Chapter 8

Marlowe had wanted to traipse after him to the kitchen and watch him, but with a commanding voice, he’d told her to wait where

she was, as though he couldn’t stand the notion of having her near. She’d nearly disobeyed as she didn’t like being ordered

about but she was still weary from her ordeal and not up to a battle. Although she rather fancied the notion of engaging him

in one, because she thought it could be challenging as well as enjoyable and entertaining.

With her bent legs pressed to her chest and her feet tucked in close, she studied the room. It was good-sized but not much

thought had been given to furnishing and decorating it. No draperies adorned the large windows, which left the lightning visible

whenever it appeared. She imagined on a clear night, the moon and stars offered a reflective bit of artwork. The fireplace,

like the one in the bedchamber, was huge, a fire blazing. She smiled at the books scattered about. Perhaps that was Langdon’s

notion of decorating . She couldn’t deny that their presence was both pleasing to the eye and comforting to the soul.

Although it had been obvious earlier that he’d not found comfort within this chamber.

She’d only just finished plaiting her hair, after managing to rid herself of all the tangles, when she’d heard his cry, like

a wounded creature caught in an excruciating trap. Hence, following the echoes of his distress, she’d hurriedly made her way

here. Her heart had gone out to him when she’d seen him flailing his arms about. It had also frightened her to witness this

large, strong, bold man lost in the throes of a nightmare. From the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, he’d struck her as

the sort of fellow who could defeat anything that posed a risk to achieving his goals.

Even his own lustful desires.

As close as she’d been to him, she’d been cognizant of his growing awareness of her as a woman, as a mate. The quickening

of his breath, no longer in fear, but in anticipation. The flushing of his skin, no longer in embarrassment but in expectation.

The hardening of his cock. If he didn’t desire her, would that have happened?

But if he desired her, would he have left her so easily?

It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he’d been more intent on escaping his own lustful yearnings, rather than her.

The man was a host of contradictions she wanted to sort through and sort out. The reason for her sudden need to do so was beyond her reckoning. The storm would no doubt end in a few hours and on the morrow... somehow she’d make her way back to the mainland. She furrowed her brow. He wasn’t a prisoner here, surely. He had to possess a means for leaving. A boat, no doubt, rather than a balloon.

Her thoughts were interrupted when he strode in carrying two plates and handed her one before setting the other on a low table

in front of the sofa. “I can offer you scotch, rum, or water,” he said as he walked over to a sideboard.

“Scotch.” She studied the offerings on her plate. Buttered eggs, bread slathered with butter, cheese, apple slices. Nothing

fancy. Still, her mouth watered.

After placing two tumblers on the table, he settled down beside her and reached for his plate. “When the rain stops, I’ll

go fishing, get you something a little more substantial.”

Using the fork that had been resting on her plate, she stirred the eggs. “I’d hoped when the rain stopped, I might be able

to leave.”

“What sort of host would I be if I sent you on your way with an empty stomach?”

“A rather grateful one, to be done with me, I expect.”

A corner of his mouth hitched up. A dangerous action that made her think perhaps he was enjoying her company. She certainly

didn’t want to find herself enthralled with him. She wished she could return the gesture but had discovered moving her lip

too much or spreading it too widely did her no favors. It not only brought discomfort but caused the cut to start bleeding

again.

“Still, I’ll feed you first,” he replied, without looking at her, concentrating instead on the food quickly disappearing from his own plate.

“Did you bake the bread?”

He chuckled low. “No. My mother brought it a few days ago when she came over to check on me.”

“Do you have a close relationship with her?”

Taking a sip of his scotch, he focused his attention on the fire for a few seconds before nodding. “Family is very important

to her.”

“You mentioned your sister. You also have a brother as I recall.”

He slid his gaze over to her. “Keep up with the nobility, do you?”

“Of course. It’s important I do so because I never know when I might be in want of a different... provider.”

“How is it—” He shook his head and returned to devouring the eggs.

“How is it?” she prompted.

Another brusque shake of his head. “It’s none of my business.”

“Isn’t that a determination I should make? Ask your question.”

“You’re certainly not shy, are you?”

“There is no advantage to my being so. I’m not a young debutante who must act the innocent to gain a husband. Ask your question.”

