* * *
Mara didn’t see Roarke again until it was nearly bedtime. She had just finished brushing out her hair and braiding it, her thoughts hundreds of miles away. She had opted for her lunch and dinner trays to be brought up to Lyra’s chamber in an attempt to avoid Roarke as much as possible, but after learning he’d spent most of the day out, she realized her efforts had been for naught. She’d done her best not to wonder where he’d gone, even going so far as to convince herself that she didn’t care what he did—or with whom—as long as he left her alone. But when Lyra mentioned the rage in which he’d left, she felt her stomach sink.
Mara was starting to truly abhor the woman staring back at her from the dressing table mirror, the one full of falsehoods, of deceit…
Throwing down her brush, she stood at the same moment a brisk knock came from the connecting door. It was the only warning she received before Roarke strode in as if he had every right to come and go as he pleased. Quickly throwing a shawl about her nightdress, she supposed, given that this was his house, that he had the right to everything in it.
Everything, that was, excepther.
Stiffening, she eyed him warily. He was already dressed for bed in a velvet dressing robe and slippers. Thankfully, he had kept on a pair of trousers, although the glimpse of that smooth, firm chest through the gap above his sash did little to ease her trepidation, or her pulse, for it fluttered traitorously as he drew near. Abruptly, she glanced at her bedroom window and considered what it might take to escape. When faced with Roarke and his potent virility, a three-story drop didn’t look so daunting in comparison.
She was in the process of contemplating how much makeshift rope she could make out of her bed sheets when he tossed a slim, leather-bound volume on the bed.
“I brought you something to read.” Cocking his head to the side, a mocking tilt to his lips, he went to stand by the fireplace.
It was apparent he was waiting for her to respond, so she walked over to the bed and picked up his offering. Flipping through the pages, she couldn’t help but snort. “The Lady’s Companion; or, an Infallible Guide to the Fair Sex.” With a roll of her eyes, Mara glanced up at him. “Truly?”
Roarke merely shrugged in return. “I suppose I could have selectedRules of Good Deportment or of Good Breeding,but I thought, considering your past transgressions, that a chapter onThe Manner of Behaviour Towards Menmight be extra beneficial. Although”—here he paused to scratch his chin in apparent contemplation—“I did see something along the lines ofAffabilityandMeeknessthat are sure to be just as helpful…”
“You’ve made your point,Lord Eversleigh.” Wrinkling her nose disdainfully at his title, Mara tossed the book aside. “However, you failed to mention the chapter onThe Duty of Virgins.” With a derisive smile, she added, “But then, I suppose that doesn’t really apply to me, now, does it?”
“Touché, my dear.” His gaze swept over her, causing a decided warmth to spread through her limbs.
Drawing her shawl about her a bit more snugly, as if it might work as an armor against his charms, she drew herself up straighter in an effort to break through the charged atmosphere. “Why are you really here?”
For a moment, silence enveloped them before he took a heavy breath and spoke. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness toward Lyra. She is in need of true friendship right now.”
“She was my best friend,” Mara replied quietly. “She still is.” Feeling suddenly exposed, she decided to change the subject before it fell into deeper waters. “Have you heard anything about Bentley?”
“Not as yet,” Roarke said. “But I have the best investigators working on the case. I’m confident we’ll hear something soon.”
She nodded, and again that awkward quiet filled the room. Glancing at the viscount, she felt her heart give a traitorous thump when she found those eyes on her. She could almostfeelthat smoldering gaze upon her skin. As effective as a breath on the nape of her neck, Mara had to suppress a longing so fierce that she shivered. Her throat began to close up and turn dry, as if she’d swallowed a lump of sand. She had never been able to resist the attraction that flared between her and Roarke, and it appeared time had not diminished it in the least. This could venture into dangerous territory rather easily. She would have to tread carefully, lest she get caught up in his charms again and ruin everything she’d worked so hard to protect.
To ease some of her trepidation, she brought up the one thing she knew would effectively distance herself from him. “Well, then I can only assume your purpose in coming to see me is so the inquisition can continue.”
Those hazel eyes flashed before he effectively shuttered any further reaction. “I suppose there isn’t any point in delaying the inevitable, is there?” His tone was brusque, almost bitter. “I must say there is one thing that has been puzzling me of late.” Tapping his finger against his firm thigh, he asked softly, “When you said you loved me all those years ago, did you mean it?”
Mara felt her heart skid to a halt in her chest at such a direct inquiry. She gripped her fingers so tightly together that they ached. “Are you sure you want to know, my lord, for I fear you won’t like my answer.”
