Page 48 of An Affair with a Notorious Heiress
He’d written three letters of apology only to tear them up because the correct words of contrition failed him. How did one go about making amends for such atrocious behavior? He’d considered flowers, sweets, and jewelry. But he couldn’t envision any of those things softening her toward him.
He avoided balls because he didn’t want to converse with women. He avoided the Twin Dragons because he had no interest in being in the company of other men. He avoided the pubs because it had taken him two days to recover the last time he lifted a tankard. He was becoming a hermit. His reclusiveness made no sense whatsoever. For a dozen years now, women had come and gone through his life with ease. He never regretted when the lady moved on, never ached with a need to see her again. He’d enjoyed her company while they were together but it had never been more than mutual pleasure for a time—and they’d both known it was only for a time.
It was different with Lady Landsdowne. Perhaps because their parting had not been amicable, had not been of his choosing. With her, he regretted so many moments, so many lost and missed opportunities to get to know her better, to explore all the intriguing facets to her of which he’d only caught glimpses. He had a hundred questions he wished he’d asked, a thousand answers he’d have liked to obtain. And a million kisses he’d have enjoyed experiencing.
It didn’t help matters that he’d instructed his housekeeper to have the vases throughout the residence filled with lavender and orchids. He’d thought the scent would bring him solace. Instead it was like being flayed day after day.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
He’d become so lost in regrets that he’d forgotten the butler was there. “No, that’ll be all. Wait.” He had to admit his curiosity was piqued. If it was her, he couldn’t let the moment pass. “I’ll be going out this evening. Have the carriage readied at half nine.”
“Yes, my lord.”
His man left. Rexton got up, went to the sideboard, and poured himself some whisky. His hands were shaking. He could be wrong. It might not be her. If it wasn’t, he’d simply offer his regrets.
His harsh laughter echoed around him. What the devil was wrong with him to turn aside a willing woman?
The hell of it was, though, that there was only one woman he wanted. He wasn’t willing to settle for any other.
When all was said and done, he had his carriage readied earlier and arrived at the Nightingale Club with twenty minutes to spare. Sitting in a plush chair in a corner of the dimly lit parlor, sipping whisky, he observed all the little trysts taking place. It was an unwritten rule that a seated gentleman was meeting someone, a standing gent was fair game. Women wearing masks to protect their identity and reputation chose their partners from among the unmasked men. Obviously women were more circumspect when it came to bedding—they wanted to know who they were approaching, who they were enticing, who they would eventually invite to join them between the sheets. Men were generally here simply looking for a tumble. All were sworn to secrecy regarding who they saw here, who they met.
When the ladies arrived they changed into a silk sheath. None wanted to be identified later because her frock had been spotted at the Nightingale Club. For some in his world the club was merely myth. For others it was a dark secret. Throughout the years it had flourished and although it was only spoken of in whispers, somehow those who needed to know of its existence discovered it.
He wondered if Lady Landsdowne had visited. He imagined her here, searching for a lover for the night, for more than a night. He’d never been approached by her, never taken her up the stairs to the bedchambers where couples could rut to their heart’s content. Anger sliced through him with the thought of her with one of these gents. Some of them were young and randy, others older. A widower or two. Some married. Most unattached.
Gina had the right of it. The aristocracy seldom married for love. Mistresses and lovers were commonplace. Like Downie, Rexton wouldn’t tolerate his wife having affairs. He expected, would demand, faithfulness and loyalty. He wouldn’t dishonor his vows and would insist upon the same consideration in return. He certainly wasn’t going to contemplate taking to wife a woman who had already proven she didn’t have the moral character to honor her promises. And here he was thinking of Lady Landsdowne again.
He changed his mind. No matter who had set up this rendezvous, he was going to bed her. He needed to exorcise the blasted countess from his thoughts—once and for all.
A woman, draped in purple silk, strode hesitantly into the parlor. Her purple and white mask covered three-quarters of her face. Generally ladies provided their own masks. The object served as their identifier so once an introduction was made it didn’t have to be made again. Some men wanted to avoid certain women. Easy enough to turn a woman away before they arrived at a bedchamber if a man could identify her by her mask.
Rexton had never been with this woman, had no recollection of ever seeing her here. But her hair, cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders, was gloriously dark. A woman of her height, her slender form had invaded his dreams for far too many nights now. Without conscious thought, slowly he rose to his feet, viscerally aware the moment she spied him, the moment her blue gaze—he knew it was blue even though the mask cast her eyes in shadow—landed on him. She stopped walking, but didn’t look away. She licked her lips, full ruby lips that he was fairly certain he’d only been given the chance to taste for a heartbeat.
If he was incorrect, if she wasn’t here for him, some poor sod was going to be introduced to his fist before the night was done, because it no longer mattered who had sent the missive, who had wanted to meet him—
All that mattered was that she—Lady Landsdowne—was standing before him.
She was aware of him, felt his gaze on her before she saw him. She’d been afraid if she signed the missive he wouldn’t come. Or perhaps she’d been afraid he would. It terrified her—how badly she wanted him, how glad she was to see he was here, waiting for her.
A dozen times she’d reconsidered her plan. She knew it was reckless, and yet what did she have to lose? She’d lost everything that mattered: her reputation, her pride, her respect. She’d lost her influence. She’d lost her ability to ensure Gina was happy.
Without her sister’s happiness, she’d lose her opportunity to return to America, to begin to rebuild her life. Her sordid reputation was unlikely to follow her to New York. She’d never been accepted into the Knickerbocker Society—which was the reason her mother had so desperately wanted her to marry a lord, to be a lady, to possess a title. She doubted being a divorced woman with a title was going to get her into that Society now. But she would hold grand affairs for the newly-monied. She could create for others what she and her mother had longed for: acceptance based solely on one’s self.
Whatever she did tonight, whatever she did for the next few nights, was not going to alter her long range plans. Nothing she did here was going to be packed into her trunks and carted back to New York. What happened next was strictly for the present, completely for Gina, to ensure she had the life she dearly wanted and deserved.
He had yet to move toward her, was merely waiting, his eyes burning into her. He had to know who she was, had to know why she was here. At least he’d reacted as though both those things were true. It was unnerving to finally be on the cusp of doing something so wicked, of being with a man who could totally destroy her if she wasn’t extraordinarily careful.
She felt fairly naked in the flimsy silk she was forced to wear, suspected he’d probably disrobed her with his gaze. No petticoats, corset, or chemise served as protection. No layers separated her skin from the silk. Her nipples had reacted to his heated gaze as though he’d closed his mouth around them and sucked hard. She’d imagined it too many times as she’d moved restlessly beneath the covers. Dear God, she was trembling like a leaf in the breeze. She may have made a ghastly mistake in coming here, but she was too stubborn to turn tail and run.
Instead, she took a deep breath and forced her legs to walk forward. He, drat him, moved not at all. Perhaps he was too mesmerized by the way the silk seemed to undulate over her body with each step, the way it clung, leaving no doubt she wore nothing beneath it. She could see the advantage as it failed to hamper movements. It was more nightdress than frock, and a man could get at what he wanted rather quickly. Although, he could also get at what he wanted sooner if he’d take a step nearer.
When she completed her lengthy sojourn, she wasn’t quite sure how to greet him, how to ensure they progressed to the next step. Directness was no doubt warranted, and the order of the night. “You received my missive, I see.”
Although in retrospect hers could have been one of a dozen, two dozen, three.
“You’re late.”
He didn’t sound particularly put out but rather curious. She glanced over at the mantel. No clock. She supposed this wasn’t the sort of place where people worried about time. “Not by much, I’d wager.”