He studied her, took another sip of scotch. She enjoyed watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed. Men really should

do away with wearing neckcloths. She liked the casualness hinted at by that small V of skin. “How is it that Hollingsworth

became your benefactor?”

She’d expected the question to be of that nature. Still, it bothered her that he might care about the answer. “I’ll answer if you’ll first tell me why you accepted his offer that night... and then swapped your cards so you’d lose. And don’t worry about hurting my feelings, because no matter what you say, I can promise you that I’ve had worse said to my face. I’ve erected armor over the years.”

The intensity with which he scrutinized her made her feel as though he were mining her soul for the answer, but not to the

question he’d asked. To what might have slowly built up her fortification. She couldn’t help but think it was as strong as

this castle-like structure that thus far had withstood the storm. “I know Hollingsworth well enough to understand that once

he gets a notion in his head, he’s like a dog with a bone. It was the quickest way to get us past a situation that was making

you uncomfortable.”

And just how in God’s name had he discerned her discomfiture? Her intention had been to send a message of being haughtily

put out with the notion of being something with which Hollie could barter—like a piece of furniture. Or his signet ring, which

on numerous occasions she had seen him toss onto a pile of coins to cover his wager. On the rare times when he’d lost it,

he’d made arrangements to purchase it back. She supposed the lessons he’d learned with the ring were the reason he had added

the stipulation that she came for a limited amount of time. “You could have accepted his offer without swapping out your cards.”

“It was the most expedient and gracious way to leave no hard feelings. As I said that night, I don’t take unwilling women.”

“And if I’d been willing?”

“But you weren’t.”

“But if I had been?”

“You’re beautiful, Marlowe. You know that. I suspect you have a thousand mirrors in your residence to confirm it. You’re confident,

flirtatious. But your power comes from your loyalty to Hollingsworth. Without that, you lose your appeal.”

Her power didn’t come from Hollie, and she was of a mind to teach him a lesson on that aspect of herself. But the earl had

taught her not to care what people thought—a strange lesson from a man who cared very much what people thought. “Hence you

still would have swapped out your cards even if it had been obvious that time alone with you was what I wanted?”

His grin was dark and filled with mystery. “We’ll never know.”

Oh, she suspected he did know, the scapegrace. He just wasn’t going to tell her, preferring to leave her in a quandary, wondering

which way he might have gone. Still, she was bothered by all that had transpired that night, more his reaction than Hollie’s.

“I can’t make sense of your actions. You must have wagered at least a hundred pounds on that one hand. And you deliberately

lost.”

“Years ago, my father was a partner in that gaming hell, when it was Dodger’s Drawing Room. As he always told us, there is wealth to be found in vice. Since we were old enough to understand the purpose of money, he has been incredibly gener ous with our allowance because he never wanted us to be put in the position of being so hungry we’d risk prison for a bit of cheese, as he once was. What I lost that night was pittance compared to what I hold in my coffers.” He bowed his head slightly. “Excuse my vulgarity in discussing my wealth.”

“How was it that your father, a child of the nobility, came to be so hungry?”

“Are you not familiar with the legend of the Devil Earl?”

“Your father is the Devil Earl?” She’d heard the moniker but hadn’t known with whom it was associated.

He gave a slow nod. “As for how he came to be so hungry... when he was a wee lad, his parents were murdered in a London

alleyway. He was with them but managed to escape their fate. He spent a good many years on the street, part of a gang of child

pickpockets, before he was returned to his rightful place among the aristocracy.”

“I’ve heard he killed a man.”

“He never speaks about that part of his story, but knowing my father, I suspect the action was justified.”

Setting aside his empty plate, taking another swallow of his scotch, he leaned back, his gaze on her focused as intensely

as it had been that night. She felt completely unclothed as though, with his eyes, he had the power to burn away the blanket

and his shirt. “Now, by your terms, I think I’ve earned the right to have my question answered.”

Langdon was surprised by how strongly he wanted to unravel the mystery of her. He should not be intrigued by her and yet he was. It was the boredom that had settled in with the rain. While this place offered peace, it offered few entertainments. And he was, regretfully, finding her entertaining.

