Kate Pearce - Simply Wicked

Marguerite ducked her head to exit the carriage and stilled as Lord Minshom’s hard fingers closed around her upper arm.

“At least allow me to escort you to your door.”

She sighed as he exited the carriage ahead of her and waited until he helped her down. The rain had almost stopped, although black clouds continued to boil and churn overhead. Lord Minshom kissed her gloved hand, his expression once more impossible to read.

“Good-bye, Lady Justin. I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

I hope we don’t. Marguerite bobbed a curtsey and managed to smile back before hurrying to her door. Lord Minshom had unsettled her; his intimate knowledge of both the Lockwood family and her deceased husband made her nervous. Exactly how close a friend had he been to Justin?

Even worse, if he was a patron of the pleasure house, he might know exactly where Justin’s sexual tastes lay and how he’d chosen to enjoy them. He might even know her mother. Behind that bland smile, did Lord Minshom harbor a grudge against the woman who had caused Justin’s death, and if so, what did he intend to do about it?

“Anthony, are you still here? I was about to lock up.”

Anthony looked up from the document he was squinting at. His office was so dark he could barely see Peter’s silhouette in the doorway. With a groan, he dropped his quill pen and flexed his fingers.

“I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Peter leaned against the door jamb and crossed his arms. “I know Val and I asked you to work harder, but we don’t expect you to kill yourself.”

“I won’t. I just wanted to finish this.”

“And have you finished?”

Anthony sighed. “I suppose it will have to do.” He glanced at the clock and shot to his feet. “Damnation! I was invited for dinner at eight.”

Peter’s quiet chuckle filled the room. “You’d better hurry, then. Ladies don’t like it when you are late.”

Anthony stopped buttoning his coat. “How did you know it was a lady who’d asked me to dinner, and is that really true?”

Peter grinned. “I’ve never seen you move that quickly before, so I assumed you weren’t going home. And, in truth, all the ladies I’ve known haven’t taken to being ignored well.”

Anthony grabbed his hat and gloves and hesitated by the door. “Do you think a man should always tell a lady the truth about himself?”

“About why he’s late for dinner, or are you speaking in more general terms?”

“More generally.”

Peter considered him. “I think it depends on the type of relationship you have. For example, Abigail knows everything about me and my less-than-perfect past, yet she still loves me.” His slight smile died. “Unfortunately, not all women are so accepting.”

Anthony fiddled with his hat. “I don’t know how much I should reveal about my sexual tastes.”

“Do you trust her?”

Anthony thought about that, pictured Marguerite’s blue eyes and serious face. “Yes.”

“Then tell her.”

“And if she turns away from me in disgust?”

“Then she wasn’t the right woman for you, was she?”

Anthony sighed and walked toward the main office, which for once was quiet and deserted. “You’re not being much help.”

“I know.” Peter clapped Anthony on the back. “Tell her some of it, then, but for God’s sake, don’t lie.”

Anthony bade him good night, took a cautious look around the desolate, grimy streets and decided to walk back to the main thoroughfare to find a hackney cab. Despite attending to his work, he’d spent most of the day wondering what he should tell Marguerite and how she would react.

One thing was clear. He couldn’t allow her to see him as a perfect gentleman; he wasn’t comfortable with that pretense at all. He genuinely liked her and wanted her respect. But what could he say that wouldn’t shock her?

Nothing.

His whole life was a series of humiliations. Why the devil would she ever want to be associated with him anyway? On that glum note, he hailed a cab and headed for Marguerite’s house on Maddox Street.

Marguerite stuck her spoon in the bowl of gooseberry fool in front of her and slowly sucked the tart fruit from the silverware. Perhaps she was indeed a fool. Mrs. Jones had gone to bed, leaving Marguerite still waiting at the dining table for dear, dear Anthony to appear. In anticipation of his visit, she’d put on her favorite gown, allowed her maid to curl her hair into a cascade of ringlets and left off all but one of her petticoats.

And he hadn’t arrived. Marguerite took another swig of her red wine and savored the acidic taste. She wanted to squirm in her seat, to pace the room, to do something to get rid of the frustrated desire that lurked under her skin. She felt like the female cat in the convent kitchen that yowled and scratched to be let out whenever the males gathered to serenade her in the gardens.

So much for being ready to take a chance on another man . . . Marguerite’s fingers curled around the glass bowl. If Anthony appeared at this moment, he might find himself covered in green goopy pudding.

There was a knock on the door and her butler appeared. “My lady, there is a gentleman here to see you. It is rather late. Do you want me to turn him away?”

Her butler’s offended expression said that she should do just that, but Marguerite realized she wanted to see Anthony far too much to care about propriety.

“It’s all right, Jarvis. Ask him in and then you can retire.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Marguerite sat back in her chair as Anthony strode into the room. His dark hair was disordered, his cheeks flushed as if he had been running. She pointed at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“You are late.”

He bowed low. “I know. Will you accept my profound apologies?”

“It depends on what you have been doing instead of honoring your obligation to me.”

His smile was wary. “I was at work and I forgot the time.”

“Your work was more important than me?”

He sighed and sat on the delicate gilt chair next to hers. “Of course not. It’s just that with my job in jeopardy, I sometimes try too hard to prove my worthiness.”

“Why is your job at risk?”

He shrugged. “Because it was only supposed to be temporary, and now my father and Val want me to give it up and live like a true gentleman.”

