s voice rang out again like some clanking dinner gong and she felt her bliss slipping away.

‘Randall.’ She turned her head and his lips brushed her cheek. ‘Please, I must go.’

‘No, not to him,’ Randall growled, his teeth taking in one sensitive earlobe, his heavy breath in her ear making her nearly forget herself and Lord Strathmore.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ The Earl called again, shattering the illusion of peace created by Randall’s embrace.

‘Yes, I must.’ She pushed against Randall and he let go.

Cold surged in where his warmth used to be, bringing with it all the reality of her position and his, the truths she’d allowed herself to forget under the sweet pressure of his lips.

‘Why? What is he to you?’ Randall hissed.

‘And what am I to you? Nothing more than a plaything to tease with all your suggestions and—’ She flapped one hand at him, lost for words, more flustered by her own actions than his. ‘I’m not one of your society ladies, someone to amuse yourself with until the shooting season begins, nor will I let you treat me as such.’

‘But you’ll let him treat you like that?’ Randall jabbed one finger at the door.

She clenched her hands at her sides. ‘Whatever you think of him, at least his intentions are more honourable than yours.’

She fled back into the light of the drawing room, pausing just inside to compose herself, afraid Randall’s kiss still lingered on her lips for all to see. Thankfully, the singer and the cards held almost everyone’s attention, except Lord Strathmore’s. He stood in the centre of the room, a glass of punch in each hand, lighting up at her appearance. ‘There you are.’

He made for her, his eyes focused on her décolletage. She covered her chest with her hand, wanting to pull the dress up to her chin and walk away from his crass appraisal. It felt too much like the day General LaFette had first leered at her from across the lawn at the Governor’s picnic.

‘What were you doing out there?’ he asked as he handed her the punch.

She took the glass, careful to avoid his round fingers. ‘It’s so warm in here. I had to step outside for a moment.’

‘On the balcony?’ His eyes flicked with suspicion to the darkened doorway and her hand tightened on the crystal.

‘Where else is one to go for fresh air?’ She struggled to keep her voice steady as she moved to his side, looking at the dim outline of London. Randall was still out there, waiting in the shadows. He could step from them at any moment and make his presence on the balcony with her known. She held her breath, expecting him to reveal her indiscretion and ruin all her chances with the Earl. Time seemed to stretch out as she waited, but only a light breeze drifted in through the open door, ruffling the lace curtains hanging on either side.

Her hand eased on the glass. He hadn’t revealed himself. He could have, but he didn’t. She sensed the effort to protect her in his choice and the realisation proved more startling than his appearance on the balcony and nearly as touching as his kiss.

‘Shall we listen to the singer?’ Lord Strathmore asked.

‘Yes.’ She accompanied him into the drawing room, struggling to put Randall out of her mind, but his warmth still lingered on her lips. He wanted her and for a moment, she’d wanted him enough to risk a very public indiscretion. She shouldn’t have trifled with him, it only added fuel to his fiery pursuit, threatening to burn her and all her carefully laid plans. She rubbed the bracelet, wondering why he was so determined to claim her when a relationship with her would bring him nothing. Whatever Randall’s motives, she sensed they were more for his benefit than hers. In the future, she must be more careful when dealing with the Marquess.

The singer’s voice crawled up Randall’s spine. He stood in the darkness of the balcony, feeling as if he’d been cut. He tugged his wrinkled coat straight. She’d even had the audacity to rail at him as if he’d attacked her in an alley when all he’d done was answer the challenge she’d tossed at him from across the table. The image of her alluring eyes, more green than brown, the dark lashes curling above the wide pupils, seized him, twisting his frustration.

The singer’s shrieking ceased and the guests applauded. Randall clasped his hands behind his back and strode inside, not about to linger in the darkness like some weeping girl left out of a dance.

At the edge of the audience, Strathmore clapped like a trained monkey. Cecelia stood next to him, the roundness of her buttocks hinted at beneath the wide skirt of her pale yellow dress. The alluring blush along the sweep of her exposed shoulders didn’t escape his notice. Neither did the flutter of her pearl earrings as she leaned away from Strathmore when he moved closer to speak. Her distaste for the man was obvious in the weakness of her smile, yet the moment the fool had caterwauled for her, she’d wrenched herself away from Randall, the passionate woman receding once again into the frigid widow.

I should have followed her and killed Strathmore’s interest. But he hadn’t. He wasn’t about to lower her opinion of him just to best a fool, not after he’d felt such wanting when his tongue swept the sweet line of her mouth. She craved his touch, no matter what she believed about his intentions, or Strathmore’s. He cringed to think about the Earl’s intentions, yet Cecelia believed Strathmore more worthy of her affection than him.

You’re not worthy. His fists tightened before he crushed the memory down like he had the first day of his first Season when he’d stepped out of the carriage and on to the London street, refusing to let it control him.

Then Madame de Badeau stepped between him and Cecelia, jostling him from his thoughts. The Frenchwoman looked at Cecelia, then Randall, condescending amusement dancing in her brown eyes.

