Reforming the Rogue Page 2

  Who was he? She was not one to swoon over masculine perfection, but from the top of his glowing “Brutus” cut to the tip of those Hessians, he was something out of the ordinary, his dark eyes piercing and intense, his aura commanding.

  From the no her mouth was about to form in answer to his question, she stretched her mouth into a yes. Regardless of who he was or what his position in society, he was clearly not a visitor to the residence or he would already know she was not Jessica Landry. And he was no friend of the earl’s, she was sure; he was quite a bit younger than Cairngrove. Linnet would not have Jess disturbed. There was only one way to handle this.

  “I am she,” she said, lifting her chin in an unconscious display of hauteur she had adopted during her years as a teacher at Fox Hall.

  Nic, his booted foot in the doorway, was startled. Though he had been out of the country for some time, even on the Continent he had heard of Jessica Landry as a great beauty, but she must be . . . he did rapid calculations in his mind. She must be all of eight and twenty or so by now. This woman was beautiful, tall, slim and regal, but with a porcelain loveliness that fit more with eighteen than twenty-eight. She was exquisite and graceful and glowed with health and vigor.

  And yet Cedric said she had been ill lately. She did not look ill. She looked . . . blooming. Delicious. Her slender frame, clad in a sober gown of navy sarcenet, was not boyish but rather feminine in a willowy, lithe fashion. He was instantly attracted to her beauty and a spurt of jealousy trembled through his limbs that his older brother should possess nightly such loveliness. If he had seen her on the stage, as Cedric had, he would have taken her under his protection, too.

  But still, one did not wed one’s whore. He hardened his heart. That was all she was, a whore. He pushed his way past her into her home and glanced around, knowing even as he did so that he was being insufferably rude but past caring. The jade must be used to this kind of treatment as an actress and then a kept woman. So this was what his brother’s money had bought, he thought, glancing around him at the paneled walls and elegant paintings. He could find no fault with the decor, which displayed a restrained and elegantly modern taste. She must be a valued mistress indeed, he thought, for the home was stately, respectable, no whiff of the brothel or even lower-class tastes here.

  He turned back to the woman and noted the tight-lipped frown on her lovely face and the anger that flashed in her brilliant eyes. He would soon change that expression to a more pleasing look, or his name was not Nic Barton.

  “Who are you, sir? And why do you force your way into this . . . into my home?”

  “I have come, Miss Landry,” Nic said, boldly assessing her slim figure, raising his quizzing glass and raking her up and down, “to make you a bargain.”

  Chapter Two

  Again she frowned. He saw quick calculation in her eyes and then she stepped back, allowing him in. She escorted him past a collection of potted palms into a parlor off the main hall. Barton swiftly decided on a change of plans. His original intention on meeting his older brother’s mistress was to impress upon her the impossibility of her upcoming nuptials and how he would do everything in his power to bring the pressure of the ton to bear on her. In short, he meant to make sure no household in any tonnish circle would admit her. It would have been difficult to actually do—after all, Cairngrove held much more power and social cache than he did—but he had counted on her ignorance of tonnish ways, added to his own natural self-assurance, to carry him through.

  He had thought long and hard before going to her door and felt reasonably secure in making certain assumptions before even meeting Cedric’s mistress. One such assumption was that entrée into the great houses of the ton was one of her objectives in marrying Cedric. If he could assure her that she would be doomed to disappointment on that head, perhaps she would retreat from her demand for marriage. But if she insisted on going ahead with the wedding, he would rally the natural repugnance of the ton for scandalous goings-on—at least those thrust into their faces and not decently kept under covers—to aid him in his ostracism of Miss Landry and her unprecedented gall.

  But . . .

  He had clearly miscalculated a couple of things. Now, looking back, he was not certain what he expected from Miss Landry, but assuredly he had not counted on her absolute loveliness and the purity of her appearance. She stood at the door of the parlor asking the maid to bring tea, and he scanned her face and form. No, he had not expected this quickening of interest, this heat that swept over him when he watched her move. It changed things. Subtly, but definitely.

