A Matter of Some Scandal. Daisy BanksЧитать онлайн книгу.
you, if I find one pin missing I’ll have you in the assizes for its value.”
“You’re a bastard.”
He nodded, picked up his hat from the green silk cover of the canap, gave her a bow and turned. One hand grasping the gilded door handle, he glanced at her. “Think on what I’ve said. Think on it hard, and remember the rose garden.” The door closed behind him. Heat flooded through her at the memory he’d called up.
That night, fitful light from the moon had shone between towers of cloud as she’d dashed over the lawn to the rose garden. Her heart had pounded, but not from the speed of her steps. Would he be there? He’d promised, but three long days had passed since their last meeting. She’d scanned over the roses, inhaled their sweet night scent. At the sound of movement, she’d turned to her left. There he stood, concealed by shadow. “Argyle,” she’d murmured, and as he caught her tight to him, she breathed him in.
“My love, did you doubt I’d be waiting?” His mouth had covered hers before she could answer. His lips were sweet like the roses, his hands on her, a delight. She’d buried herself in his embrace. The heat of him had been enough to melt her. While an owl hooted and the moon rode high above them, his tongue led hers in a rite of need and desire. This night, they would be lovers. She’d sworn it with him. This special night, she would take, give all she could.
His palm had cupped her breast, and a flash of fire leapt through her, sung in her blood. She’d run her hands over his shirt, enjoyed his solid muscles beneath. When he’d pulled her down onto the grass beside him, a shiver of apprehension and desire had rippled over her. His lips teased down her neck, and a painful kind of pounding had stirred in her loins as he gently sucked at her skin. She knew he would leave no marks. He never had. “Argyle, don’t torment me, not tonight,” she’d pleaded, and run her hand over the hot length of him twitching, throbbing in his breeches.
“I love you,” he’d whispered, and a soft groan had left her as his tongue stroked between her breasts, his warm open mouth sucked at the flesh he could reach.
“You are my love. You are my life. I love you,” she’d murmured as he brushed her skirts up, out of the way, stroked warmth against her inner thigh.
“I want you, Pru. Be mine this night and all the others to follow.”
At the memory of those faithless words, a shudder thrilled through her. Tears threatened. To force them away, she grasped the back of the chair so tight her hands trembled and knuckles whitened. “You’re a liar, Argyle. A conniving, vicious, velvet-mouthed liar!” Her cry tumbled into the drawing room, dragging her along with it.
For she hadn’t been his for the rest of their lives. He’d left her before they took a single step to the altar. A blast of humiliation rose at the memory. Hands shaking still, she let go of the chair and spun on her heel.
She picked up a gilded vase, which had cost considerable coin, and flung it as hard as she could at the wall. It smashed, but her satisfaction scarce relieved her fury.
Damn the man! Damn him to hell.
Teeth clamped tight, she stormed up to her bedroom. She let Bessie tiptoe around to dress her for the day. The final piece of her costume, the small sapphire, taunted her with its unrelenting perfection. The mixture of rage and bitterness her meeting with Argyle had churned rose, choking. Yet the soft warmth of his whisper carried over the years.
Careless of any who might spy them, they had lain entwined for long minutes, hearts wrapped in a love-filled rhythm. “My angel, I have a gift for you.” His words had soothed like his palm as it smoothed over her heated cheek. She’d eased her position on the grass, still awestruck at the pleasure of loving with him, the risk she’d taken to do so. He’d made her a woman with his delicious body so hot and hard.
“I love you without gifts. I’ll love you all my life.” She’d kissed him softly, and the magic of passion had stirred anew.
He’d buried his hand into the deep pocket of his shirt. “This, my love, though you deserve more. You deserve all the pearls in the oceans, but for now this will have to do.” He’d pressed the small brooch into her hand. Through her tears, the jewel had sparkled as the sapphire glinted in the moonlight.
“Why, it’s beautiful, and will be the most precious gem I ever own,” she’d said.
“No, my love, it is my promise to love you always. While I am gone, you will wear it and know I love you.” He’d smoothed her hair from her forehead.
“What do you mean, ‘while you are gone’?” A sickening wave of fear had crept over her.
“I leave here at dawn to go make me a fortune for us to share. ’Tis the only way I can wed you.”
“No, I want you here with me.” Her tears had burned hot.
Well. The brooch shining against her simple day gown was quite the fashion now.
He’d ignored her wishes. Been gone three long, bitter, sorrowful years.
Argyle would never understand the marriage wasn’t her fault. When Papa became so ill, he’d insisted before his death she could spend no more time mooning about, and should wed Thomas Wellbourne.
She’d starved herself for a week, wept until she could weep no more, but Papa remained determined the wealthy, eligible Thomas would be her husband. For once, and perhaps the one time he should have, Papa had not given in to her wishes. The wedding had been arranged without her true consent. And had Argyle cared? Not until far too late.
She’d knelt and prayed the whole night before the wedding that he’d somehow know, appear to take her away, but he hadn’t.
No more. She couldn’t bear thinking on it any longer.
While she’d let the torturous thoughts run, her maid, Bess, had dressed her hair, applied a layer of fine pale powder to her skin and added the rounded patches of vermillion rouge. Almost without seeing, she stared at her reflection and sighed.
The tidal wave of memories he provoked would not let her be. Even here at her dressing table everything seemed linked to his touch. She stroked the pale flower heads in the blue and white vase and inhaled their sweetness.
The richness of lily of the valley filled the chapel on her marriage morning. Her cross-ribboned gown had draped in exquisite folds from her waist to the floor. Beside her, handsome and tall, stood her groom. But when she turned from the altar, only one figure in the congregation had filled her vision. A dark-haired man at the back of the church, who seemed carved from the granite walls.
She’d walked the length of the nave with knees which shook. Her hand, with its shining new ring, lay on Thomas’s arm. She’d smiled for those about her, but her gaze had remained fixed on her unexpected guest. The tan on his skin had only emphasized the brilliance of his blue eyes, etched so deep in her memory. His features brought a choking lump to her throat as she’d moved past him into the white-washed entrance. The joyful well-wishes for long life and happiness from the guests had followed her out into the brilliant sunshine, but she could scarce swallow and had accepted congratulations like a poorly made marionette. The only moment her heart had strengthened in its beat was at his approach.
Argyle’s murmured words, as he held her after several others had offered her the bride’s embrace and kiss, had torn from her the last shred of comfort she might have found in the day. “You couldn’t wait for me, Pru? You have thrown our love away. ’Tis the wickedest crime, and I’ll make you repent it well. You wed the wrong man this day, my love.” His mouth had plundered hers. The noon sun had grown dark above her, and the guests’ chatter became silent. He’d cupped her face in his hands as his lips left hers, stared down at her. Tears had turned his image to a blur. “We’ll meet again under moonlight, Prudence. I swear by my blood,” he’d whispered, sending a thousand shivers through her, then strode away.
Thomas had stared after him. Her knees had given way. The women around her had shrieked, and her father caught her as she slid toward the ground.
Her