The Widow and the Rake Read online

  However, her beauty, the thing that first astounded him two years before, and wreaked havoc on his senses tonight, was still her secondary attraction. The girl had a warmth and vitality he truly craved to share intimately. He’d had beautiful women before, but none quite like Miranda.

  His infatuation with her had not diminished with time, and now that he’d met her, had increased enormously in its intensity. He had to have her. On his own terms, of course.

  She was definitely interested in him as a man and had not even attempted to play coy about it. An honest woman was a treasure indeed. He wished he could be honest with her, but of course that wouldn’t do.

  If she discovered that he fit none of the criteria she had listed, all would be lost. Though he had never termed himself a womanizer, he did adore women of every kind. As for games of chance, he thoroughly enjoyed a gamble. Hell, life was a gamble, wasn’t it? And he could even be violent when the occasion called for it, as it certainly had done a number of times in his checkered past. Miranda would not consider him at all if aware of his true nature. So be it. She would never have to know.

  In addition to those qualities she would consider negative, he possessed a fortune the prince himself would envy and he had no need for a wealthy wife. Or any wife at all, for that matter. But he wanted Miranda Ludmore. Desperately, now that they had finally met.

  Neville realized he had probably lived too long with deception as a close companion. Otherwise, deceiving Miranda would bother him more than it did.

  He had spent years sailing to foreign ports, establishing contacts, learning the ins and outs of world trade in the roles of cabin boy, ordinary seaman and eventually ship’s accountant. Now, at twenty-eight, he owned a fleet of vessels and healthy bank accounts in three countries. And no one except Tood and himself really knew the extent of his holdings. As far as others could see, if they noticed him at all, he was a gentleman of limited means.

  He caught his reflection as he passed a store window and thought he quite looked the part, correctly dressed but without ostentation, well groomed but not over polished.

  He also maintained the fiction by living frugally in his modest rooms with no valet, few possessions and none of the fripperies most gentlemen considered necessary. This enabled him to go and do as he pleased without question and not to be bothered by anyone pleading for loans or handouts.

  Society accepted him as nobly born, grandson and nephew of earls, though not an heir, nor likely to be. Thankfully he was not considered one of the eligibles constantly hounded in the marriage mart. Thank God.

  He spent so little time in London so no one missed him if he disappeared for weeks, even months, which he had done off and on for the past few years. His command of French and contacts in the ports of France and neighboring countries had led him to offer his services to the Crown as an intelligencer.

  His last foray had almost cost him his life when he had narrowly escaped capture. After delivering the information he had gleaned to Wellington himself, the commander had sent him home, a one-way courier to the powers that ruled in London.

  His identity now known to the French and his usefulness in the conflict over, he was to become just another innocuous minor noble living hand to mouth in a semidecent quarter of London. More deception, no regrets.

  Absolute truth had never served him all that well, anyway, and definitely would not do so where Miranda was concerned. It was a good thing he felt comfortable with prevarication.

  He smiled to himself and continued the long walk to his rooms over the stationer’s shop, enjoying the exercise and bracing nip of the October night.

  He regretted only slightly that Miranda would never really know him.

  Chapter Three

  Morning rides in the park, luncheons at the Wallingford, tea at Lingdons and intimate suppers served in her dining room filled Miranda’s days for the next two weeks. She was at once excited and delightfully entertained. Neville proved a gem of a companion.

  She carefully noted how well he related to everyone they met on their pleasant sojourns about town. He was unfailingly cordial to both high, lowborn, and all in between. He seemed to disregard rank altogether.

  One afternoon in the park, they passed a family taking the air with a nanny and two small boys in tow. “Do you like children, Neville?” she asked with a smile. They had progressed to calling each other by their familiar names.

  He thought for a moment. “Probably not.”

  “Why?” she demanded. Heavens, this could be a fatal fault and one she had not thought of until this moment.

  He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know any of the little beggars. They must be frightfully hard to converse with. I have heard them make a great deal of noise when crossed.” He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “Do you like them?”

  “Yes!” she declared, horribly upset by his remarks. “Everyone should love children! If you knew any, you would, too.”

  His laugh rang out, startling her. “Ah, Miranda, how can I help but tease you? I might like them, but never thought much about it. I trust they are people like any, some likable, some not.”

  “If they were your own, you would love them! All parents do!” she declared.

  His laughter died and he looked down at her quite solemnly. “They should, Miranda, and that’s a fact.”

  Somehow, she knew he would, remembering too late his earlier revelations about his own parents. At least he had valuable lessons in how not to treat a child. She hugged the arm she held in silent apology for her faux pas and his smile promptly returned.

  Miranda was so glad he never took offense. Such an even-tempered, unprepossessing man was a rare find indeed.

  They held many such conversations on various topics. She always found him to be thoughtful and forthright, a good listener and prone to good humor even when they disagreed.

  And always, there was this persistent hum of excitement and anticipation whenever they were together. He touched her often to brush an errant curl off her forehead or tuck one behind her ear. His palm rested on her back as he ushered her through a doorway, his hands encircled her waist as he lifted her into her curricle. She loved his touch, waited for it, reveled in it, though it never seemed enough.

