A Wild Pursuit (11 page)

“I admit that I find you—enticing,” she said, and he spared a moment to admire the steadiness of her voice. “But the game is over. Slope, my butler, knows who you are. In fact, he must have known from the moment you applied for a position. While he is unlikely to gossip about the matter, it is a matter of time before one of my house guests finds out your identity. The house is full of people who know you, Sebastian. I'll be ruined. And I can't bear that, not when so much is at stake.

“And I don't want you to fall off my roof either!” she said, her hand gripping his shoulder. “I cannot bear it if something happens to you, Sebastian. Not after Miles. Not after—Don't you understand?” Esme felt as if her breath caught in her chest at even saying it aloud.

Oh, he understood all right. He'd probably have five little marks on his shoulder, one love mark for each of her fingers. The smile that grew on his face came from his heart, and if she didn't recognize that…“You want me to leave?” he said, and he had to steady his voice because she might recognize the rough exaltation there.

She nodded fiercely. “No more Baring the Gardener,” she said. “You must go.”

Much to his regret, he rather agreed with her. It was time to say good-bye to his disguise, much though he loved the simple life. “Do you really, truly wish me to return to the Continent—or, to be specific, France?”

She nodded again. But Sebastian noted the way she swallowed, and he had to bite back another growl of triumph.

“If you truly wish me to go,” he said into her hair, “you'll have to grant me a wish.”

“A wish?”

Another curl of her perfume caught him, and he had to stop himself from licking her face, simply drinking her. She was so beautiful, in all her silken, sulky anger and fear for him. “One wish.” His voice sounded drunken.

“I wish for you to go,” Esme said primly. “It is certainly—”

He cut her off. “One night,” he said. “I want one night.”

Her backbone straightened.
“What?”

“I'll come to you tonight. I'll come to your bedroom,” he said into her ear, and his tongue lingered there for a second. “I'll take you in my arms, and put you on the bed—”

“You certainly will not!”

He smiled into her curls. “Do you truly wish me to leave your property?”

“Immediately!” she snapped.

“Then I demand compensation.” He let his hand spread on her breast again, warm and possessive on the curve. He felt the quiver that rolled through her body as acutely as she did. “One night,” he said hoarsely, and he couldn't keep all the lust and love from tangling together in his voice. “One night and I'll leave your employ and retire as a gardener.”

She was silent, likely worrying about whether they'd be discovered, fretting about her respectability. Only he, whose reputation was absolutely ruined, seemed to understand how very little respectability mattered in life.

His hand trailed over the fabric of her dress, touching the roundness of her thigh. “Oh God, Esme, give me this.” But she was holding something back. He could tell.

“Are you sure that you would want to make love to me in this state?” Her eyes met his, direct as ever. “I've grown even more ungainly and—”

He caught her silliness in his mouth. “I want to devour you.” That seemed to silence her; her cheeks turned pink. “In fact, you should take a nap this afternoon, because there won't be much sleep tonight. I mean to have you every way I can. I mean to intoxicate you and torment you so that you know precisely how I feel about you.” His finger trailed down her cheek and tipped up her chin.

“Don't mistake what is going to happen tonight.” His voice was sinful, dark and hoarse. “You will never forget the imprint of my skin after tonight, Esme. Waste your life chitchatting with ladies in lace caps. Raise your child with the help of your precious Sewing Circle. But in the middle of all those lonely nights, you will never, ever, forget the night that lies ahead of us.”

Esme's heart was beating so fast that she could hardly speak.

“Tonight.” He held her gaze. “And then I'll leave for France because…because that's what you want, true?”

At the moment she couldn't quite remember what it was she wanted. Besides the one thing, of course. That
thing
was pressing against her backside as they spoke.

And the Sewing Circle. She mustn't forget the Sewing Circle.

T
onight Helene was going to seduce Stephen Fairfax-Lacy, otherwise known as the Puritan, and Bea was perfectly reconciled to that fact. In fact, she was the instigator. She herself had selected an exquisitely desirous bit of verse for Helene to read. Not only that, but she, Helene and Esme had had an uproarious time trying to teach Helene to use a fan and various other flirtatious tricks.

The only reason I feel a bit disconsolate, Bea thought to herself, is that I have no one to play with. If only Arabella had invited sufficient gentlemen to this house party, she wouldn't have had the slightest qualm while assisting Helene to use the stodgy M.P. in order to curdle her husband's liver. If there was a dog in the manger here, it was Bea herself. Because of course
she
would never want Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, not really.

I merely feel, Bea instructed herself, a mild anxiety at the upcoming performance of my protégée. For it was
her
poem Helene was reading and
her
idea to use Mr. Fairfax-Lacy to make Helene's husband jealous. Thus Helene's success or failure reflected on Bea. And why she didn't just keep her mouth shut when she had the impulse to meddle in the lives of perfect strangers, she didn't know.