  As a soldier he was accustomed to planning strategies as new information came in, and he must apply those skills to the present battle, the war to save his brother’s reputation and family name. A mistress. For a girl of such loveliness and natural grace—and seeming gentility—to stray so far from the path of modesty must mean a need for money and . . . what else? A certain moral lassitude, perhaps? Or was that just hopefulness speaking? Perhaps there was ambition there, too, ambition that he must thwart.

  He watched the sensual, unstudied sway of her hips and the little movements that told him more about her inner needs than any amount of talk ever would. His interest quickened. She was filled with repressed sexuality, he would bet. What would it take to release that? And had Cairngrove ever found the key?

  No, he really did not think he had. The man was besotted, yes, but was that as much for what he could sense but not attain as for what they actually had between them? Barton rejected, in that moment, that Cairngrove truly was in love. It was just the infatuation of an older man for a younger woman, the first lover he had probably taken after the death of his wife. And ultimately marrying her would be a tragic mistake that he would regret for the rest of his days. So clearly he was doing the right thing, saving his brother from a horrible mistake he would regret for the rest of his days.

  And if this girl was unwell, as Cairngrove claimed, then Barton must be on his deathbed, for he had never seen so healthy a young woman. That must be another stratagem Miss Landry was using to quicken the earl’s sense of haste in marrying. She was putting on no languid, sickly airs with him, he noticed.

  “Now, sir, what do you want?” she said, facing him and coldly eyeing him with distaste.

  Her voice was well-modulated, well-trained, but not what he would have expected from a retired actress. Her tones were too clipped, her enunciation too perfect. “What do I want?”

  “Yes, that is what I asked. Are you a little deaf, perhaps? Shall I raise my voice?”

  He grinned. Little termagant. He liked her already. But then he gave himself an inner shake. The face of an angel and personality of a scold did not make her anything more than the whore she was. It was important—nay, vital—that he find a way to separate this young woman from his brother. For Cairngrove would regret his hasty and impetuous action, he knew it clear down to his bones.

  If it had just been a matter of regret, though, Barton would not be taking such pains over the whole affair. Let Cairngrove make an idiot of himself. But what of William and Allan and poor Melanie? How would they ever hold their heads up among the ton again if their stepmama was a retired actress, a whore? It was unthinkable. For their sake, and ultimately for Cedric’s, he must do this thing.

  But how?

  “Raise it if you like, but I am not going deaf. Surprising, really, when you consider what the proximity of cannonade can do.”

  “You were in the military?”

  “I was a captain,” he said, amused at the quickening interest in her voice.

  “Where did you see action?”

  “I was involved in the peninsular campaigns and then was sent over to Canada until we attained peace. From there I moved on to Belgium, and then Vienna. I returned only months ago.”

  She seemed to remember their purpose in speaking and shook her head, frowning. “You said something about making a bargain. I would have you know that I am interested in neither silks nor jewels.”

  “You would be the first woman of my acquaintance who was not, then,” he said with a wry grin.

  She stiffened. “I am sure your . . . acquaintance with women of that sort is wide and deep, sir, however that does not concern me. State your business or get out now.”

  “I am not a peddler,” he said.

  A maid arrived with a tea tray, but the young woman ignored it and waved the girl away. Then she sat down in a rigid chair and stared at him silently, elegant eyebrows raised.

  Very well, then.

  “Miss Landry, allow me to introduce myself. I am Dominic Barton, Cairngrove’s younger brother.”

  Linnet felt her mouth gape open and slapped it shut, her teeth jarring together. Good Lord! Cairngrove’s brother? “You are his brother? I am so sorry, sir, for . . .” She shrugged and shook her head. Why should she apologize, really? She had been unspeakably rude, but then he hadn’t identified himself so what more could he have expected? Even worse, he thought her to be Jessica Landry, his brother’s intended bride. She opened her mouth to clear up the confusion but Mr. Barton was already talking.

