Page 28 of A Whisper of Desire
Lost in thought, wondering if there was a way she could bring Hadley and Helen together, she didn’t hear the footsteps approach until a whiff of sandalwood invaded her nostrils. She knew that scent, and if she were a cat her hackles would have definitely risen.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” The sarcasm loaded in those words was evident. “You don’t appear to be too heartbroken over the end of our relationship.”
Perfect, he was drunk. His breath reeked of whiskey. He would never approach her if he wasn’t, or would he? She looked him over. She really didn’t know him at all. The Rutherford she fell in love with was an illusion.
She gathered her courage and kept her temper with reluctance. She did not wish to make a scene. “Good evening, Lord Rutherford. We did not have a relationship, what we had was a litany of your lies,” she hissed under her breath, moving farther into the shadowed area away from the other ladies, not wishing them to overhear.
She looked at Rutherford, and it was as if looking at a stranger. How had she ever thought this man handsome? She could see it now, the eyes that darted about and didn’t look you squarely in the face. The air of entitlement, that he was better than anyone else, when really he was a quivering coward inside, a coward who would accost a woman alone on a terrace.
“He told you, then. It’s all lies. I swear. He stole you from me. He’s in there now, accepting cigars and slaps on the back for making such a good marriage. It should have beenme.”
“You can swear on your mother’s life and I’d still not believe you. Why would His Grace lie? He is handsome, rich, and a duke. He could have any woman he chose for his wife.”
“Not you.Ihad you.”
“Only because I was young, stupid, and a fool. You never loved me. If you had, you’d not have disrespected me by having a mistress.”
Rutherford loomed large in the darkening night and she felt a moment of alarm. She hoped he was still a gentleman.
“You think Lyttleton doesn’t have a mistress?”
Marisa tried not to let her faith in Maitland waver. “What are you implying?” Maitland had sworn, before they married, that he did not.
“I have your attention now.” A gloating gleam entered his eyes. “Ask him about Priscilla.”
Marisa didn’t understand. “His stepmother?” Her eyes widened at the insinuation. “You’re disgusting.” She made to move round him.
He grabbed her arm, halting her progress. “Have you ever met Priscilla?” Rutherford saw the answer in her eyes. “She might be closer to your husband’s age, but she is still an exceedingly beautiful woman. Some say her daughter is actually Maitland’s. That they were having an affair long before Maitland’s father died.” Her stomach fell and it must have shown on her face. “Why do you think His Grace keeps her ensconced at his estate in Hampshire? Ask around. The gossips will confirm what I say.”
“Gossip, that is all it is. Why are you doing this? You didn’t love me, so why does it matter that I married another?” She knew why: money. Would he admit it?
She winced as Rutherford’s hand curled tighter around her arm. “I’ve wasted the season chasing after you.”
“Hardly chasing. You played a game and lost. Fool. I would have married you as soon as you’d asked. What man does that? What man plays with a young girl’s heart, just because you need money? You disgust me.”
Suddenly he was towering over her and he had her trapped against the cold brick wall at her back. Perhaps, as through the season, she’d misjudged him again. He was no gentleman. “Let me pass.”
She tried to push him away, but he kept her pinned with his body. The more she strained, the more he cowed her, until she could feel the silk of her gown tear against the brick.
“Take your hands off the lady before I decide to tell her husband.”
Rutherford stepped away from her immediately and addressed her savior. “I was merely renewing our acquaintance.”
“Liar.” Marisa pushed past him and moved quickly to stand beside her rescuer, whom she recognized as Lord Cumberland, Philip Flagstaff. His sister, Portia, had recently married Maitland’s friend, Libertine Scholar Grayson Devlin, Earl of Blackwood.
A woman was with Lord Cumberland, and she came forward and wrapped a protective arm around Marisa, pulling her away from the men. “Let’s us go to the retiring room and see if we can salvage this beautiful gown.”
As the woman ushered her in through a side door, she looked over her shoulder to see Lord Cumberland dragging Rutherford down the stairs and into the garden.
“Philip will see that Lord Rutherford leaves you alone in future.” She turned to look at Marisa. “Unless, of course, you want to be bothered?”
She merely shook her head, her legs and arms still shaking.
Once inside the lit hall, Marisa recognized the lady helping her. She was the infamous Duchess of Roxborough, a stunningly beautiful woman, the quintessential English rose—Rose, her name was Rose. As Marisa recalled, she’d been left a widow at two and twenty, and despite numerous proposals, the rich young widow was renowned for refusing all offers of marriage, instead taking numerous lovers.
“Thank you for helping me. As the new Duchess of Lyttleton, I’d hate to cause a scandal at my first ball.”
“Heaven forbid,” Rose said sarcastically. “I find that aDat the start of one’s title abdicates many sins.”