She offered him an overly bright smile, winced, and touched her tongue to the cut. It was a losing battle not to think of

all the things she could possibly do with that tongue.

With a sigh, she shook her head. “It’s a long story. To do it justice, I should probably wait for another time. I’m terribly

weary.”

Coquettish words, he suspected, would have accompanied the smile she’d misjudged. She’d planned to tease him, to use his curiosity

against him. Flirting and tormenting seemed to come naturally to her. But with the injury to her lip, her full arsenal was

not available, and he suspected she depended on it to make the most of her story. Although it was possible she was truly tired.

She’d been through an ordeal. After the railway accident, for a while, he’d often felt he was wading through a quagmire when

he was doing little more than lying in bed or sitting in a chair. He’d seemed to have lost the ability to concentrate, to

focus on any one thing for more than a few minutes.

She placed her empty plate on the table. “That was quite good, possibly the most delicious meal I’ve ever had.”

“Evading death’s clutches does tend to make one appreciate the smaller pleasures in life.”

He couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be a pleasure. Based on her blush, she was very good at reading innuendos. With her about, they seemed to roll off his tongue without thought.

“Have you a couple of additional blankets? I could make a nest here in which to sleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not taking the only bed while a lady is in residence.”

“You are very much aware I’m not a lady.”

“However, I am a gentleman, so you’ll be perfectly safe from any untoward advances... and alone up there.” He jerked his

head toward the ceiling and the room above them.

“While you’ll be safe and alone down here.” She picked at a piece of lint or something he couldn’t quite see as her gaze traveled

the back of the sofa like she was measuring it. “The bed is large enough that we could both snuggle into it, and it would

probably be like sleeping in separate countries.”

No, it damned well would not. Not when she was wearing only his bloody shirt. Would she keep it on once she was beneath the

covers or, like him, did she prefer to sleep without any clothing at all? “Since the railway accident, I don’t sleep all that

well or that much. I’ll be perfectly fine here.”

Cramped, if not fine. He could always stretch out on the floor if need be.

“If you’re certain. I hate to inconvenience you.”

“Then the next time you see a storm brewing, stay on land.”

“Where’s the fun in that, in never taking a risk?”

“It’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“Knowing what you know of me, my lord, do you honestly believe I shy away from trouble?”

She unfolded herself and stood. He caught a peek at her toes. Since he was no longer tending to her, he decided that if she wanted to flash portions of herself at him, it would be rude not to take note. Because he was a gentleman, he shoved himself to his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

She closed her eyes, opened them. “This is no doubt a pointless question, but you wouldn’t happen to have a sewing basket,

would you?”

Alarm skittered through him. “Have you a gash that needs to be sewn up?”

He hadn’t seen one and could detect no bleeding now.

“No, but I will need something to wear when you take me back to the mainland. Your trousers are far too loose. I thought I

could use a blanket to sew a simple skirt. I’ll send you a replacement when I’ve returned to London.”

Had she tried on a pair of his trousers? He didn’t know why he was tempted to ask her to put them back on so he could see

exactly how they fit. For some reason, the thought of her in his trousers was more alluring than her in his shirt.

“I do have a sewing basket.” He walked over to a chair beside the fire and picked up a small wicker basket with a lid. “Actually,

it’s my mother’s. She comes over to visit sometimes and is firmly against idle hands. Although I think most of the thread

is embroidery silk.” His mother had left the basket behind because one never knew when one might be in want of needle and thread .

As if he was going to mend his clothing should it become ripped or frayed. Or bother to reattach a button. Or begin embroidering samplers.

Still he’d graciously thanked her because he knew she was worried about him. She tended to worry over all her children, not

in a smothering manner, but in a way that demonstrated her deep love for them. His mother knew of no other way in which to

love than deeply.

Having grown up watching the example set by his mother and father, he’d been unwilling to settle for anything less than the

sort of marriage they had. Unfortunately, he wondered if he might be left with nothing at all. What woman—when she learned

the truth of him—would want him as he was now? At least as a husband. A woman of ill repute might not give a bloody damn concerning

his shortcomings as long as he kept her ensconced in all the trappings that had led her down that sinful path to begin with.

