A Gentleman and a Scoundrel (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (16 page)

How foolish he must think her now, how wanton and base. He had all but taken her virtue and she would have let him, here in this room; a private parlour in a very public inn. She would have let him take her clothes from her and willingly submitted to his touch, the blue rug their only excuse for a bed.  It was not she who had pulled back at the eleventh hour but him. Had it not been for his sense of honour and decency, she might in all probability have been ruined, or with child or both.

But, oh how wonderful to be in his arms at last! How wonderful to feel his body next to hers, his touch on her skin, his lips on hers with an ardour that she found truly staggering. How could she have thought him an unemotional man? How could she have doubted his ability to feel and desire as other men did? She had been truly deceived by her own prejudice. She thought that she knew him as well as any woman could and she had been utterly wrong.

He had punished her and it had been a harsh lesson indeed. She had toyed with his affections, she had goaded and taunted him in the hopes that she would see another side to him, a side that she wanted just as much as the close friend he had become. She had wanted to provoke a reaction and finally she’d got what she wanted. But at what cost? What did he think of her now? A hussy? A loose, wanton female who would let any man do what he wanted with her? Had she told him that it was him and only him who she wanted in that way? Had she let him know that no other man would have been granted the liberties he had taken with her that afternoon?

She hugged her knees into her chest and laid her head down atop them and sobbed herself dry of tears.

The Duke of Malvern’s plan had been to walk away and leave her with imaginings of what might have been, while he effortlessly transferred his affections elsewhere.

The plan had
not
been to sit up half the night racked by guilt and regret, thinking himself the most unfeeling brute in all creation and drinking himself into a state of dejection.

The plan had
certainly
not been to find himself at the front door of the White Hart the next morning with a posy of pink roses in one hand and his pride squashed firmly under one elegantly shod top boot, determined to gather the young woman into his arms and demand that she agree to marry him without delay.

He knocked on the door with one gloved hand and waited. He was shown into the parlour, the scene of his ill-judged seduction the other day, and stood kicking his heels by the window, his shoulders set back, attempting to look as though nothing in the world had happened. He glanced at the wall, remembering the feel of her in his arms, the touch of her lips on his and how she had thrown her head back against that innocent wall with a breathless moan that he did not think he would ever forget even if he reached the age of ninety.

She would not see him. His posy of flowers was returned with a polite note and a desire that he not call again. He wrestled with the urge to run up the stairs and seek her out in her bedchamber but on meeting the plea in the old landlord’s eyes, decided that he would not put the man out by creating such a scene. He smiled faintly, nodded and went away.

Had the Duke known that the lady had sobbed all the while she was writing the note, he might have been mollified. As it was, he shuffled back down the front steps of the inn like an old man, feeling as if he had lost the shining sun from his sky. He threw the flowers at his groom before climbing back into his curricle. The groom caught them deftly against his chest with an expression of extreme surprise upon his face.

“Give them to your sweetheart, Bob,” his grace recommended as he gathered the reins into his hands, “I have no use for them.”

He flicked the reins and the equipage bowled forward.

She did not want to see him. Could he blame her? He had humiliated her. He had used her body against her, knowing that he could make her want him, knowing that he would not let up until she had all but given herself to him.

What he had not expected was that it would go so far. He had been virtually on the point of unfastening his breeches when reality eventually reined him in. How he had stopped himself he did not know. He had been almost at the point of no return and if she had touched him, he would have been lost indeed.

He thought ruefully that it was that which had saved him. If she’d touched those long fingers to any part of him, he would have had her on the floor and damn the consequences. Even the thought of it now had him breaking out into a sweat.

He had been angry and hurt and determined that she should know him for who he really was. She should know that a gentleman who was the epitome of kindness and amiability was not necessarily a flat. A man who had respect for a woman was not necessarily one who did not feel the urge to take that woman to bed. He was bitterly upset that she still did not appear to know him after all these years; she still thought him some kindly uncle rather than a man with whom she could share her undoubted passion. She considered him her sister’s rejected suitor and unworthy of any romantic feelings. She thought him devoid of any interest in a woman beyond the need to beget himself a wife and an heir. She thought him dull and passionless.

He was far from that. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly it hurt. He’d wanted her since she had first come out at the tender age of seventeen, her eyes shining with wonder at the new fashionable world she had entered. When she’d looked at him with those cornflower blue eyes, he’d wanted to take her into his arms and waltz her right under her father’s nose, even though in those days the waltz was a scandalous dance. And when that pup Thomas Bradley had broken her heart, he’d wanted to hold her while she sobbed into his shoulder and kiss away her tears―after he had broken Bradley’s nose, of course.

But he had been intended for Sophie and had been all his life. He’d had to remind himself of the fact. Louisa was not destined for him. He had told himself that she was too young, that Sophie would make him a better, more suitable spouse. But his heart would not be schooled into submission. He wanted Louisa. He wanted to make love to her long into the night, to show her what he was capable of, to show her that they could be so much more than friends.

His afternoon passed gloomily, working his way through a pile of business correspondence that needed his attention. He was distracted, however, and was very soon staring listlessly out of the window.

“There you are,” commented a dry voice from behind him.

The Duke turned. “Marcus, what the devil―? What on earth are you doing here?”

Mr Ashworth smiled faintly and closed the door. “I told your imperious butler that I would announce myself.”

