A Wild Pursuit (21 page)

“No!” Helene cried, horrified by the conclusion Arabella had drawn. “It truly was all my fault. I'm just not—” She stopped.

To her horror, she felt tears rising to her eyes. How could she possibly admit to a failure in bedroom activity when she was seated with two of the most desirable women in the
ton
?

“You know, I find him quite uninteresting as well,” Esme said quickly. “It's something about the Englishness of his face. And his chest is quite narrow, isn't it? Moreover, I never liked a man with a long chin.”

Helene threw Esme a watery smile. “It's not that I don't like the way he looks. I do. It's just that I found myself unable to countenance the prospect of bedding him.” Her voice dropped. “He was very kind about the whole thing.”

Arabella nodded. “There are always men whom one simply cannot imagine engaging in intimate circumstances. Unfortunately, I felt that way about my second husband. But what really interests me,” she said, turning a piercing eye on Esme, “is what exactly
you
are doing, announcing your engagement to a man with an overly long chin? Or, to put the same question another way, what
is
Marquess Bonnington doing in this house, Esme?”

Esme almost choked on the gingerbread she was eating. “Expressing his repentance?” she said hopefully.

“Don't repeat that poppycock story that I fed your Sewing Circle!” Arabella cried. “You managed to evade my every effort at a confidential talk last night by clinging to your new fiancé's arm, but now I would like to know the truth. Why has the marquess arrived in your house?”

Helene leaned forward. “I would like to know that as well, Esme. I accepted that his mother was likely here due to the circumstances of last summer, although it seemed extremely odd—”

Arabella interrupted, naturally. “Odd? There's something deuced smoky about Honoratia Bonnington's arrival.”

Esme sighed.

“You sound like a bellows,” her aunt observed. “Out with it!”

Esme looked up at her aunt for a moment. Arabella looked as delicate and sensual as if a wisp of wind would blow her away, and yet she and the formidable Lady Bonnington were certainly forged of the same steel. So Esme told. “But I don't wish to marry anyone,” she finished. “Least of all Lord Bonnington. It wouldn't be fair to Miles, or to the babe.”

After a moment of stupefied silence, Arabella burst into a cackle of laughter. “Want to just keep Bonnington around for those lonely nights, do you? And you had him working in the garden during the day? Here I thought you were bent on a sober widowhood! Lord, Esme, even I never created a scandal akin to this one!”

“What scandal?” Esme demanded. “You stopped the Sewing Circle from even considering the possibility with all your quotations.”

“Which took me a good hour of poring over a Bible, I'll have you know!” Arabella said.

“Esme, do you think it might be time to give up the Sewing Circle?” Helene asked tentatively. “Things
are
a trifle…complicated in your life. Perhaps it would be best if you weren't under quite so close surveillance.”

“It's part of my new respectability,” Esme said stubbornly. “I rather enjoy it.”

“Not that I noticed,” Arabella commented. “You sewed a miserable seam. Some people are simply not gifted in that department.”

“You know, Mama makes shirts for the poor,” Esme said. “The whole shirt, even the collar and cuffs.”

Arabella was silent for a moment. “Lord, Esme, I never like to think of myself as someone who could say ill of my own sister, but Fanny is dim-witted. She's spending all that time making up collars for people she doesn't even know, and her own daughter is alone in the country. She's got her priorities in a tangle.” She reached over and gave Esme's hand a little squeeze. “Don't go changing yourself into your mother. You have always had a merry soul. But Fanny has grown into a rather dreary adult, if I say so myself.”

“That's not fair,” Esme objected. “Mama has had a great many disappointments in life.” Obviously her daughter was foremost on the list.

“She's dispirited,” Arabella said firmly, “although it's good of you to defend her. Fanny spends all her time gazing at the world and pursing her lips. I've always been glad to have one relation with a grain of sense in her head. I can't afford to lose you to the ranks of straitlaced matrons.”

“Your aunt is right,” Helene put in. “I have only the slimmest acquaintance with your mother. But the idea of you growing as prim and prissy as that Mrs. Cable is simply dispiriting. She's not a very nice woman, Esme.”

