A Well Pleasured Lady (5 page)

Blearily Mary lifted her head from the pillow.
The carriage had stopped swaying, the wheels had stopped their eternal clamor, and the door opened to let in a draft of fresh air.

“Sit up, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield said.

“Oh, now what?” Miserably aware that her appearance must be as wretched as her constitution, she groped on the floor for her bonnet.

“We have arrived.”

The significant tone of his voice brought her erect as nothing else could do. She clutched the edge of the narrow padded seat that had been her bed for too many days. “At Fairchild Manor?”

“Come.” His hand, marked by that forbidding scar, appeared beneath her nose. “I'll carry you.”

“I don't want you to,” she muttered as she tied the bonnet under her chin.

“You never want me to,” he answered. “But I
doubt you wish to pitch forward onto your nose.” He paused for a beat. “As you did before.”

He wouldn't let her forget it, either. That first night on the road from Scotland had not been one of her brighter moments, true, but a gentleman would have simply offered his services without constantly harping on one wretched incident in that filthy inn.

Resentfully she put her hand in his and let him pull her off the seat. As she had every evening on the journey from Scotland to London, then again on this ride to Fairchild Manor, she balanced herself with her hands on his shoulders while he eased her through the door. Without ever letting her feet touch the ground, he picked her up with an arm beneath her back and one beneath her knees.

She hated this. She hated being touched, especially by him, especially now. On the way to London, she'd been protected by layers and layers of thick wool cloth. She hadn't liked being handled, but she'd been sick enough to be resigned.

Then they'd stopped in London for a whirlwind buying tour. Lord Whitfield had insisted, and Lady Valéry agreed, that Mary be outfitted with garments from the inside out. The new styles, the modiste had explained, eschewed whalebone corsets and petticoats. Instead, Mary wore a high-waisted satin and velvet gown over nothing more than a chemise and underpetticoat. Worse, as they'd traveled south into Sussex, the weather had grown warmer and she'd had to discard her pelisse.

Now Lord Whitfield's fingers pressed into her ribs, his palm rested on her thigh, and the contact she'd been scrupulous about avoiding, that of flesh against flesh, was sensuous reality. When the material slipped, he touched her in a new place. When he adjusted her in his arms, he violated another portion of her skin. With each breath, his chest moved against her and she clasped one hand over her stomach to ease the anguish. This wasn't traveling sickness, but the sickness of a woman so accustomed to loneliness, she'd forgotten the comforts of human touch.

Lord Whitfield reminded her of that too forcibly as he carelessly stripped the cushion of time and distance away, and she feared that when he finished with her, she would once more be needy, dependent Guinevere Fairchild.

Worse, he would know, and revel in it. She had no illusions about Lord Whitfield. He would use her, and if he hurt her in the process, he would consider that a bonus.

She'd met a man like him before. She'd killed a man like him before.

“I don't mind if you look sick,” Lord Whitfield said in an undertone. “But do you have to look frightened, too?”

“I am frightened.” Not of the Fairchilds, as he imagined, but of him.

“Do you want them to know?”

“Of course I don't want them to know.” He made her so angry. “I don't want them to know anything
about me. But you've taken care of that, haven't you?”

A small grin tugged at his mouth. “Now you look incensed. That's better, I suspect.” He rejoiced, she knew, in his role of conqueror, returned from battle with his spoils. With
her.
If he'd planned it, he couldn't have created a better scene than this.

“Have you got her?” Lady Valéry leaned on the cane she seldom used, giving the impression—false, as Mary well knew—of fragility. “Poor dear,” she said to Mary. “I'll wager this is not how you pictured your return.”

“I never pictured my return at all,” Mary answered, and it was true. Imagining Fairchild Manor and all its inhabitants crushed by her magnificence had been one of the many satisfying fantasies she'd not allowed herself.

“We're here now,” Lady Valéry said. “The worst is over. You won't have to travel again.”

“Until we leave.” As miserable as Mary had been during travel, she still hoped they would leave soon.
Now
would be even better.

“Let us complete our mission.” Lord Whitfield swept an austere glance about them. “Then we'll discuss escape.”

What was it he saw that put that expression of disgust on his face?

Cautiously she lifted her gaze to the facade of her ancestral home.