Lord Winnamore had elected to be the first to read. He was standing before the fireplace, droning on and on from Virgil's Second Eclogue. Whatever that was. Bea didn't care if it had been translated into English by Shakespeare himself; it was as boring as dirt.

“Well, Winnamore,” Arabella said briskly, the very moment he fell silent, “that certainly was educational! You've managed to put my niece to sleep.”

Esme sat up with a start, trying hard to look as if she hadn't been daydreaming about the way Sebastian would—might—“I'm not asleep,” she said brightly. “The eclogue was utterly fascinating.”

Arabella snorted. “Tell it to the birds. I was asleep, if no one else was.”

But Lord Winnamore just grinned. “Do you good to hear a bit of the classics,” he told her mildly.

“Not if they're that dreary. I've no need for them. Am I right in thinking that the whole thing was praise for a dead man?”

When Lord Winnamore nodded, Arabella rolled her eyes. “Cheerful.” Then she turned to the company at large. “Let's see, we'll just put that painful experience behind us, shall we? Who wants to go next?”

Esme shot Helene an encouraging look. She was sitting bolt upright on a wing chair, looking desperately uneasy. As Esme watched, Bea handed Helene a small leather book, open in the middle.

Helene turned even paler, if that were possible. She seemed terrified. “Helene!” Esme called across the room. “Would you like to read a poem, or shall we save your performance for tomorrow?” But Esme saw in Helene's eyes terror mixed with something else: a steely, fierce determination.

“I am quite ready,” she answered. She stood up and walked over to the fireplace to stand where Lord Winnamore had been. Then she turned and smiled at Stephen Fairfax-Lacy. Esme almost applauded. No one could call that a lascivious smile, but it was certainly cordial.

“I shall read a poem entitled ‘The Shepherdess's Complaint,'” she said.

“Lord, not another bloody shepherd!” Arabella muttered.

Lord Winnamore sent her an amused look. “Lady Godwin did say shepherdess, not shepherd.”

Helene was starting to feel reckless. It was too late for second thoughts. Fairfax-Lacy would come to her bed, and then she would flaunt—yes,
flaunt
—him in front of Rees.

She threw Stephen another smile, and this one truly was warm.
He
was going to make it happen. What a lovely man!

“Well, do go on,” Arabella said rather impatiently. “Let's kill off this shepherdess, shall we? Lord, who ever thought that poetry was so tedious?”

Helene looked again at Stephen Fairfax-Lacy, just to make certain that he realized he was the benefactor of her poetry reading, and began:

“Trammels?” Arabella interrupted. “Trammels? What the devil is the poet talking about?”

“The man in question has his hair caught up in a net,” Winnamore told her. “Trammels were used by fishermen—” Helene cast him a look as well, and he fell silent. She felt rather like a schoolmistress. One kind of look for Stephen, a look that said
Come to my room!
Another kind of look for Lord Winnamore—
Hush in the back, there!
“I shall continue,” she announced.

Helene had to grin. This was perfect! She looked down at Bea with thanks, but Bea jerked her head almost imperceptibly at Stephen. Obediently, Helene looked at Stephen again. It was getting easier to smile at the man. And all this talk about
sin
had to make it clear what she had in mind.

Helene stopped. She could feel crimson flooding up her neck. She couldn't read this—this
stuff!

“That's a bit of all right!” Arabella called. “Lady Godwin, you are showing unexpected depths!”

But Esme was crossing the room and taking the book from Helene, who seemed to be frozen in place. “It's too deep for me,” she said, giving Helene a gentle push toward her chair. “I am a respectable widow, after all.” She glanced down at Bea and then decided not to ask that minx to read. “I think we have time for only one more poem tonight.” It wasn't that she was particularly anxious to retire to her room…except that Sebastian might be waiting for her. A lady never kept a gentleman waiting.

“Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said, turning to him, “did you find a poem that you liked in my library?”

“I did. And I'd be most pleased to read it,” he said, getting up. “Now as it happens, mine is also supposedly written by a shepherd.”

“Who would have thought,” Arabella said in a jaundiced voice, “that sheepherders were quite so literary?”

Helene's heart was racing with humiliation. How could she have read those words aloud? Why—
why
—hadn't she read the poem before accepting it from Bea? She should have known that any poem Bea chose would be unacceptable. Finally she drew a deep breath and looked up at Stephen.

She met his eyes. They were utterly kind, and she felt imperceptibly better. In fact, he grinned at her.

“I'm afraid that my poem is far less interesting than was Lady Godwin's,” he said with a little bow in her direction, “but then, so am I.”

That's a compliment! Helene thought. Mr. Fairfax-Lacy had a lovely voice. It was deep and rolled forth, quite as if he were addressing the entire House.