  “Yes, I am the earl’s brother. I am sure you wonder why I have come here, unannounced and without old Cedric. I came, as I said, to offer you a bargain, a deal, as it were.”

  Linnet frowned. What kind of May game was he playing? Since he mentioned it, yes, it was odd that he had come for the very first time without the earl to his future sister-in-law’s home. “What kind of a deal could you possibly have to tempt me, sir?” Her natural skepticism was apparent in her tone, but she made no effort to temper it.

  “Are you not going to offer me tea?” he asked, a smile on his lean face, his dark eyes sparkling with repressed amusement.

  Linnet, confused between her instinct tow
ard politeness, especially since the man was Jessica’s future in-law, and her suspicion that there was something not quite right in this visit found herself unaccustomedly flustered. “Of course.” She poured, and Mr. Barton sat in the chair by hers and accepted a cup of tea. Dropping a lump of sugar into it, he stirred.

  He drank some, then sat back. “I have been away a great deal in the last years. Even since the peace with the United States I have been attached to my unit in Belgium. We were pressed into service when Napoleon refused to stay put on his island.”

  “Your brother must be grateful that you have come back with no injury,” Linnet said, still unsure what to say, how to tell him she was not, after all, Jessica Landry.

  Barton nodded and then said, his voice hardening, “I come back to the news that he is intending to marry a woman no one in this town will even speak to once he weds in haste.”

  Ah, there it was. He intended to feel her out, find out her intentions. Then perhaps it was time to tell him the truth and let him meet the real Jessica. Linnet would prepare her for the visit first, because it would not be easy. This steely-eyed man might not be best pleased that his brother was marrying his mistress, though it was not absolutely unprecedented and eventually, Linnet was sure, people would get over the shock. There was nothing to object to in Jessica’s person, for she was lovely, well-spoken and intelligent. And her birth was adequate, too, though certainly not exalted. It was only this tricky business of her being Cairngrove’s mistress to be overcome. “I think I should tell you—”

  “No, Miss Landry, let me tell you.” He set his cup aside and leaned forward in his chair. “You know, no one in this town will even speak your name much less admit you to their homes.”

  Instinctively recoiling at his aggressive posture, she stuttered, “A-anyone who married a man like Cairngrove would certainly have other compensations. Perhaps sh . . . uh, perhaps I do not care for society?”

  “But Cairngrove has a position in the government and many friends among the ton; you will only be bringing him humiliation if you persist in this mad scheme to marry.”

  Linnet felt her anger begin to roil in her belly. That this was what Jessica had been saying made it that much worse. “I think, Mr. Barton, that you had best—”

  “No, hear me out, my dear,” he said, his voice lowering to a silky bass. “I am not done, not by a long shot. I told you I have a most interesting proposition for you, my sweet.”

  A shiver raced through Linnet and settled in her stomach. If she had been the type of woman easily seduced by masculine charm, she might at that moment be listening only to the tenor of his voice and not his words. His eyes were dark, almost black, and they were peering at her intently. She swallowed. When he reached over and took her hand from her lap she jumped, startled.

  “I have as much your interest at heart as my brother’s, believe me, Miss Landry. I would not see such a lovely young woman hurt by the insensitivity of the ton. They can be brutal and they would crush a fair flower like you,” he said, touching her cheek with the back of his free hand.

  Linnet almost could not breathe. Surely someone could open a window somewhere, for it was suffocatingly hot in this airless parlor, even though it was just barely May. “I am not fragile in the least, Mr. Barton, in fact—”

  “How much better for you,” he went on, talking over her words while he cupped her chin gently and rubbed his thumb over her sensitive bottom lip. “If you found a way to slip quietly away to live in opulence and comfort elsewhere. I could make that possible for you. Cairngrove has likely only given you an allowance, but I . . . I would be willing to make a settlement on you. Money of your own, to do with what you please.”

