A Well Pleasured Lady (11 page)

“I'll try to remember,” Mary promised, thinking that being a woman in any walk of life was much the same as being a housekeeper; one had to play dumb to please the men.

“Personally, I find Miss Fairchild's frankness enchanting.” A man in his thirties with a hard air of dissipation bowed before her. “Baron Harlow, at your service.”

“Almost as enchanting as her beauty.” The pimple-faced son of the earl of Shaw captured her hand and pressed a kiss on it.

“She is truly the loveliest in the land.” Lord Thistlethwaite tried to elbow his way to a position directly in front of her, but the other men pressed close and he had to be satisfied to call his compliment over their heads.

Wistfully Mary yearned for her old gullibility. If the sixteen-year-old Guinevere Fairchild had been
standing here, splendor all around, compliments inundating her, she would have believed herself blessed. She would have been so happy, for in this moment the dreams of her young life would have been fulfilled. Instead, Mary Rottenson looked at the decorations and wondered how much they had cost and how long the servants would have to work to remove them. She heard the flattery and wondered how these noblemen who had been previously blind to her charms could suppose that she would believe them now.

A housekeeper, she thought wistfully, never indulged in self-deception.

Ian grasped her hand. “The orchestra is playing. Would you do me the honor?”

They took their places on the floor. Ian waited until the music had started, then asked, “Where did you go when you left here so many years ago?”

She was silent, unable to lie to the cousin who had been so good to her. Yet she couldn't confess, either. Even Ian, with his kindness and empathy, would condemn a murderess.

“You don't have to tell me.” He patted her hand. “You don't owe me anything.”

“But I do! If not for you, Hadden and I would have…starved.” And been tortured and hanged.

“Were you…You're so comely.”

She curtsied as part of the dance, and when she rose he touched a lock of hair that rested on her chest.

“Was it a man? Were you…compromised?”

There was a man, of course, but not as Ian feared.
“I wasn't compromised,” she answered steadily. “After much searching, I found a position as Lady Valéry's housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper?” Ian's mouth drooped. “You couldn't have been her housekeeper.”

“Yes, I could, and a good one, too.” She could have laughed out loud at his expression. “What did you think would happen to me?”

“I thought you'd become some rich man's mistress. I pictured you comfortable and safe, and whenever I went to London I looked for you.” His soft brown eyes were pools of outrage. “It would have been more appropriate if you had been compromised, I think.”

“Is that what everyone thinks? That I'm Sebastian's mistress, and he'll take me to wife now that I'm an heiress?”

“More or less. He
is
marrying you for your money, you know.”

“That's stupid,” she said without even having to think it through. “If he were marrying me for my money, he would have done so in Scotland before I learned the truth. Then he would have had control of my fortune before I knew I had one.”

Ian squeezed her hand a little too hard, and when she winced, he apologized swiftly. “Don't tell anyone the truth. It's better if they think you were a mistress.”

“Nobles are so odd, don't you think? That they would prefer to think I had spread my legs for a man than to think I put myself into honest service.”

“What I think doesn't matter.” Ian spoke urgently, as if he had limited time in which to convey his message. “Just don't let anyone lure you into a secluded spot.”

The nape of her neck began to tingle, and she barely refrained from putting her hand there. What was wrong with her?

“Any man here would consider it a triumph to toss your skirts over your head and compromise you for the money.” Ian glanced behind her.

She would have sworn he was nervous. Was it the whispers she heard sweeping the ballroom? Or the sudden chill in the overheated atmosphere? “I'll keep your warning in mind,” she said.

“Your betrothal wouldn't save you.”

Sebastian. Sebastian was in the ballroom.

“If Whitfield is not marrying you for the money, then he's marrying you because he's just like every other man. He can't resist a Fairchild.”

Sebastian was watching her. That explained the heat that rose from within her, her impulse to flee, her stronger impulse to stay.

“Everyone also knows he would strangle you rather than marry a woman carrying another man's babe.”

Even now, Sebastian threaded his way through the dancers to claim her on the dance floor. She knew it without looking. She knew, also, that he wasn't pleased to see her talking to Ian.