She had hoped that her youthful fancy had created
a structure bigger and brighter than it really was, but no. The gleaming white marble edifice hadn't shrunk in the intervening years. The mansion still swallowed the sky with its height and spread like a bloated belly across the Sussex plain. Each finial, each cupola, each balcony, had been chosen with care to create an overall impression of wealth. Fabulous, overwhelming, consumptive wealth.

Emotions buffeted her. She wanted to shrivel with shame. She wanted to scream with rage. She wanted to own part of,
be
part of, the Fairchild legacy.

Yet she hated the house, the legacy, and the Fairchilds, and nothing could change that. Nothing, no matter how long she lived.

And Lord Whitfield, she saw, hated them, too. Hated all of them. Even her, the woman he brought as an offering, the woman he would pretend to love.

Perhaps the anguish he created when he touched her wasn't merely the collapse of isolation. Maybe it was hate, burning through his soul and touching hers.

She glanced longingly toward Lady Valéry's carriages and escape. The Scottish servants were already unloading the trunks, and the ostler was speaking to the horses, rubbing their noses, telling them they were almost done. Mary wondered why he still wore a roughly knit scarf tucked around his face and a cap pulled over his ears.

Then he turned and looked at her.

She blinked in astonishment, and looked again.

It wasn't Hadden. The man was old and stooped, and he limped as he turned his back and walked
toward the next team of horses. She simply missed her brother, and saw what she wished to see.

“Pay attention.” Lord Whitfield squeezed her. “The show is about to begin.”

Servants lined the walk between the carriage and the door. Some of the younger maids and footmen poked each other and giggled. Female guests didn't arrive carried in a man's arms, as Mary well knew, and as well as she could, she tried to appear dignified. After all, she'd been a housekeeper, in charge of youngsters like this.

Then a burly footman stepped out of the crowd and bowed. “M'lord, would you like me to carry the lady?”

“No one is allowed to touch my precious Miss Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield said. “She is mine, and mine alone.”

Mary clenched her jaw to contain the words that wanted to boil forth. He mocked her and claimed her in one brilliant stroke, for this bold declaration had reached the nobleman who stood staring from the top of the broad stairway.

She strained to see. It wasn't Ian, her dark-haired rescuer of yore. She relaxed. Praise God it wasn't Ian. She wasn't ready to meet him yet. “Who is that?”

“Bubb Fairchild, the new marquess of Smithwick.” Lord Whitfield smiled broadly and nodded up at Bubb. “The head of your family.”

“My God!” Bubb started down the stairs. “Is that you, Whitfield?”

“Your eyes don't deceive you,” Lord Whitfield
agreed. “I've come to attend your house party—should you wish to extend me an invitation.”

As Bubb neared, she could see he looked like a Fairchild. Like her. Like Hadden. Only richer. He fairly reeked of money. A tailor had worked for days on the frock coat he wore so carelessly. A barber had styled his blond curly hair so it curved around his round cheeks. A valet had shaved his strong chin without a nick. He embodied the skill of a battalion of servants, and at the same time, he was flawless in himself. In his fifties, he was tall, well formed, and handsome enough to send women's hearts fluttering. If ever a man was built in the image of God, then God must look like Bubb.

He batted his brilliant blue eyes. Incongruously dark lashes lent him an innocent appeal, but his smile was different from Mary's. He smiled as if he meant it.

“Good God, man, of course you're welcome to my house party!” He extended an arm as if he would give Lord Whitfield a manly hug.

Mary felt Lord Whitfield stiffen.

Bubb must have seen, for smoothly he changed his gesture and clapped him on the back, instead. “If you hadn't ignored so many invitations before, I would have sent another one this time. And you brought…?” He smiled at Lady Valéry, and she smiled back.

“My godmother, duchess of Valéry.” Lord Whitfield introduced them, his gaze never leaving Bubb.

As unself-conscious as a babe in arms, Bubb beamed a welcome at the older woman. “It is an honor to have you in our home.”

Lady Valéry inclined her head gracefully, accepting his words, and Mary heard Lord Whitfield suppress a sigh. He'd hoped for some indication of guilt, then, and failed to find it.

Then Bubb transferred his attention to Mary. His gaze inspected her from head to foot, and she gripped Lord Whitfield tightly as Bubb inventoried the same similarities she had noted.

He beamed and waggled his head in what surely must have been an imitation of delight. “Is this who I think it is? I know where all the rest of the relatives are—at least all the legitimate ones.” He stepped closer and bent so he smirked right into her face. “Is this Guinevere Mary Fairchild?”