  Linnet, taken by surprise, could not respond. Barton’s other hand tightened around hers and his thumb caressed her palm. Unfamiliar sensations jolted through her body, jangling her nerves.

  His voice was even lower and as silky as fine French talc. “All you would have to do is slip away so old Cedric cannot find you. Just slip away in the night.”

  Stunned, revolted by the offer, Linnet was ready to let him have it. How dare he think she would desert his brother? How dare he think he could bribe his brother’s companion of two years so easily? He was insufferable, and she would tell him so to his face and then tell him to leave.

  She glanced into his eyes and was riveted. There was more there than just an offer of money. His eyes scanned her and she felt a heated flush rise over her body as if his eyes were burning into her, setting her aflame.

  Was he suggesting . . . ?

  A jumble of confused emotions thrummed through her like a drum tattoo. Was it really his intention to suggest that she become his mistress instead of his brother’s?

  It couldn’t be, or . . . or could it? This was his brother he was talking about, and he would willingly seduce his brother’s mistress away from him?

  She was repulsed, and yet the heated flash of his eyes intrigued her. With an instant bolt of intuition she understood that the flare of passion that glimmered in his coal eyes was for herself, not herself as Cairngrove’s mistress. She did not think he had come intending to offer her his protection in that manner. It was the impulse of the moment, inspired by his desire for her.

  He released her hand and sat back in his chair, eyeing her with ill-concealed interest. His glance was like a touch, as if she could feel each point where his eyes rested, on her throat, on her shoulders, on her . . . on her breasts. Linnet was arrested by the novel sensations racing through her. She had always considered herself cold, and yet the simplest glance of this man next to her had sent her pulse racing and raised tiny beads of perspiration to her brow. What did he do? How was he different?

  Ever one to avoid obfuscation, she looked at him directly. “Are you asking me, sir, to desert your brother and go away with you?”

  Chapter Three

  She was pleased by the startled look in his eyes. Good. Her forthrightness had clearly disconcerted him. It was like a pitcher of cold water poured over his head. But he recovered quickly.

  “I had considered it.” He crossed his legs at the knee. “Old Cedric is a wonderful person, but it has always been known in our family that in my bones lies all of the passion. Cedric is a diplomat, trained in subtlety and mildness.” He changed position yet again, leaning forward toward her, eyes holding hers. “I am a warrior, trained only in fierceness, boldness . . . I take what I want,” he said, holding out his palm and snapping it closed. “While old Ceddie negotiates for it.” His voice lowered, became caressing and silky, and yet still his words throbbed with ill-concealed desire. “I would not disappoint you, my dear. If you have been used to lovemaking that is tepid, I will show you what it is like to make love with a man who has fire in his veins. I would give you love lessons, my dear, teach you what it is like to be consumed by a hungry man, ravished until you cry out into the darkness as you surrender to the exquisite domination of passion.”

  The dark carnality of his words sent a shiver through Linnet and she bolted upright from her chair, unwilling to face the susceptibility of her body to his manipulation. Voice shaking both from anger and from alarm at the flash of unwelcome heat coursing through her, Linnet said, “And now you have insulted everyone concerned. Your brother is a dear, dear man. Where he loves, he loves wholeheartedly, and you are not worth the end of his pinky finger, sir. If I were his mistress”—she saw the startled look in his dark eyes and enjoyed thoroughly his discomfiture—“if I were Jessica, I would have had you thrown from the house before now for insulting me and the relationship that exists with your brother. As it is I am glad I intervened, so that Jessica, my dear, sweet . . . friend, did not have to hear this abominable filthy suggestion. Good-bye, Mr. Barton.”

  Barton was on the doorstep and the door was shut firmly behind him before he recovered from his stupefying rout. He stood, staring at the green-painted door with the brass knocker, and his mind whirled through the events of the past minutes. Not Miss Jessica Landry. The young woman he had been speaking to for half an hour was not his brother’s mistress. If there was a tiny knot of pleasure in the pit of his stomach at that news he was not about to acknowledge it, though he did recognize that it changed everything.