Ian looked defiantly over her shoulder as he finished. “He'll not be made a buffoon by a Fairchild again.”

Sebastian slid his hand along her bare arm, disengaging her from Ian's grasp. She wasn't startled. She expected his touch, almost craved it. When she faced him, his cheek was high and swollen, dark with bruising, but his eyes still glittered, and with the passion stoked by his soul's forge.

“We're dancing, old man,” Ian protested.

“Not anymore,” Sebastian answered, leading Mary away.

She followed without a protest.

Sebastian marched Mary across the ballroom,
but when they reached the terrace she dug in her heels. “I am not to go with you out into the garden,” she said.

He whipped around so fast, he obviously had anticipated a protest. “And why is that?”

“Jill forbids it.”

He examined her face intently. Then slowly his gaze traveled her body, down toward the satin slippers that peeked from beneath her skirt. “I can see why,” he said, acknowledging the whiteness and delicacy of the material. Or was he insinuating he couldn't be trusted with her? “Then let us step into this alcove and talk.”

She hung back, and he turned on her again.

“What's wrong?”

“We can't be alone, either. Ian forbids it.”

“And when has
our
cousin become arbiter of
proper conduct?” Sebastian glared and touched his face. “If you're displeased with my behavior, you can always strike me with a silver tray cover.”

The bruising reached from his cut cheekbone to under his eye, giving him the look of a street fighter. An apt image, she thought, but probably humiliating in view of his conqueror's identity.

Worse, she was glad to see she'd marked him, and her pride hinted at a possessiveness that horrified her. Falling back on safety, on the education she'd gained as a housekeeper, she folded her hands before her. “I take satisfaction in teaching a lesson the first time.”

His mouth tightened. His nostrils flared. “You are so damned prim.” He gestured. “Would you rather we spoke in public?”

She glanced around. Hundreds of eyes peered at them without any attempt at circumspection. They registered Sebastian's bruise and had undoubtedly heard tales from their servants about the scene in Mary's bedchamber. And since no one had witnessed the most familiar of the moments, she could imagine the tales that were flying about the staircases and corridors. Not turning her back on him, she inched toward the alcove. “I promise not to hit you again, if you promise not to…”

He followed her into the retreat formed by two columns on either side of a curving wall, and his mouth curled with the unprincipled smile of a fallen angel. “Promise not to…what? Kiss you? Desire you? It's a little late for that,
Miss
Fairchild.” He
mocked her with a formality made false by their recently shared intimacy.

The columnar enclosure should have given her a sense of security. Instead she felt cornered, at bay. “There are other Fairchilds here, more beautiful than I. Why don't you go talk to them?”

“I'm not betrothed to them.”

“With very little effort, you could be, I suspect.” Oh, why had she put the idea into his mind?

Yet while he heard, he didn't seem to care. “I don't want them. You serve my purpose.”

Well. That put her in her place, and cured any propensity she might have for conceit. “The others are prettier.”

“Who?” He sounded annoyed.

“The Fairchild daughters. Look.” With her fan, she pointed to the dance floor, and he turned. How could he not be impressed? All her erstwhile suitors were watching, practically salivating, as her cousins swirled in the graceful motions of the country dances. When she looked at those women, she knew herself to be a plain dab. Sebastian would no doubt see the obvious, and, she told herself grimly, better sooner than later. “They dance gracefully, they're well spoken, they compel the eye to follow them by their very loveliness.”

“Yes, yes, they're very nice, but I suppose you're fishing for a compliment.” He slapped a hand against the wall on either side of her head and leaned toward her. “It's not any of them who have put coals in my trousers.”

Not a
pretty
compliment, she thought, and glanced down, expecting to see smoke rising from the dark material. Of course, no such oddity occurred. Instead, when she looked back into his eyes, she could have sworn the fire existed in his soul.

“You are the most beautiful woman here.” He couldn't have sounded more impatient. “I can't keep my eyes off you, nor my hands off you, and unless you want a demonstration of my needs right here in Bubb Fairchild's bloody damned ballroom, you'll stop flaunting yourself.”