“What
are
you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” remarked his friend, sitting in the chair behind the desk and bracing one foot over the opposite knee. “We’re all here. Louisa’s flight from Foxhill caused a hell of a stink, I can tell you. The maid swore blind she had eloped with Nicholas.”

Malvern stiffened.

“She hadn’t, of course, she’s come here to see you. Not that it hasn’t been proved to be a waste of time, however, not to mention the expense. Half the Munsford family are staying at the Hart and that Garbey woman too. Poor landlord doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. And now Louisa says she won’t have you and is determined to return to Haymarsh.”

The Duke stared at the floor.

“I take it you have had another argument?” asked Mr Ashworth.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“She was all set to come here and apologise and now we’re all back to square one. What happened, Jasper?”

“I said that I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mr Ashworth shrugged and turned his attention to some papers on the desk instead. “Are you going to accept his offer?”

Malvern shrugged. “It’s a small house and I won’t miss it. He may have it with my blessing.”

“You could sell it for double that amount.”

The Duke shrugged again. “I could…but I won’t.”

“For what it’s worth, my opinion is that you shouldn’t sell it,” said Mr Ashworth, tossing the paper back onto the house.

“Crowborough wants the land.”

“Tough,” remarked his friend uncompromisingly.

“What do I need with another house? I can only live in one at a time and I already have more than enough for my needs.”

Mr Ashworth steepled his fingers. “It won’t work, you know.”

“What won’t?”

“He cannot convince his daughter to marry you no matter how many properties you throw at him.”

There was a brief silence.

“Are you accusing me of bribery?” asked Malvern, folding his arms across his chest and leaning his hips against the window seat.

“Absolutely, I am.”

The Duke put his head on one side, regarding his friend with a curious look. “What would
you
suggest, then? Being so stunningly successful with women as you are.”

“Compromise her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mr Ashworth smiled. “Put aside your gentlemanly manners and make love to the girl.”

His grace, who had very nearly done just that, flushed the very faintest shade of pink but made no answer.

His friend raised one brow. “Do I ascertain that such a remarkable event has already taken place?”

“No, you damn well don’t,” snapped the Duke.

“I see,” Mr Ashworth murmured.

“No, you don’t see anything of the kind. If the lady has lost her virtue, it certainly was not to me.”

“More’s the pity,” commented his friend with a faint smile. “At least you wouldn’t look so damned miserable.”

“Given the arid state of your love life, Marcus, I think I’ll keep my own counsel,” said his grace caustically.

Mr Ashworth laughed. “I’m telling you: women don’t want nicely behaved gentlemen with nice manners.”

“Oh yes, and what do they want?”

“A scoundrel. They want danger and excitement. And for us gentlemen who lack a pretty face,” said Mr Ashworth, pointing his thumb at himself, “I have come to the conclusion that any man might choose any woman he desires to wife; he might be as ugly as sin, he might have no prospects or connections, no title and no wealth and
still
hook any woman he wants.”

The Duke of Malvern cast his eyes heavenward to seek divine assistance.

“And how have you come to this deluded conclusion?” asked his grace.

Mr Ashworth grinned. “Observation and my innate cunningness.”

“And what exactly are you planning?”

“
I
am not planning anything,” replied his friend smoothly. “All I am doing is sharing with you my observation that a man’s lack of prospects count for nothing if he ruins her. If he ruins her, all his inadequacies are forgotten. In fact, the lady may cordially dislike him and
still
have to marry him.” He smiled and spread his hands. “And voila, he may have the woman he wants for the asking. The woman’s family will be desperate to see them wed and throw shoes and rice and make merry.”

“Are you suggesting that I ruin the Lady Louisa?”

“Certainly I am. Seduce the chit. I have no doubt that such a task will be no very great sacrifice on your part.”

“You are a cynical bastard, Marcus.”

Mr Ashworth shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“And what do you think such a scheme would do for marital happiness when the lady finds out that I have tricked her?” demanded the Duke.

His friend grinned. “What does that matter when she’s in your bed with your ring upon her finger?”

Malvern shook his head. “Unbelievable. You’re not seriously contemplating this cork-brained scheme I hope?”

“No,” conceded Mr Ashworth. “I’m not.”

“Thank God for that.”

“But I think you should.”

“No.”

“Malvern, for once in your damned life, stop playing the perfect gentleman and go after what you want. You’ll lose her else.”

“I want her to marry me because she
wishes
to marry me, not because she has been forced into it,” muttered the Duke.

“What does it matter how it comes about if it gets you what you want? What have you got to lose?”

“Everything,” replied the Duke moodily. He threw himself into a chair by the window. “I want her to be happy.”

Mr Ashworth rolled his eyes. “Once you are wed, you’ll have the rest of your life to convince her that she’s happy.”

“Good God, I do believe you are
utterly
devoid of any proper feeling. I did not think it was possible, but you have just proved it.”

Mr Ashworth laughed. “Fine. So do it your way and when you are still alone in ten years time and the Lady Louisa is popping out yet another brat for her devoted husband, I will remind you of this conversation.”

A grim smile greeted this pronouncement followed by the swift retort, “And when you follow your own advice and end up miserable and leg shackled to a woman who loathes you, I will remind
you
of this conversation.”

Mr Ashworth merely smiled. “We’ll see.”

The Duke groaned and put his head in his hands.

“Are you quite well, Jasper?” asked Mr Ashworth, amused.

“No, damn you.”