A Well Pleasured Lady (2 page)

Ever so slowly, Mary lifted her gaze and met
his eyes. Gray eyes. Cold eyes, as chill as the mist outside. Hastily, she looked away.

It was him.
She'd last seen him at night. The lights from the stable had faintly lit the yard, and she'd prayed that he couldn't see the bloodstains on her gown or the dirt on her hands. That time she'd been unable to look him in the eyes, so she'd fixed her stare on his hands—scarred, but strong and capable of tying a noose around her neck—then she'd focused on his lips.

The lips were the same. Broad, smooth, stretched over sharp white teeth that shone bright against his swarthy complexion. As he took the cup of tea, his smile deepened, and it reminded her of a street dog who had cornered an unwary kitten.

Her pulse sped up a bit—well, really, how many
women faced their executioner without a tremor?—but she efficiently poured the second cup of tea.

Surely he wouldn't recognize her. She had changed immeasurably. She'd covered her curly blond hair with a servant's mobcap. She'd exchanged a youngster's daring flare for fashion for an adult's dull good sense. She'd defeated the parade of volatile emotions that had led her into disaster. That, more than anything, marked the difference between the hopeful girl she had been and the responsible woman she had become.

Then he said it.
“I remember you.”

She froze. Hot mahogany liquid filled the delicate cup and overflowed onto the saucer, then onto the tray. Lady Valéry gave a cry and Mary came to her senses. Hastily she placed the teapot onto the hot pad and reached for the towel she always carried.

A good housekeeper is prepared for any emergency.

As Mary blotted the overflow, she was gratified to note she hadn't fainted or cried out, or even changed expression. Quite an accomplishment for a woman waiting to be accused and arrested.

He sipped his tea and observed her closely. “You're Charles Fairchild's daughter.”

Stunned, for she expected something considerably more dramatic, she looked him full in the face. “Charles Fairchild's—” Her finger came in contact with the bulging silver side of the teapot, and she jumped as the skin seared. She stifled the urge to stick the burn in her mouth to cool it.

A competent housekeeper never shows emotion.

“Here.” He grasped her wrist and guided her hand into the cream pitcher. “Milk's good for a burn.”

As her fingers disappeared into the cool cream, Mary tried to think what a proper housekeeper would do in these circumstances. For once, her mind failed her. She couldn't leave her fingers in the pitcher. How improper.

Yet he held her as firmly as a shackle, and she couldn't struggle. How undignified.

So she stood there staring at his hand wrapped around her wrist and wondered why fate had decreed she had to see his hand, or him, ever again.

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but he looked even more menacing than he had ten years ago. Beneath his finely crafted frock coat, his shoulders rippled with muscle. His black hair, well streaked with silver, was long and pulled back with a simple ribbon. The style accentuated the harsh lines around his mouth and eyes and stripped his broad face of any of the softness a fashionable cut would have provided.

“Good heavens, Sebastian, I already told her we knew, and I'm glad I did.” Lady Valéry sounded stern. “You frightened her half to death.”

Using her most sensible tone, she replied, “I was only startled, ma'am. You have a most aggressive attitude, Lord Whitfield.”

Lord Whitfield rocked back as if amazed by her accusation, but his faint, mocking smile let her know she hadn't fooled him. “I have a most
aggressive
curiosity, Miss Fairchild.”

Chilled, she wondered—how much
did
he remember of those long-ago events?

“So you do, Sebastian.” Lady Valéry's plucked brows rose in delicate inquiry. “Do you expect me to put that cream in my tea now?”

“Her hand is clean.” Lord Whitfield lifted Mary's wrist and used his handkerchief to wipe the white film off her finger. “It feels better now, doesn't it?”

Mary hated to admit it, but the pain had almost vanished. “Yes, thank you, sir.” She wanted away from him. He stood so close, his legs brushed her substantial skirt, pressing her petticoats against her legs, and he took up all the air to breathe. That had to account for the faint ache in her lungs, that sensation of constriction in her throat.