Only then did he realise how he stood in the centre of the room, mooning at Cecelia like some sad puppy. He scrutinised each face near him as people moved to fill the empty tables, wondering who else had noticed his moment of weakness. No eyes met his, but it didn’t lessen his unease. The art of observing without being observed was well practised in society.

He turned and, without so much as an answering nod to Madame de Badeau, strode from the room, refusing to let the Frenchwoman or even Cecelia make a fool of him. He more than any other man in London was worthy of Cecelia and he’d be damned if he let her or anyone else make him think otherwise.

Madame de Badeau stood with Cecelia and Lord Strathmore on Lady Thornton’s front portico, watching as her carriage pulled to a stop before the house, ready to convey the widow home before returning for her.

‘I would be more than happy to escort you home,’ Lord Strathmore offered to Cecelia as he handed her into the vehicle. ‘It worries me to know you’re not feeling well.’

‘You’re very kind, but I can’t impose or ruin your evening,’ the little widow answered, more play-acting in her simpering smile than in half the performances in the Theatre Royal.

‘Indeed, you cannot.’ Madame de Badeau laughed, stepping forward, eager to see the slut off. ‘Lord Strathmore has promised me a game of piquet and I’m eager to win back the five shillings I lost to him last week.’

‘Quite right.’ Lord Strathmore bent over Cecelia’s knuckles and Madame de Badeau caught the flicker of disgust in Cecelia’s eyes. Apparently, Strathmore saw only what he wanted for he closed the carriage door, waving it and Cecelia off with a self-satisfied grin.

‘I think I’m making great strides with her.’ Lord Strathmore hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat, trilling his fingers over the silk. ‘I can count on you to keep recommending me to the lovely, wealthy woman?’

‘Of course. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure than to see the two of you together.’ And the whore suffering under your depravity while you both sink into poverty.

Suspicion darkened his brow. ‘I’m surprised you’re being so helpful, considering what happened before.’

‘My dear, you know I care nothing for the past, or revenge.’ She fought to keep from laughing at her own lie. No, she hadn’t forgotten the horrid way he’d treated her the night he’d thrown her over for that actress. She touched her cheek where the bruise had formed after he’d struck her. The bruise might have faded, but not her hate, nor her craving for revenge. It burned as bright as her desire to bring low the daughter of the woman who’d stolen away her first love. Losing him had forced her at sixteen into the protection of old Chevalier de Badeau and years of vile treatment at the Frenchman’s gnarled hands before the Terror took off his head.

She touched her neck, shivering at how close she’d almost come to losing hers. Robespierre’s execution had saved her from the blade, but not the destitution afterwards, or everything she’d been forced to do to survive.

‘Shall we return?’ He held out his arm, and she took it, dismissing the past as he led her back into Lady Thornton’s.

She’d waited a long time for the perfect revenge to reveal itself and her patience was about to be rewarded. She caressed the diamonds against her breasts, thinking how delightful it would be to see both Lord Strathmore and Cecelia brought low. Cecelia might be innocent of her mother’s sins, but there were debts to be repaid and if the mother wasn’t alive to pay them, then it fell to the daughter to suffer.

Innocent, Madame de Badeau sneered behind one gloved hand. The tart was hardly innocent, throwing herself at Randall, playing him with a talent she might admire if it didn’t made her sick. To see a man of Randall’s reputation humbled by a nobody was more than she could stomach.

She shrugged off her disgust, knowing his infatuation wouldn’t last. When it ended, he’d see once again how she alone among all the others continued to stand beside him. Some day, her loyalty would be rewarded, but for the moment she concentrated on the other matter, waiting for the right moment to strike. She smiled up at Lord Strathmore, smirking as his eyes fixed on her breasts. After all these years, she would finally see her enemies crushed.

Chapter Seven

Randall raised his arm as Mr Joshua fastened the cufflink, shaking his head at the selection of bracelets the jeweller held up for his inspection. ‘No, none of these.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to see something with sapphires?’ the jeweller suggested, returning the velvet-lined tray to the wood case, then withdrawing another and holding it up.

‘I have no interest in rings,’ Randall snapped. ‘I wish to show the lady the seriousness of my intentions, not give her ideas about marriage.’

‘Of course, my lord. I have another collection which I think might suit your needs.’ He fiddled with the trays in the case.

Mr Joshua finished with the cufflink and Randall dropped his arm, opening and closing his hand, the feel of Cecelia’s back against his palm as vibrant this morning as it had been last night. He could still hear her sighing as her sweet lips opened to him, the weight of her body soft against his, surrendering until he’d thought his conquest complete.

How wrong he’d been.

He smoothed the crease out of one cuff, another long night without sleep, the hours of darkness consumed by thoughts of Cecelia, dragging on him. In the early hours of morning, when he’d paced the halls chewing over last night, he’d come to realise she was right. Cecelia wasn’t like all his other conquests and it was a mistake to treat her like one. He’d approached her with all the finesse of a battering ram, expecting her defences to collapse simply because he knocked at her gates. The same tactics might have worked with women like Lady Weatherly, but with Cecelia they only strengthened the wall keeping him out. It was time for the softer, more delicate approach.