  Each time, her heart beat rapidly as a bird’s wings gaining flight. She desired him more each day that passed and worried that lust was leading her to a decision instead of logic. So she took more care to evaluate than she might have done with another who did not matter as much to her.

  Miranda couldn’t deny that he proved most attentive, courting her constantly as if he had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. While she adored all the attention, the constancy of it made her wonder how he supported himself.

  She inquired of Mr. Tood and he assured her that Morleigh had a few investments that afforded the man an adequate subsistence. She figured it could not be much, judging by the quality of his lodgings above a rather small stationer’s shop just off Albemarle Street, his lack of conveyance and mount and the modest sort of gifts that he gave her.

  He brought inexpensive things, though thoughtful and quite romantic. There were nosegays daily, once an exquisite silk and lace handkerchief, and on this fourteenth night of their acquaintance, a short but beautifully lettered love poem on parchment, framed in gilt.

  They sat on the sofa in her parlor and were sharing an after supper cordial when he pulled it from a pocket and presented it to her. “For you,” he said.

  “Who fashioned this?” she asked when she finished reading and admiring the eloquent verse in a tiny gold leaf frame.

  He shrugged a shoulder and his smile was wry, as if he were embarrassed to answer.

  “You penned it?” she guessed and he would not meet her eyes. “Well, it’s lovely, Neville. Very artistic calligraphy and the words are quite moving. Whoever authored it seems smitten by the object of his affection.”

  He moved closer and reached for her hand. “I confess I am, Miranda. Quite smitten.”


  Well. Miranda realized she was only mildly surprised that he had composed it. “With me?” she asked, hating that she sounded so breathless. And so young, for she was well past the age to act like a blushing schoolgirl.

  He leaned closer. “Of course with you.”

  She backed away a little. “But the poem is written for love of a mistress, Neville.”

  He smiled, closed the distance and kissed her fully on the mouth.

  Miranda knew in her mind she should pull away and show she was offended, but neither mouth nor muscles paid any heed. Instead she kissed him back, tasting a pleasure she had never dared dream about.

  The kiss was tender as Ludmore’s had always been, but with a compelling insistence on her participation, as Ludmore’s had not. She couldn’t help the comparison.

  His insistence strengthened as his arms encircled her. Oh, how she had dreamed of this! His fingers threaded through the hair at her nape, holding her fast, as his other hand pressed upon her back, crushing her chest to his. Her senses whirled like leaves caught in a sudden current, a whirlwind, a hot spiral that sent her spinning. She melted against him, abandoning all thought of propriety.

  He caressed her back through the loose-fitting fabric of her gown, slid his hand to her waist and encompassed her rib cage, lifted it higher and cupped her breast. And all the while, he kissed. And kissed. His tongue invaded, finding her own, withdrawing, thrusting, suggesting, teasing and promising another sort of invasion.

  Suddenly his mouth left hers and trailed across her cheek to her ear. “I want you, Miranda,” he whispered, his tone fervent. “Here. Now.”

  “No, wait!” she gasped, sliding her hands between them and pushing against his chest. She felt his heart pounding beneath her palm. The beat echoed through her veins, threatening her control.

  “Where then?” he asked, brushing the words against her neck, sending shivers of wicked need through her body with the magic of his mouth.

  Her breath came in fits and starts as she tried to think why not instead of where then. Confusion almost dissolved into cooperation until she realized he had his hand on her leg. Her bare leg. And he was gliding it upward to her thigh, her hip. “Wait!” She shoved at him until he released her.

  “How long?” he asked, his breath as affected as her own, his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with need. “And why…”

  She sucked in a deep breath and avoided his gaze, that slumberous look that destroyed her reason. “I cannot be your mistress. Ever,” she stated with a final huff and a sinking heart.

  Silence fell. Then he spoke in an even tone though the steadiness of it sounded forced. “Forgive me then. I misunderstood. I believed you wanted me, too.”

  “I do!” she admitted and rose quickly before she relented. Her pulse thundered in her ears and her body thrummed with urge to give in, say yes, and devil take the hindmost. She strode to the window and looked out, her back to him. “But not this way.”

  She risked it all then; laughter, rejection, anger, however he would react. “I would marry first,” she declared.

  When he said nothing and she still did not dare to look at him, she continued. “Will you marry me?”

  A long pause ensued before he answered, “I think not.” She heard the rustle of fabric as he stood, listened to his steps as he walked across to the door. “I should go.”

  She turned around then, demanding, “Why could we not marry if you want me and I want you? Where is the impediment?”

  He cleared his throat and looked away. “You planned to buy me. I will not be bought.”

  What could she say? It was true enough and she could not deny it. “I see.” The words breathed out on a sad sigh. “And I quite understand. I was bought myself, by Ludmore.”

  “Demeaning, wasn’t it?” he asked with a quirk of his lips that resembled a smile but was far from it.