She went from surprised to pleased to astonished during one coarse speech. “What flaunting?”

“You're…looking at me.” He shifted from foot to foot as if he truly did have coals in his breeches. “And why did you buy that dress? It shows all your…bosom.”

“
You
insisted on this dress!”

“I'm a stupid sot.”

“I won't argue with that.”

He relaxed a little. “You wouldn't, you little harpy.”

Shocked and infuriated, she said, “You dare…you…you hardheaded ass.”

“My dear Miss Fairchild.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I am shocked! I am horrified! I am dismayed!”

She was, too. Sebastian must think she had changed personalities before his very eyes.

Worse, she had. She had become Guinevere Fairchild, imagining that the world was a blancmange and
petulantly demanding a serving of it. Dismay flung her back against one of the columns, and he caught her waist as if he feared for her.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I can't believe I called you a…an appellation.”

“An ass.” He rubbed his hand across the small of her back and smiled that hard-edged smile. “You called me an ass. No doubt I deserved it.”

“No, you didn't.”

“Have you forgotten I called you a harpy?”

“That's no excuse for me to lower myself, too!”

“So I am allowed to lose my temper. You are not.” He pulled a thoughtful face. “What an interesting woman you are.”

He watched her too closely, but she thought he understood her.

Why did that make her uneasy?

“I humbly beg your pardon for calling you a name,” he said, “and forgive you for calling me an ass, which is a mild term for what I really am. Think nothing of it.”

Think nothing of it? She could think of nothing else. She had tumbled to the depths once more. And he realized it, for his hands rubbed her back in a manner reminiscent of their familiarity the day before. He must think her an unprincipled slut who couldn't even restrain a flare of temper.

With what she hoped was dignity, and not simply desperation, she said, “I have been poor, and a
housekeeper, but I have always been able to call myself a lady. Don't take that title from me.”

His mouth opened slightly. She could see his white teeth, and the minute movement of his lips as he breathed. The warmth of him crept through the layers of material at her bodice, and each one of his fingers pressed into the flesh of her back as if he wanted to restrain her regardless of her desires.

She was far too intent on him, noting his every action, analyzing him for pleasure, for anger, for pain and for passion.

“You'll always be a lady.” He sounded sincere, and rather surprised. “Not like the rest of the Fairchild women. Not like so many of the women here who own the title but lack the deportment.”

She heard the buzzing of those ladies behind him, but her view of them was blocked, some by his chest and shoulders, but mostly by the fact that when he stood so close, she noticed no one else.

“Sooner or later, you and I will mate.”

His certainty frustrated her. “I am not an animal. I do not
mate.
”

“Aren't you?” His scarred, long-fingered hands reached out to her and caught the scarf tied to conceal her bosom. The lace gave easily under his coaxing, and he lifted the ends away from her skin. He looked at what he'd uncovered, then looked up at her. “Won't you?”

He was crazed, and he'd infected her with his madness; that was the only possible explanation. After years of self-imposed isolation, with only Hadden
to relieve the loneliness, she had placed herself beyond such physical response. Even this evening when she walked into the ballroom, she had been nervous, but outwardly placid. Now she betrayed herself.

Her toes curled; her lips throbbed. She wanted to tear the shawl away from him, but her hands trembled too much. Beneath her skin lived a different person than she'd ever met before. Not Guinevere or Mary, innocents both, but a woman who anticipated and wanted, all because of one man and his devastating scowl.

She thought thankfully of the party proceeding just over his shoulder. Others were gathered about, else she couldn't vouch for Sebastian's actions, or even her own.

There was danger here, and if not for her loyalty to Lady Valéry, she would shove this man aside, go to London, demand her inheritance, and with Hadden at her side, she would tour the world. Instead she had to remain here, and she
had
to make him understand her circumstances. “I have to remain untarnished, with a character as cold, hard, and polished as platinum.”

“Platinum can be melted if the flame is high enough.” His fingers brushed her skin as he retied the scarf. “You'll see. When you have melted, you'll still be a lady. A very…well-pleasured…lady.”