His singsong tone made Mary's already unsettled stomach even more rebellious, but she answered as civilly as she knew how. “Yes, I am.”

“Guinevere Mary Fairchild.” Bubb almost cooed. “Guinevere Mary Fairchild. We've been looking for you across the length and breadth of England.”

She didn't believe that for a minute, and she let her skepticism show in her voice. “Why?”

Bubb clapped his hands together. “You're jesting.”

She just stared at him.

Bubb stared back. “You're not?” He spoke to Lord Whitfield. “Didn't you tell her?”

Lord Whitfield smiled so pleasantly, Mary knew instinctively he was annoyed. “I left that privilege for you, Fairchild.”

“Tell me what?” Mary was fed up with people talking about her as if she weren't there.

Bubb's sumptuous blue eyes grew wide, and he sucked in his breath. “Tell you…tell you that you, Guinevere Mary Fairchild, are an heiress. My father left the entire unentailed Fairchild fortune to you.”

“Send for my wife!” Bubb led the way to his
massive study, shouting all the way. “We need Lady Smithwick. Nora will know what to do. Put my dear niece there on the couch.” He jerked on the bell rope. “Has she been ill long?”

Lady Valéry walked at Sebastian's side and held Mary's limp hand in her own. “The poor dear, coming here is such a profound experience for her. She's simply overwhelmed.” Overwhelmed by the news she was an heiress, Lady Valéry thought sourly. Why
had
Sebastian kept that a secret?

Seeing the scornful look he cast around Bubb's exquisitely appointed study, she answered the question herself.

Because he feared should Mary know of her good fortune, she would refuse to come to Fairchild Manor, and he needed her here. As a distraction, she was already proving her worth.

Sebastian laid her on the couch, then sat beside her. He was worried, Lady Valéry could tell. He hadn't supposed that Mary would faint. Lady Valéry had been a little surprised herself, but unlike Sebastian, she realized Mary's debility was more a result of traveling sickness combined with shock rather than any actual physical weakness. Besides, she suspected Mary was parlaying a mild swoon into the time she needed to collect her composure. A housekeeper didn't find out she was an heiress every day.

Bubb grabbed the footman who answered the ring of the bell. “Send for my wife. We need her
now.
”

The footman was evidently used to Bubb's outbursts, for he spoke calmly. “Lady Smithwick is on her way, m'lord. Would you like me to pour some spirits?”

“Spirits? Spirits?” Bubb's voice got louder and louder. “Spirits for a poor crushed flower of womanhood?”

Lady Valéry settled into a chair and with her cane moved the ottoman close enough to put under her feet. “
I'll
take some spirits. A little brandy, if you please.”

Bubb cast her a wild glance, but her stern aspect recalled him to his duty as host. “Of course, Lady Valéry. And Whitfield, would you care for—”

“Yes, brandy.” Sebastian had unwrapped Mary's frivolous bit of a hat and was involved in removing her crespin. For some reason, he'd taken a dislike to that crespin and had spent their whole time in London trying to convince Mary to discard it.

His insistence surprised Lady Valéry. After all, the netting kept Mary's curly mass of hair under control, but then…maybe Sebastian didn't want it under control.

Lady Valéry watched as he spread her hair across the hard square pillow under Mary's head. No, Sebastian wanted Mary under control, but not her hair.

Mary's hand came up and grasped Sebastian's wrist, and she said something—“Stop,” it looked like—but her voice was too soft to carry across the large chamber. Sebastian leaned close to Mary and spoke gently, and he had to be charmed by the picture Mary presented.

She wore clothes well. Even Lady Valéry, as discerning as she prided herself on being, had been surprised when Mary had clothed herself in the first of the new gowns. The pale blue velvet bodice accented Mary's lavish blue eyes, and the midnight blue satin skirt wrapped around Mary's legs when she walked, releasing hints of the charms beneath to the discerning watcher.

Sebastian had ever been a discerning watcher, and he knew, if Mary did not, that together they made a striking couple. In fact, Lady Valéry mused, if they'd only been nude, the two of them could have been models for a naughty miniature the Danish ambassador had given her during his last visit.

Bubb presented Lady Valéry with her brandy while the footman carried the other glass to Sebastian.

Sebastian took it and waved it beneath Mary's
nose, and this time she spoke so emphatically, everyone in the room heard her say, “No!”

Sebastian smiled, cajoling, and Lady Valéry bit back a sigh of happiness. How wonderful to be able to stir the pot, then sit back and watch the results. Age did have its rewards, after all.