He paused and looked directly at Helene. She felt an unmistakable pang of triumph. He'd understood her! She stopped listening for a moment and wondered which of her night rails she should wear. It wasn't as if she had any luscious French confections such as Esme presumably wore when she embarked on an affair.

But slowly she was drawn back into listening, if only because Stephen's voice was truly so beautiful. He made each word sound as if it were of marvelous meaning.

“I'm not sure I like this one any more than the first poem,” Arabella said grumpily to Lord Winnamore. “Feel as if I'm being scolded. Falsified cheek indeed! And what's a
bank-rot beauty
? We've none of those in this room.”

“It was not so intended at all, Lady Arabella, I assure you,” Stephen said, glancing down at Bea to make sure she was listening. She was curled up on a stool like a little cat. He could see a bewitching expanse of breast. Naturally her bodice was the size of his handkerchief.

“Enough of that!” Arabella said briskly. “Last thing I need is a lecture about what time is doing to my face, and you'll be lucky, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, if I don't take it amiss that you've even mentioned
fading
in my presence!”

“I'm truly sorry,” Stephen said. “Naturally I viewed this poem as utterly inapplicable to anyone in this room.” He bowed and kissed Arabella's hand. “I certainly detect no fading in
your
beauty, my lady.” He gave her a look of candid repentance, the one he used when his own party was furious because he had voted for the opposition.

“Humph,” Arabella said, somewhat mollified.

He'd made his point; he was fairly certain that he saw a gleam of fury in Lady Beatrix's eyes. Now he intended to pursue the more important goal of the evening.

Helene found with a start that Stephen Fairfax-Lacy was drawing her to her feet. “May I show you a volume of poetry that I discovered while searching for a suitable text for this evening?” he said, nodding toward the far end of the room.

Helene rose lightly to her feet. “I'd be most pleased,” she said, steadying her voice. She put her fingers on his arm. It was muscled, as large as Rees's. Were all gentlemen so muscled under their fine coats?

They walked across the room until they reached the great arched bookshelves at the far end. Once there, Helene looked up at Stephen inquiringly, but he didn't pull a volume from the shelf.

“It was merely an excuse to speak with you,” he said with an engaging smile. “You seemed startled by the content of your poem, and I thought you might like to escape the company for a moment.”

Helene felt that traitorous blush washing up her neck again. “Well, who wouldn't be?” she said.

“Lady Beatrix Lennox?” he said, and the note of conspiratorial laughter in his voice eased Helene's humiliation.

“She did give me the poem to read,” Helene admitted.

“I thought so.” He took her hand in his. “You have lovely fingers, Lady Godwin. Musician's hands.”

Her hands looked rather frail in his large ones. Helene quite liked it. She never felt frail.

“And I thought your waltz was truly exquisite.” He was stroking her fingers with his thumb. “You have an amazing talent, as I'm sure you know.”

Helene's heart melted. No one ever praised her music. Well, she rarely allowed her music to be played in public, so no one had the opportunity. But she melted all the same. “It's rather a daring piece,” she murmured, watching his fingers on her hands.

“How so?”

“Because it's a waltz,” she explained. He truly didn't seem to understand, so she elaborated. “The waltz is considered unforgivably fast, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy. You do know that it hasn't been introduced to Almack's yet, don't you?”

He shrugged. “I haven't been to Almack's in years, and I count myself lucky.”

“Respectable women seldom dance the waltz, and they certainly don't write them.”

“I enjoyed it.” He was smiling down at her, and she felt a little thrill all the way to her toes. “Was that the very first waltz that you have written?”

“No.” She hesitated. “But it is the first to receive a public airing.”

“Then the fact that I danced it is truly one of the greatest honors of my life,” he said, with another elegant bow.

Mr. Fairfax-Lacy was truly…truly all that was admirable. “Would you consider,” she asked impulsively, “coming to my chamber tonight?”

He blinked, and for one dreadful moment Helene had an icy sense of error. Horror swept up her spine.

But he was smiling and bowing. “You anticipated my own question,” he said, kissing the very tips of her fingers. “May I pay a visit to your chambers later this evening?”

“I'd like that very much,” Helene managed. His smile deepened. He really is handsome, she told herself.

“I believe it is time to retire, Lady Godwin. Our hostess appears to be taking her leave.”

“Yes, lovely,” Helene said breathlessly. So this is how it was done! How simple, really. She invited; he accepted. She almost pranced back across the library on his arm. Esme twinkled at her. Bea kissed her cheek and whispered something Helene couldn't hear. Probably advice. Arabella frowned a little; she had probably only just realized that her scheme to marry Esme to Mr. Fairfax-Lacy was in danger.

Helene felt a surge of triumph. She had just taken the most eligible man in the house and summoned him to her room! She was
not
a frigid, cold woman as her husband had told her.

She had a lover!