With gratitude in her eyes, Marlowe took the basket from him. “Thank you.” Then she tossed aside the blanket. “I’ll leave

that for you. You’ll need it down here.”

Christ. Arches. Heels, ankles, calves, knees, and a portion of her thighs. The hem of his shirt lounged only a quarter of

the way down her leg. Was that a freckle on her right knee?

“Good night, my lord.” She began walking toward the doorway.

“You don’t have to be so formal, Marlowe. After all, you’re wearing my shirt.”

“An expensive one at that, based on the softness of the linen and the tidiness of the stitching. Perhaps I’ll visit your tailor to have a shirt made specifically for me.”

He could well imagine the controversy that would cause. But, after all, the woman attracted controversy the way a magnet did

metal shavings. Then she was sauntering out, and it took everything within him not to follow her like a besotted fool.

He dropped down onto the sofa, poured the remainder of her scotch into his glass, and took a healthy swallow. There was the

slightest change in its flavor, and he wondered if it was her. Good Lord, what was wrong with him? He never entertained such

fanciful musings. But something about Marlowe captured a man’s imagination.

Young swells often used her as the epitome of what they searched for in a fallen woman—whether she was to warm a gent’s bed

for only a night or serve as his mistress for an unlimited number. He even knew lords who had tried to lure her away from

Hollingsworth, but her loyalty was as steadfast as the Rock of Gibraltar. Oh, she might flirt, tease, and give a man hope,

but somehow it all seemed innocent, playful. She never gave the impression she was seriously considering anyone else.

While she’d claimed weariness tonight, tomorrow he would insist she keep her promise and tell him how she’d come to be Hollingsworth’s

mistress. And if she was still too exhausted to tell the tale, then he’d be like Charon and the answer would serve as payment

for transporting her back to the mainland. He almost laughed as he envisioned the pique with which she might react to that.

While it was truly none of his business, he was keen to know some of her past. The earl was only a few years older than Langdon. Unmarried. When he did take a wife, would he let Marlowe go? She didn’t strike him as the sort who was willing to share.

His search for a mistress last May had been for naught. Jamie Swindler had accused him of being too particular. But if he

was going to go to the bother and expense of keeping a mistress happy, he wanted to ensure he would be content to spend swaths

of time with her. That she’d keep him interested. That he would do the same for her. He saw it as a commitment of a sort.

Not just sex, but companionship. However, not someone with whom he’d become too invested because their relationship would

end when he married. He wouldn’t be disloyal to his viscountess, to the woman who honored him by becoming his wife.

If he married.

It wasn’t only nightmares that battered him since the railway accident. He hoped Marlowe would never discover that other aspect

of his ordeal, for surely she would think he was mad. But she’d be here only a couple of days. In that time, he would be safe.

He tossed back the remainder of the scotch, welcomed its burning on the way down. Reaching out, he snatched the blanket she’d

left behind. It smelled of her. Even though she’d used his soap, he could detect a lingering subtle fragrance unique to her.

How was it that in such a short time, he already knew the scent of her? He had the unsettling thought that these rooms would

always smell of her.

Ridiculous. She’d be gone once the rain stopped. He’d open windows and doors so the breeze that blew across the sea would chase away every aspect of her and leave behind the smell of salt water, brine, and fish. Within a short period, it would be as if she’d never been here. He could return to his introspection and shore himself up to face the Season.

On occasion their paths might cross. He would deliver a polite greeting... and imagine her flouncing about in his damned

shirt. Which, truth be told, was much more enticing when it adorned her rather than him.

Grabbing his glass, he shot to his feet, began marching toward the bottles of liquor—

Her cry, sending shivers down his spine, momentarily stopped him in his tracks. Then he spun around, tossed the glass onto

the sofa as he rushed by it, and hastened up the stairs. Very little light was coming from his bedchamber. His heart racing,

he slowed his pace and glanced inside. Only the fire—and the occasional zag of lightning—provided light. The lamps and candles

had all been doused. He’d never bothered to hang draperies around the bed, because when sleep eluded him, he liked to look

out on the night. Therefore, he easily saw the lump that represented her curled beneath the covers. She was still, so very

still.

He should have taken comfort in the affirmation she was sleeping, not in distress.