Then Bubb bellowed, “Is she awake?” and everyone in the room jerked to attention.

“It would seem so.” A small, neat woman appeared in the doorway, then made her way to Bubb's side. “Although your shouting is enough to give her a headache, Bubbie.”

Lady Valéry's mellow thoughts of love, marriage, and great-godchildren evaporated under a rush of mirth.
Bubbie?
This woman called the marquess of Smithwick
Bubbie?

“I'm Nora, Lady Smithwick.” She introduced herself and smiled at Lady Valéry apologetically. “I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you, but we weren't expecting guests for another day.”

“The apologies are ours. We came too soon, but Sebastian thought we should come early in case Lord Smithwick”—Lady Valéry badly wanted to call him
Bubbie,
but restrained herself—“decided to throw us from his property.”

Nora looked astonished, then shot the fondest glance at her husband. “As if he would. Bubb is the kindest of noblemen.”

And recalling the old rumors of scandal, Lady Valéry thought Nora must mean every word. She
studied the new marchioness with interest and noted that though her smile was sweet, her demeanor was self-effacing and…she was brown. Unfashionably brown. Brown eyes, brown hair, which hung in ringlets around her shoulders, brown skin that faded to splotched freckles as it approached her paltry bosom. The tale that Bubb Fairchild had married a governess must be true.

Interesting. Lady Valéry glanced from Bubb to Nora and back. She would have never thought the big oaf would have worked up the nerve to defy his father.

“I have recovered.” Obviously Mary hadn't experienced the rush of charity toward Sebastian Lady Valéry had, for she pushed at him until he moved aside, then sat up. “I apologize for making such a spectacular entrance to your home, Lady Smithwick.”

“Nonsense.” Nora moved forward with a rustle of silk and laid a hand on Mary's brow. “Bubb is so strong and vital, he doesn't realize a woman can be overset by even the simplest of news.” She cast a censorious glance at her husband. “And that the news of a massive inheritance should be broken inside in a civilized manner, rather than on the steps like a ramshackle boy.”

Bubb's big head drooped. With his forlorn expression and his golden hair, he looked all the world like one of Lady Valéry's golden retrievers when she'd scolded it.

Lady Valéry examined him with a critical eye. He was a devastatingly handsome creature. But—she sighed—he was married, and Lady Valéry didn't poach on other women's property. At least…not often, and certainly not in what appeared to be a love match.

Besides, she liked Lady Smithwick immediately. That surprised her—she was old enough to know the unreliability of first impressions. But something about Nora's stalklike figure and resolute chin appealed to Lady Valéry. She sensed kinship here, the kind of kinship conveyed by similar intelligence and like goals.

“I was surprised to hear about the legacy,” Mary acknowledged.

And for that, Lady Valéry thought, read “dumbfounded.” And furious. She glanced at Sebastian, now standing off to the side. Mary had to be furious.

Mary swung her feet around and put them flat on the floor. Holding on to the seat on either side of her legs to balance herself, she hung her head down until she got her balance. She hadn't fainted, not really, but her ears had buzzed and her vision fogged, and it just seemed easier to collapse, at least until some kind of coherent thought was possible.

Now, she realized, coherent thought wasn't likely for hours, perhaps days. Bubb said she'd inherited the Fairchild fortune. If it was true, then she was no longer a supplicant to Lady Valéry or an anchor on Hadden. If it was true…

Slowly jubilation grew in her, and a heated triumph.
If it was true, she could dictate the terms of her cooperation to Sebastian Durant, Viscount of Whitfield. She didn't know what he thought to accomplish by hiding the fact she was an heiress from her, but whatever he planned, it wouldn't work. She was independent now, and capable of giving Hadden whatever he wished. She was
rich.

Shaking her tumbled hair back, she looked around and recognized this chamber. She remembered its sheen, the miracle of polished brass and expensive fabrics, the odor of beeswax and fresh flowers. She saw the massive desk, built of expensive dark wood with the express intention of intimidating whoever stood before it. The chair behind it was as tall as Mary herself, with gargoyles that dug their claws into the wooden finials and glared at any mere mortal who dared defy the master of Fairchild Manor.

She had dared, all those years ago, and she'd been ejected by her grandfather. Remnants of intimidation lingered, mingling with her sense of triumph. She was an heiress.
The
heiress. And ironically, because of her grandfather.