  Miranda nodded. She felt bereft. Also more than a little angry with him. “Very well, but I cannot afford to rent you, Mr. Morleigh. I do have a reputation to consider.”

  “Ah, well. Goodbye then, Miranda,” he said softly and turned to go.

  Her body still vibrated with need, with desire for him alone. No one else would ever do. She dearly wanted to call him back, to agree to any sort of liaison he wished. But she could not. And if he had any respect, he should not have asked it of her. She wanted a child so much, and rearing a bastard was not an option she would embrace, not even for him.

  When he was gone, she sank down on the sofa and cried. He had ruined her for anyone else as surely as if he’d stolen her virtue and destroyed her reputation right here in her parlor. How could she have let him go, yet how could she not?

  Chapter Four

  Neville took long strides as he slapped his gloves in his bare palm again and again. He had left her wanting. She would come around next visit. Or the one after that. Wouldn’t she? The fire between them burned too hot not to consume them sooner or later. It certainly hadn’t been doused by a mere refusal to wed. Had it?

  He should examine the need for maintaining his current lifestyle a bit more deeply now that he was set for life financially, the war office could no longer use him, and he had found a woman who might make him forget all the others.

  Yet how could he admit to her the true reason he had refused? In truth, he was not averse to marrying her, but even when discounting his qualms about marriage in general, it would be impossible. There was the marriage contract to consider.

  If he knew Miranda, she would insist on negotiations that were very detailed as to their respective assets, a binding settlement and a trust to protect her fortune. She would realize immediately upon reading such documents that he had lied by omission concerning his real worth. Then she would be the one doing the rejecting.

  Though he saw no harm in an affair, he could understand her resistance to a mere liaison. If he were honest with himself, which he always tried to be, he wanted her any way he could have her. And yet, he did not want to hurt her or imperil her good name.

  He had three options. He could walk away and forget her. He could confess the lies, throw himself on her mercy and beg her to marry him anyway. Or he could seduce her, body and mind, so that she would gladly accept him the way he was.

  Right away, he decided that the first two were quite beyond his capabilities. Forgetting her would be impossible. He had tried that already. Now he couldn’t live without her. And he never begged for anything, period. So it must be the third. Seduction. Dedicated seduction.

  To affect that, he would agree to her proposal. He did not believe she would accept anything less than marriage under any circumstances. After that, perhaps he could extend the betrothal until she was quite under his spell and his other qualities would not seem as significant to her when he finally told her the truth. It was a risk, to be sure, but risk had never stopped him.

  That was it, then. Seduction and a long betrothal leading to her eventual acceptance of what she considered faults.

  Never one to delay or equivocate, he turned around and headed straight back to her. It would help his case if she were still aroused. He knew he certainly was.

  She answered the door herself, eyes wide with surprise to see him again so soon. Neville noted her lashes were wet as if she had been weeping. He mentally kicked himself for hurting her feelings.

  He didn’t wait for an invitation, but stepped inside and took her in his arms. “I’m a fool, Miranda. Of course we will marry. How could we not when I can’t possibly live without you?” He kissed the top of her head as he held her tight. “Please say you forgive me.”

  Had he just begged? No, he decided, it was just a necessary apology of sorts. Oddly enough, he really did feel the need of her forgiveness. He cared that she was upset, that he had made her cry. What if she didn’t forgive him? Then would he beg? Oh, Lord, she was making a hash of his principles already.

  She pushed away, her palms still resting on his chest as she looked up at him, her eyes still glistening with recently sh
ed tears. “I don’t know, Neville. You were so adamant. Let me think…”

  Oh, no, no thinking. He grasped her face and kissed her hard, as passionately as he had ever kissed a woman. He felt her resistance melt completely before her released her mouth. Even then, he had to force himself to let go of the kiss. A gentleman did not tup his fiancée against the wall of her foyer even if the servants were absent, and he was very near to doing just that.

  He hugged her as if his life depended on her closeness. Maybe it did. “I love you.”

  The words had slipped out before he knew it and a sharp pang of guilt made him wince. What was he doing? Further lies would not serve. But he couldn’t very well take it back or all would be lost. Well, perhaps he need never retract it. The word love sounded a great deal better than lust to a woman. And to a man they had virtually the same meaning. Didn’t they?

  Unfortunately all of his ruminating had given her time to recover from the kiss. And a moment to consider his errant declaration. Damn, she was thinking! She had backed away and was studying him closely.

  “Do you love me, Neville? Or did you decide that being bought might not prove such a bad bargain after all?”

  Now what? Did he tell her he was not after her money? Should he reaffirm the lie he had just told? For the first time in memory, Neville’s ability to make snap decisions and give a ready comeback failed him.

  He watched her expression change from cautious hope to firm determination. She would dismiss him now, he thought as his heart sank. All was lost.

  “Come with me,” she ordered, grabbing his hand. Still at a loss for what to say, he simply let her tow him in rapid progress to the stairs. She lifted her skirts with her free hand and marched right up, past the first landing and on up to the second.