A fissure of concern slid through him with the realization that with her injuries, perhaps he shouldn’t have allowed her to sleep. She’d obviously taken at least one if not several blows about the head. She might also have some internal damage. He should have at least stayed with her in order to more closely monitor her and to perhaps help her to hold the nightmares at bay.

Stealthily he padded toward the bed, his cold bare feet grateful when they landed on the large rug. As he neared, he could

hear her soft soughing as she breathed. Finally, she was visible. Her head on one of his pillows, one hand beneath her cheek,

the other fisted near the dip where her collarbones met, just above where the first button on his shirt was secured. For some

reason he was surprised, albeit perhaps a bit disappointed, not to find her in the nude.

He wondered if she slept in a nightdress within her own residence. It seemed too innocent a thing for her. If she did, he

imagined something gossamer that revealed without exposing completely. That teased and taunted, the way her smile did. That

lured a man in as her knowing gaze did.

He shook off those thoughts. She appeared sound. Not fitful or frightened. If she’d been locked in the throes of a nightmare, she’d found the key to escape. Not that he was surprised. He was beginning to recognize that this woman found nothing daunting. Not Society’s condemnation. Not her lover exhibiting her in public or his using her to shore up his wager. Not a raging storm. Not a turbulent sea. Not a lord who was idiotically annoyed that she’d wandered into his sanctuary. Because demonstrating annoyance was less dangerous than revealing that he was grateful for her company and the opportunity it afforded him to decipher all the intriguing aspects of her.

Her eyes, slumberous and heavy lidded, opened and a jolt of awareness shot through him. It was the look of a well-sated woman.

She didn’t seem bothered by the fact he was standing there, but he felt compelled to explain his presence. “I heard you cry

out.”

“I was back in the storm, but the frightening dream faded away.” She studied him a moment before purring, “Come to bed.”

Dear Lord, she’d mistaken him for her lover, even if they looked nothing alike. Hollingsworth was fair, his hair so blond

as to be nearly white. “I’m not Hollingsworth.”

“I know.” The fingers near her throat unfurled and she patted a spot beside her on the mattress. “Join me. Keep the horrid

memories from returning.”

Her hand stilled, her eyes closed. Had she been cognizant of the invitation she’d been proposing? Although truly, what had

she offered? A place to sleep. No more than that. She did have the right of it. His bed was so large that they need not even

touch. He might not even feel the warmth radiating from her body.

He probably should stay near. In case she needed him or took a turn for the worse. He was no physician. He didn’t truly know

how badly she might be hurt.

Looking over his shoulder, he studied the settee. That would suffice. It was near. But it wouldn’t easily accommodate his length. Ah, but the bed was so much more comfortable. There were blankets to keep him warm. A pillow for his head. And he’d received an invitation—possibly clouded by slumber. He had the wherewithal, the strength of will, to resist temptation. He’d keep on his trousers.

The decision made, he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it at the foot of the bed. Then slowly, ever so slowly, in

case she awoke and objected, he lifted the covers and slid beneath them.

And was greeted with heavenly warmth. She was inches away, hadn’t moved, and yet her heat seeped into his skin as though she

was part and parcel of him. He couldn’t recall ever feeling so... touched. Even though they weren’t joined in any way.

He wondered if she’d learned this technique at a school for mistresses. Was there such a thing? How did a woman learn all

the various ways of pleasure? By having a multitude of lovers, he supposed. How many had she had? He’d only ever heard of

her being with Hollingsworth. She wasn’t that old. Early twenties if he had to guess. How much experience could she have?

Although with the age of consent for marriage only recently being raised from twelve to thirteen, he supposed she could have

had a good bit.

However, her manner of speaking, while she claimed not to be one, was that of a lady. He shouldn’t be so curious about her,

and yet he was.

She shifted nearer to him, her hand curling around his upper arm, her cheek coming to rest against his skin.

He held his breath, waiting for her to fully awaken and order him from her bed. His bed. But she slept on.

The storm was acting as a lullaby, luring him toward slumber. He was looking forward to the morrow when she’d finally answer

the question he’d asked earlier. And in the answering, she might provide him with a clearer picture of exactly who she was.