Fixing her gaze on Nora, Mary said, “Perhaps you could tell me more about this astounding legacy.”

Nora stared back at Mary as she spoke to the footman. “You may retire, Henry, and shut the door behind you.”

Silent, well trained, the footman bowed and did as he was told without indicating by a flicker of an eyelash his interest in the topic. And he had to be interested. The whole household must be fascinated
by this turn of events. Mary wished she held the concession for the keyhole in the door.

The silence left by the footman's departure was broken by Sebastian, introducing himself to Nora, and by Bubb, offering more drinks. Apparently both men thought a liberal application of courtesy and liquor would ease the strain of the occasion.

Both, Mary was pleased to note, seemed subdued and on their best behavior. That was good; it meant they were unsure. As they ought to be—especially that twisted weasel who called himself Lord Whitfield.

“I remember seeing you when you came to speak to my father-in-law,” Nora said to Mary. “You were little and brave, and he threw you out.”

Sebastian glared at Bubb.

Bubb stared at his toes and rocked back and forth.

Heat climbed in Mary's cheeks as she realized her prayers had not been answered—the prayers that requested that episode be erased from everyone's recollection.

“He tried to do the same with me once.” Nora pleated the silk of her skirt between her fingers and watched the motion steadily. “I had Bubb to stop him.”

Mary felt an unwilling empathy with her aunt by marriage. “Better to be married to a Fairchild than to be one, then.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Nora frowned, then her brow cleared. “You're joking, of course. Excuse me, they say I haven't got a sense of humor.”

Mary hadn't been joking, but neither did she want to disillusion Nora.

“When Lord Fairchild—Bubb's father—tried to throw me out, he'd already disinherited your father, so I suppose he had to tether one son at his side.”

Not a flattering portrayal of Bubb's role all these years, Mary noted. But a fair one? “Then he left
me
the money. Why?”

“Guilt over the way he treated your father?” Nora spread her palms to indicate her ignorance. “Or you? I think most likely, spite against Bubb.”

“If I might offer a supposition?” Lady Valéry said. “I knew the marquess for years, and I think he left the money to Mary simply because he knew it would cause an fracas among his progeny.”

Nora's mouth puckered and her nostrils flared. She might have been consuming rotten meat, or smelling the sickly odor of decay. Mary suspected she was instead thinking of her father-in-law, although her voice remained polite enough. “You are probably right, Lady Valéry. One shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but such a scheme would appeal to him. Why else would he have left everything, the whole, immense fortune, to a granddaughter he easily dismissed before?”

Strange, how discussing Mary's newfound wealth vanquished the ill effects of road travel. “Just how much money are we talking about?” she asked.

“Bubb has the title, of course, and the lands are entailed to the eldest male heir.” Nora stroked one curl that rested on her chest. “Aside from that, your
grandfather amassed over one hundred twenty thousand pounds.”

A film of moisture suddenly formed all over on Mary's skin, and Sebastian murmured, “You're flushed.”

Of course she was flushed. She'd never heard that much money even mentioned at one time.

Bubb clapped his hands, and the small explosion of noise made everyone in the room jump. “This is a cause for celebration. Let's lift a toast to my newfound niece and her newfound fortune. It's good to be back in the fold, heh, Guinevere?”

Mary stared at him for a few moments, just long enough to make him squirm. Was he sincere? He couldn't be.

But a housekeeper always makes those around her comfortable.

Taking a careful breath, she told herself she no longer had to monitor the contentment of the people around her. Still, the habits of ten years died hard, and she kept her tone polite. “I prefer to be called Mary now, Lord Fairchild.”

“Of course.” It seemed Bubb was unaware of any undercurrents, for he beamed like a boy who'd been invited to share a confidence. “Call me Uncle Bubb. After all, I'm your guardian now.”

In that instant, with that one sentence, Mary saw the genius in Sebastian's plan. Unmarried women had no rights over their money. If she kept quiet about the sham betrothal, she would be subject to Bubb's manipulations of her self and her fortune.

If she allowed Sebastian to lay claim to her, he could protect her wealth from Fairchild greed.

Whom did she want? Bubb, apparently good-natured, obviously a wastrel, and one of the many Fairchilds who couldn't be bothered to help her when her grandfather chased her away? Or Sebastian, who…She found herself staring at Sebastian, eyes glazed.

Sebastian.

Power hungry. Rude, impatient. A blackmailer.