He spaced the words deliberately, and an improper thrill shook her. He was doing this on purpose. He wanted her pliant, and she wanted to be whatever he wished.

How distasteful to find one subjugating oneself to a man.

He might have been reading her mind. “You were a housekeeper, but that was merely your role to play. You were not born to be a lump of platinum, nor could you force that precious metal into your soul. You are simply Guinevere Mary.”

“Fairchild.” She added her surname. “You say I was not born to be a lump of platinum, but I was born a Fairchild, and I tell you it's better to seek the precious metal than to become one of those wretches.”

He frowned and tried to speak.

“No, don't interrupt. Now that I've started, I might as well be frank, also. You told me in Scotland this betrothal would be a sham. Now you tell me we must ‘mate,' give in to the…the base emotions. For what purpose? When we finish, I will still be a Fairchild and you will still hate me and everyone in my clan. And I'll be ruined.”

He didn't deny it. “So you've heard the tale of the feud.”

She was tempted to lie, to say that she had, but like an insurmountable wall, there existed her damnable propensity for truthfulness.

He read her too easily, for he said, “You haven't heard. I would have thought the Fairchilds would use that as a weapon to separate us. But perhaps they can't think of a way to make their own part sound anything less than despicable.”

With an emotion that felt like despair, she said,
“You see? You hate Fairchilds, and I don't know why, but I do know if we…mate…you will have sullied yourself with one of the family you despise.”

“Sometimes a little sullying is good for a man.”

He jested, but if he ever recalled what Guinevere Fairchild had done, he would know she was worse than any Fairchild yet born.

“Living away from your cursed clan strengthened you.”

Sebastian remained before her, a big block that stood between her and the ballroom, between her and freedom…between her and the safe, sterile world Mary Rottenson had inhabited. As arrogant as any man, he thought he could change her. He didn't know how she had changed herself. “I've already been through the flames, Sebastian. I was a weakling once—I'll never be one again.”

He watched her, craving her with an inexplicable madness. Her eyes were so big and the same blue the ocean turns during a storm. Outrageous lashes fluttered as she spoke, and her lips formed a kiss with each word. Her skin flushed with earnest eloquence, and her elaborate coiffure slid from formality into sociability. She was twenty-six, yet she acted with both the resolution of a much older woman and the innocence of a girl. She defied him so consistently, he was convinced of her virtue, her morality, and her integrity. Unfortunately, what he wanted of her pertained to none of those merits.

She frustrated him. He wanted her so badly, he
dared not unbutton his coat lest everyone see his condition. Yet he unwillingly admired her, and even more unwillingly had begun to wonder if his godmother was right when she'd said Guinevere Mary Fairchild could be his salvation.

“So you don't care that I have destroyed your reputation, you only care that I want you and am determined to have you,” he said. “It's not the appearance that affects you. It's the reality.”

“I do care about my reputation. It is very difficult for a woman not to care.” She fingered the fringe of her shawl to avoid looking at him. “Yet I don't have to live, night and day, with the effects of a ruined reputation. I have to live with myself, and if I allowed myself to become your mistress—”

“No. It's not the ‘mistress' part of it that frightens you.” He clasped her hand and brought it forward so that it lay flat on his chest. Pressing it where she could feel the thump of his heart, he said, “It's that you would lie in my arms, and I would find all the ways to make you give yourself completely. You know, Guinevere Mary, the kind of woman you could be, and I know it, too. And I won't be satisfied until you are.”

Her fingers curled and she tried to pull her hand away. “I don't understand you at all. Who would you have me be?”

He still held her close. “Part Mary Rottenson, and part Guinevere Fairchild.”

She jerked back so forcefully, he lost his grip. “Why would you want her? That silly, vain thing.”

“You're talking about
Guinevere.
” He didn't quite
understand why she had divided herself in half, but he was getting close. “You're talking about her as if she were separate from you, but she's—”

“And why would
you
want a Fairchild at all? Are you using me for revenge?”

He should be, but when he was with her, he forgot the need to make the Fairchilds pay. “This is sweeter than any revenge.”