‘Here you are, my lord. A selection of necklaces from Italy.’ The jeweller held up another tray with gold pendants arranged on the velvet. ‘Perhaps one of these will suit.’

A square pendant in the middle caught his attention. He picked it up, admiring the fine etching of ivy leaves covering an exposed brick wall. It reminded him of the old mill at Falconbridge Manor where the stucco had fallen away from the stone. The mill was gone now, damaged in a storm five years ago and rebuilt in stone. In the gold, he could almost see again the old one and the way the bricks used to glow in the late afternoon sun while he and Cecelia had floated over the pond in the miller’s boat, her hem wet, the red highlights in her hair sparkling in the low sunlight.

He met the jeweller’s eager eyes over the tray and, turning, carried the pendant to the window. It weighed nothing, but felt as heavy in his hand as the solid end of the oars had when he’d rowed, choking out his secret to Cecelia, the truth of his father’s death too heavy for him to carry alone.

He swept the fine lines of the design with his thumb, the gold glinting like the fish had done as they swam beneath the boat. He’d watched them flitting over the rocks, too ashamed to look at Cecelia, too afraid of seeing in her sweet face the same hate and disgust that used to fill his father’s eyes. Then she’d touched his cheek with an understanding he’d never known before and certainly not since.

His fingers closed over the pendant, filled again with the same desolation he’d felt every time he stood at the pond after she’d left.

She knew his secret. Perhaps it was the real reason she continued to push him away.

He forced down the loneliness as he strode back to the jeweller. No, that wasn’t the reason. She’d told him why last night when she’d accused him of being insincere. He was about to show her depth of his sincerity. ‘This one will suit.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ The salesman produced a velvet box from the case and arranged the pendant inside. He handed it back to Randall, then packed up the case and followed Mr Joshua out of the room.

Randall took a seat at the wide writing desk, laying the case on the blotter as he withdrew a sheet of paper. He dipped the silver pen in the inkwell and began a note to Cecelia to accompany the gift. The words tangled together as he wrote, nothing making sense. Frustrated, he scrapped the paper from the blotter, wadded it up and tossed it in the fire. He pulled another sheet from the pile, laying it down next to the box and tapping his fingers on the leather before returning the pen to its stand.

Let the pendant speak for him.

Mr Joshua returned and Randall rose, sweeping the box from the desk and holding it out to him.

‘Take this to Mrs Thompson. Tell her it’s a token of my friendship and ask permission for me to call to see how well it fits her. Wait for an answer.’

Cecelia opened the slim box and drew in a sharp breath.

‘Lord Falconbridge hopes you find the gift acceptable,’ the valet announced.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured breathily in spite of herself. Removing the necklace from the velvet, she held it up, letting the light from the windows play off the gold. The image of the Falconbridge mill where the plaster had fallen away from the bricks came to mind. The hours she and Randall had spent floating in the miller’s boat were some of her fondest. More than once during her time at Belle View, she’d passed the small lake between the fields in the late afternoon and thought of Randall, wondering if he ever thought of those days, too.

Perhaps he did.

She laid the pendant in her palm, the cool metal warming like his cheek had when she’d laid her hand aside his face all those years ago. Sitting across from him, the water lapping at the rough sides of the boat, the pain and loss in his eyes had mirrored her own. They’d shared so much then, the small space protecting them from all the problems and heartache waiting on the shore.

Or so she’d once believed.

She lowered the necklace back into the box, her excitement tarnished by both the past and the present. Even if the gift was a reminder of their time together, she knew he didn’t send it for any emotional reasons. She’d rebuked him last night and this was his attempt to flatter his way back into her good graces. It’d almost worked.

‘Lord Falconbridge asks permission to call, to see how well you wear the necklace.’ The valet’s voice jostled her out of her thoughts.

She looked at the lean young man in the fine coat, his hands laced behind his back, his stance betraying nothing, but she sensed this wasn’t the first time he’d watched a woman open one of Randall’s tokens.

She looked at the pendant again and considered keeping it, wearing it once in front of Randall and then pawning it, but changed her mind. No matter how misguided his intention, she couldn’t take advantage of Randall’s generosity.

‘Lord Falconbridge is very kind.’ She closed the box and, with a surprising tug of regret, handed it back to the young man. ‘But I can’t accept such a gift. Please return it to him with my thanks and my apologies.’

The valet’s mouth dropped open before he snapped it shut and she guessed this was the first time he’d witnessed a woman refuse a gift.

‘I’ll convey your message. May I also tell Lord Falconbridge he has your permission to call?’

After last night, the idea of being alone in her house with Randall didn’t sit well and for more reasons than she cared to ponder. However, if he came to tea, it would save her the trouble of explaining her refusal in public. Also, for all her chastising of Randall, he was as much a fixture of society as Lord Strathmore or Lady Weatherly. To alienate him completely might cause more harm than good, though she wasn’t sure to whom. ‘Yes, Lord Falconbridge has my permission to call.’