Candice Hern by Lady Be Bad

Author:Lady Be Bad
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-06-19T15:04:28+00:00

CHAPTER 11

As had become their routine, Nat had taken the horses for a drive while Rochdale was at Marlowe House, and by the time he had deigned to return with his team, Rochdale had worked himself into a rare temper. The long wait had given him the opportunity to mull over what had just happened. Though he had not expected to see Grace, the encounter had worked out beautifully. He had her practically eating out of his hand. Finally — finally! — she trusted him. She liked him. She was right where he wanted her, a few short steps away from final surrender. And yet an unexpected stirring of guilt had come over him for what he was doing.

A flood of shame, then anger, washed over him for using her in such a selfish way, for making her believe he had no ulterior motive in pursuing her. That anger had reached a crescendo of self-flagellation by the time Nat drove his curricle into the small courtyard in front of Marlowe House.

"It's about time," he barked. "Where the devil have you been?"

The lad's face paled and his eyes grew wide with anxiety. "I'm sorry, milord, but you were gone more than a half hour, so I thought —"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. Just give me the reins, damn it all, and take your seat in back. And if you know what's good for you, you'll shut the hell up until we reach Curzon Street."

A few moments later, as he steered the team into Lower George Street, he was struck by yet another pang of guilt for speaking so sharply to Nat. The tiger had only been doing his job. It was not his fault that Rochdale was vexed with himself. He'd flip the boy a half crown when they reached the livery where his horses and carriages were kept.

That initial rush of anger ebbed somewhat as he drove, and Rochdale began to ponder these disturbing attacks of conscience that had begun to torment him of late. The business with Grace Marlowe was only a game, after all. Despite all her artlessness and enticing innocence, she was nothing more to him than a means to a prime bit of horseflesh. He would, quite naturally, be forever grateful to her for helping him acquire Albion. And that should be the end of it. He had no reason to feel guilty for seducing her into submitting to something she clearly wanted, or for pretending to redeem himself in her eyes with a fat bank draft and a few hours spent with a lonely little boy. She had done well for herself in the game, getting what she wanted from him. No woman was worth that kind of guilt.

Yet remorse gnawed at him as he drove the curricle too fast down Lower George Street, narrowly missing a head-on collision with a beer wagon, and coming so close to sideswiping a phaeton that the driver shouted obscenities and snapped his whip in Rochdale's direction.

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