“They want you to be idle?”

“Apparently so.”

“That is ridiculous.”

He glanced up at her then, his vivid blue eyes full of laughter, and took her hands. “I can’t help but agree with you.”

She snatched her hands away, not quite ready to forgive him yet, her courage bolstered by the two glasses of red wine she’d already drunk. “Have you eaten?”

He surveyed the array of dishes on the table and swallowed hard. “Unfortunately not.”

She waved a hand at him. “Then help yourself.”

She waited as he gathered himself a large plate of cold food, poured him a glass of the rich red wine and then sat back to finish her dessert.

“May I say you look beautiful tonight?”

Marguerite frowned down at her favorite blue gown and then at him. “Didn’t we agree that you wouldn’t use that word?”

“Why does it offend you so much?”

Marguerite shrugged. “My mother is beautiful.”

“She is, but does that mean you can’t be beautiful as well? Do you think she would resent it?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that I hate to be judged on my appearance.”

“But how else is a man to judge you? It’s not as if any of us can see what’s inside a person on a first meeting.”

Marguerite swallowed hard. “Justin said he fell in love with my face on our first meeting.”

“Ah, now I understand.” Anthony put down his fork.

“Because you are so beautiful yourself?”

He grimaced. “Not that, but I’ve heard myself described as a handsome man.”

“You are.”

“Thank you.” His smile dimmed. “But I also get fed up with being characterized as a charming addle-pated idiot.”

“I don’t think you are an idiot, but I do wonder why a man with all your attributes isn’t married yet.”

“I’m only twenty-five!”

“But you are also the son of a marquis.”

“The second son. And, as my half brother has already been obliging enough to provide my father with a grandson, I have no reason to marry at all.”

Marguerite regarded Anthony. “It must have been difficult for you when Valentin returned from the dead.”

He glanced up, his expression hardening. “Are you trying to suggest I’m jealous of my brother?”

“Are you?”

“Not at all. In truth, I was relieved when he turned up. It took my father’s often obsessive attention away from me.”

“Then, if not jealousy, what do you conceal behind that handsome face that has made you avoid your social obligations for all these years?”

“Why should you assume I conceal anything?”

She opened her eyes wide at him. “You were the one who suggested there was more to you than a pretty face.”

He stared at her, his mouth a thin line. “Are you trying to start a fight with me because I was late?”

“Not just because of that.”

He drained his wine glass and placed it back on the table with a thump. “I’ve apologized, what more can I do?”

“Honor your promise to me?”

“What promise?”

“To be honest.”

He sighed, “God, Marguerite, sometimes you remind me of your mother.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now tell me what lies beneath your charm and good looks.”

He refilled her glass and then his own; his hand shook, spilling red wine on the white damask tablecloth. His smile had gone and there was a bleakness in his eyes that made him seem the stranger he claimed to be.

He inhaled slowly. “I like to have sex with men as well as women.” He looked straight at her. “Is that honest enough for you?”

Marguerite’s chest tightened, and she fought an absurd desire to laugh. What was it about her that attracted such men? And was that why Christian had introduced her to Anthony? She took another sip of her wine and kept staring at him.

Anthony shrugged. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Have I disgusted you? I’ve certainly rendered you almost speechless.”

She licked her lips, tasted the sharpness of the grapes. “I’m not disgusted.”

“Why not?” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes I disgust myself.”

“That is understandable when such liaisons can result in severe penalties under the law.” Now she sounded as prim and proper as a governess, but it was hard to frame her replies when her heart was beating so wildly. Was she being given a second chance to understand the complexity of her sexual nature? Would she be able to help Anthony as she hadn’t been able to help Justin?

She met his gaze, observing the brittle tension in his. “It hasn’t stopped me wanting you—if that is what you are worrying about.”

He let out his breath. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

He stood up so fast that his chair tipped over, and pulled her into his arms. “Thank God.”

She struggled to free her hand and curved it around his neck, bringing his face down to hers. His lips brushed her mouth and she shivered.

“Marguerite, I want to take you to bed. Will you let me?”

She nodded, and he took her hand and dragged her toward the door. The hallway was deserted, the house quiet. She directed him up the stairs and into her bedroom at the back of the house. A single candle burned by the bed, and the banked fire glowed in the hearth. She caught the scent of her own perfume, the powder she used on her face, the burned smell of the curling tongs.

Anthony shut the door and leaned against it, his expression in shadow, the tension in his body palpable.

“Do you really want me, Marguerite?”

“Oui.”

She reached up to draw the pins from her hair, watched him take an unsteady step toward her and knew that everything would be all right.

Anthony watched Marguerite’s dark hair fall around her face and shoulders and swallowed hard. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Pick her up, throw her on the bed and ravish her? His cock was already hard and eager for anything, but his mind . . . His meager experience with women rose to mock him, to make him incapable of speech or action.

Marguerite came closer, and he inhaled the sweet scent of violets. She turned her back on him.

“Will you help me out of this gown, please?”

She sounded almost as scared as he felt. He stared at the small pearl buttons and wondered if his big blunt fingers would be able to manipulate them without shaking too much. He attempted the first one, breathed a little easier as it obligingly slipped free. Her bodice gaped forward, giving him an excellent view not only of the creamy slopes of her shoulders but of the tops of her breasts.