She didn't want to ask the question, but she knew she must, and vigilantly she framed the words. “Have we met?”

“I knew your father.”

He hadn't answered her question, but Mary's nerve failed her. Was it possible he hadn't recognized her, or was he toying with her? She wanted to peer into his mind, and at the same time shied away. She wanted to interrogate him, and at the same time feared his responses.

She wanted to run.

She wanted out of this room, and she said, “If I may, I'll return to the kitchen and fetch a fresh tray.”

“No, you may not. You'll sit down right there and tell me what you're doing in Scotland.”

His deep, slow, soft tones brought forth rough emotions she thought long buffed away, but she displayed her thoughts and feelings for no one. She simply stood, one hand limp at her side, one hand allowing his brisk ministrations.

“You'd better sit,” Lady Valéry said. “Sebastian is not easily refused.”

Lord Whitfield tossed his limp white handkerchief onto the tea tray where it immediately soaked to a soggy brown.

Mary glanced toward the farthest stool in the dimmest corner, but Lord Whitfield pointed at the chair that faced the fireplace. “No, girl, sit there.”

A good housekeeper does as instructed.

Her rigid corset would keep her from wilting beneath his interrogation, and vigorous self-training kept her spine from touching the chairback.

Lady Valéry, she was distressed to see, concealed a smile behind her fan.

“Look at me, girl,” Lord Whitfield instructed. “I want to see your face.”

The trouble with that, of course, was that she would have to see his face, too.
But a good housekeeper keeps the guests happy.

Lifting her head, she stared straight at him and refused to let him intimidate her. Of course, it could have been easier. He stood when she sat. He observed her closely when she much preferred to be invisible. He blocked warmth and light with his mere presence.

“Yes, you
are
Charles Fairchild's daughter,” he
said with evident satisfaction. “You have his look—except he never eyed anyone so coldly. Where did you learn that trick?”

She thought of several replies, all impertinent, and discarded them.

Somehow Lord Whitfield must have known, and his voice grew gentler. “Want to tell me to knock off, do you? Well, you can't, you're the housekeeper. What's your name?”

In as courteous a tone as she could manage, she said, “Mary Fairchild, at your service.”

“Miss Guinevere Mary Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield corrected. “It is still ‘Miss,' isn't it? You haven't wed as an escape from this onerous position, have you?”

“It is not onerous at all.” Mary spared a smile for Lady Valéry. “I'm honored and grateful—”

But Lady Valéry interrupted. “I told you not to use that word. You're not to be grateful to me.”

“I treasure your kindness, then,” Mary answered.

“You've more than repaid me.” Lady Valéry's long nostrils pinched, her eyelids drooped, but beneath the leathery skin, Mary could see a resonant beauty still. “Do you think I don't know how many of my guests have tried to steal your services? Just last month my own sister tried to bribe you into returning with her to England.”

How had Lady Valéry found out? Mary wondered. She frequently seemed omniscient, but she had never inquired about the events that had driven Mary to Scotland. That, more than anything else, explained
Mary's unwavering devotion. “I have no wish to work for anyone else.”

Lady Valéry opened the drapes, glancing out the large windows at the last swirl of fog to be seen before night fell over the Scottish Lowlands. Leaning closer to the fire, she spread her veined hands. “It would be warmer in England.”

Warmer? Yes, they'd burn Guinevere Mary Fairchild alive in England.

Lord Whitfield smiled again, gloating as if he scented vulnerability. “Charlie was always loyal, too.”

He still watched her with that unnerving stare, but Mary was thankful that he'd changed the subject. In her own way, Lady Valéry was as stubborn as Mary.

“But a wastrel, of course.” Lord Whitfield sighed as if in sympathy. “He left you penniless, didn't he?”

Abruptly, mightily furious, Mary rose to her feet in one smooth movement and started toward the door.

She didn't know why she was angry. Men had said worse things to her in her tenure as housekeeper. But this man with his judgmental air grated, and she lost her valued self-discipline.

Then his arm wrapped around her waist and he spun her so she faced Lady Valéry.