His gaze narrowed. “I said thetruth, Mara. What are you trying to run from that you must hide behind all this chicanery?”
Scared, for he was closer to the truth than he knew, she lashed out. “You’re wrong.” Mara walked over to the window and stared out at the dark, bustling London streets below. Her vision blurred, though her voice was flat when she said, “The fact is, yes, I was smitten with you for a time. You were the son of a viscount, after all, but it was nothing more than mere infatuation, I assure you.” Composing her emotions, she turned. “So if you brought me here to merely torture me into giving away something just to soothe your injured pride, then you’re wasting your time.”
The seconds seemed to tick by like hours, until Roarke finally stood and murmured, “So I was just a diversion to pass the hours, was I? A means to relieve your tedious boredom?”
Mara tensed as he drew forward. She instantly brought to mind a rabbit in the sights of the hungry wolf. As he came closer, the feeling merely intensified. She tried to remain detached, but when he spoke again, her heart began to pound, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes against the potent magic of his husky voice. As he whispered across her ear, she shivered, but it wasn’t from fear. “If that’s all I was to you, then I suppose this won’t bother you at all.”
The kiss wasn’t gentle, or even passionate. When his lips met hers, it was as if he wanted to punish her, and Mara had no doubt that was his intention. She knew this, but she still couldn’t help herself from responding as Roarke pushed her against the wall, his hard, muscled body coming into sizzling contact with her own. Her breasts were crushed against the hard wall of his chest as he continued to plunder and pillage her lips. A soft moan tore from her throat before she was able to stop it. It had been so long since she had allowed herself a man’s touch—thisman’s touch. She had been denied, her own personal punishment, and like a wandering soul in the desert searching for water, he became her salvation.
Bringing both of her arms up above her head, Roarke held them there with one hand, while his other roamed at will. It seemed he was caressing her everywhere at once, and Mara’s body came alive, every nerve ending sensitive to his masterful fingers. When his lips moved to suckle at her neck…her earlobe…across her delicate collarbone…she felt her head fall back to give him better access, but honestly, she just didn’t have the strength to hold it upright any longer.
Her legs moved restlessly beneath her skirts until Roarke ground his hips against hers. She could plainly feel his erection straining against his breeches, and she yearned to free both of them from their constraints and fill this awful void inside.
But before he could tug down her gown and feast upon the breasts he was about to bare to his hungry gaze, the threat for survival clicked into place, and Mara stilled. Swallowing past any self-loathing, she forced her voice to come out evenly, “You see? Even the best actress can be convincing on occasion.”
Roarke blinked through his own haze of passion, but she could tell the moment her words sank in. Abruptly, he pushed away from her. Running a hand through his hair, he growled fiercely, “Damn you, Mara.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door so hard that it shuddered on its hinges.
It wasn’t until he was gone did Mara finally crumble and let the tears fall.
* * *
Roarke went straight back to the brandy in his bedchamber. Pouring more than hefty dose into the crystal tumbler, he drank that down and poured another. It wasn’t until much later, when his eyes were starting to blur, that he finally pushed it aside and slumped back onto the bed. No doubt, he would suffer in the morning from the rash effects of this evening’s malaise, but he didn’t care. He was growing tired of Mara’s lies, for heknewthat’s all they were. He had felt her reaction to him. She might refuse to acknowledge it, but some things were abundantly clear. As much as she tried to deny it, he knew she was not unaffected by the magnetism that still bloomed between them.
Blowing out a breath, he realized he would have to adjust his strategy. Seduction was obviously out of the question—at least for now—since Mara would undoubtedly fight him tooth and nail the entire way. First, he had to remind her of the camaraderie that used to exist between them. If he could just break down those walls and regain her trust, he could gain the answers he sought, and they could finally get back on the path to healing old wounds.
It still stung whenever he thought of Lyra’s betrayal. But after he’d gone to his club, White’s, that afternoon and had a chance to calm down and consider things in a more rational light, he realized that if Rockford had asked the same of him, he would have abided by his wishes, no questions asked. And honestly, with all that his sister was dealing with right now, he was rather selfish in heaping more unhappiness upon her.
With a sigh, he shut his eyes. Suddenly he could understand what Sir Walter Scott was trying to say when he wrote his infamous poem,‘O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!’ Hislife had certainly gotten more complicated with the inset of lies, but ironically, he wasn’t to blame for any of the deception.