Mary got the impression Lady Valéry's interest verged on voyeuristic.

Then Lord Whitfield adjusted Mary, fitting them like two spoons in her own well-kept silverware
drawer, and all else fled her mind. No one had dared hold the grande dame of housewifery for years upon years.

Did he understand what he dared? Did he realize the impact of one strong male body against her flesh where only the winds of desolation had swept? She wanted to strike out at him, to box his ears or pull his hair, anything to make him feel the pain of the constant, bone-chilling loneliness she'd accustomed herself to.

And learned to live with.

He spoke in her ear, and the warmth of his breath intruded on her, too. “Too much pride, too, just like Charlie.”

She shuddered. How dared she even contemplate the ache of her isolation? She was the housekeeper, a nobody…a murderess. And of all the people in the world, she had to allow this man every liberty he desired.

His hands moved slowly away from her, releasing her with the care of a parent who any moment expected his toddler to flee into the arms of danger. Just as slowly, she stepped away.

He was looking at her. She could feel his gaze almost as clearly as she had felt his grip. Her skin still burned. Her bones still ached. Tears pressed against the back of her eyes, and if she returned his gaze, she feared he would detect them.

Instead, walking on wobbly feet, she navigated the short distance to her chair. She wouldn't rise again. She was a fast learner, and that brief contact had
taught her she didn't want Lord Whitfield touching her.

He seated himself. His fingers templed before his chest and his elbows rested on the arms of the chair while he studied her.

Apparently, chasing women and subduing them was nothing unusual for him.
She
wanted to lift her hands and check her strictly restrained hair to see if tendrils had escaped. She wanted to rub her finger, which still stung, and the places where he'd touched her, which still throbbed from his oppressive hold.

But she didn't.
A housekeeper didn't fidget
—especially when a man was about to destroy everything she'd worked to build. “How did you know my father?”

“We were neighbors once,” Lord Whitfield said. “And he was kind to me.”

Kind? Yes, that described her father perfectly. He was also loyal and proud and a wastrel, just as Lord Whitfield had said. She'd loved her father, worshiped him, and in his joyous, thoughtless way he'd infected her with his philosophies and ruined her life.

She didn't like to remember her father.

“You are the stillest woman I've ever met.” Lord Whitfield studied her more, drawing her into the clasp of his gaze. “I wonder why.”

Because the hunted always take refuge in stillness.
Mary fought dueling urges—she wanted to close her eyes against him. At the same time she needed to watch him. Without moving, he seemed to be circling her, looking for a vulnerable spot to attack.

“And silent, too.” He tapped his fingertips together as if in thought. Turning to his godmother, he asked, “Discreet?”

“Very.” Lady Valéry no longer smiled behind her fan. She no longer smiled at all, and Mary began to sense the earnestness of Lord Whitfield's intent. Of Lady Valéry's intent, also?

In deference to Lady Valéry's serious demeanor—surely she wasn't curious on her own behalf—Mary asked, “What help could Charles Fairchild's daughter render to you, Lord Whitfield?”

He said, “There is a lady, a very beautiful, intelligent lady, who was the mistress of several of our revered government leaders. She had a great deal of influence on them, which she used wisely, but unwisely, she recorded all in her diary.”

Mary found her attention straying from him to Lady Valéry. A half smile hovered around her mouth, lighting, then flitting away like a butterfly.

“The diary was stolen by those who wish to use it for ill, and in the process the beautiful lady will be harmed.”

A combination of dread and inevitability mixed in Mary, and she wanted to scream at him to get to the point.

But a housekeeper never shows impatience.

“The beautiful lady could pay money to these scurrilous rogues and they promise they will return the diary, but she fears—and I agree—that that is unlikely. Yet if she doesn't pay, the diary will be
published, and with it her chance for discretion and anonymity.”

The room was silent except for the crackle of the flames. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, and Mary thought incongruously that she must have the chimney cleaned. Carefully she avoided the realization that made her stomach twist in dismay. The realization that the diary Lord Whitfield sought was…