“I know,” Esme said. “Believe me, I know.”

Arabella took a look at her niece and judged it time to change the subject. But while she and Helene chatted about the Venetian lace points that adorned Helene's sleeves, Esme sat in silence. She had promised Miles that she would be a respectable mother, yet Miles was gone. She thought never to make another scandal, and she could think of no scandal with the explosive force that her marriage to Marquess Bonnington would have.

T
he next morning Bea stamped down the lane to visit the goat. She'd taken to visiting the devilish creature every morning, from the pure boredom of life. Of course, she could have spent her time flirting with the Puritan. But annoyingly, irritatingly, hatefully, he and Helene were learning to play a four-handed piece. The sight of Helene's pale braids bent close to Stephen's dark head as they whacked away on that pianoforte gave Bea a strange kind of longing, the kind that pinches your heart. It wasn't an emotion that Bea was familiar with at all.

The one time they had been alone together after breakfast, for the merest moment, he had looked down at her with a rather wintery smile and said, “I gather that you have decided not to woo me?”

She had answered, “I never woo,” hoping that he would kiss her or smile at her the way he did at Esme
and
Helene. But all he'd done was bow and walk away. Bea had realized in that very moment, watching his back, that there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to woo the man. But Stephen showed little desire to secure any sort of relationship with her. How could he, in truth? He had no time. When he wasn't playing an instrument with his mistress, he was exchanging bawdy jests with his fiancée. Lord knows where he was at night. Bea ground her teeth together. She was making a regular occupation out of thinking about Stephen Fairfax-Lacy and then admonishing herself for doing it. She held out a branch she'd brought the goat and watched him chew it into kindling.

In fact, Lady Beatrix Lennox was suffering from a mighty loss of confidence. First Mr. Fairfax-Lacy had refused her as a mistress and taken Helene instead. And Marquess Bonnington hadn't shown the faintest interest in her from the very beginning. Bea had to blink very hard to hold back tears.

The goat was chewing so loudly that it was no surprise that Bea didn't hear anyone approaching her. “Aren't you afraid to approach that spencer-eating beast?” said a voice at her ear.

She was like some sort of trained dog, Bea thought miserably. All she had to do was hear his voice and her knees weakened.

“The goat doesn't bother me,” she said, not turning to look at him. What was the point? He was leaning on the stile next to her, seemingly unperturbed by her graceless welcome.

“We should introduce the rest of the party to this fascinating creature,” he said idly. “I don't believe that Esme even knows of his existence. Whereas I find myself compulsively visiting the beast every day.”

Bea's heart hardened. “I thought you and Lady Godwin were spending your time together,” she said, being deliberately rude. “Or is it Lady Rawlings who occupies more of your time?”

“Not every moment. And never tell me that
you're
jealous.” His voice took on that dark, sweet note that drove Bea to distraction.

“Absolutely not!” she said, turning and facing him for the first time. He was—He wasn't so fabulously handsome. He had wrinkles on the edges of his eyes. And his chin was too long. God, how she hated a long chin!

“I'm glad,” Stephen said. She couldn't read his eyes. Was he making fun of her? No, that was a look of concern. Damn it all.

“Because Esme and I…” He hesitated.

“You needn't tell me,” Bea put in. “I can see the truth for myself. And I assure you that I haven't the slightest feeling about it except happiness for the two of you.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” It was so unfair that his smile could make her stomach clench. Long chin, long chin, long chin, she thought to herself.

“Esme and I seem to have so many interests in common.” Apparently he was feeling quite chatty now that he'd cleared away any misconceptions Bea might have had. “I had forgotten how much I enjoy word play and jests.”

“Lovely,” Bea said listlessly. She had been routed by a fleshy woman nine months with child. The fact that Bea genuinely liked Esme (and Helene, for that matter) didn't help.

Stephen looked aside at his little Bea. Unless he was quite mistaken, his campaign was working. She was lurid with jealousy. “Do
you
enjoy jests?” he asked.

Apparently she was supposed to engage in a contest of bawdy jests in order to obtain the great honor of being yet another woman in Mr. Fairfax-Lacy's life. Of course she wouldn't do such an ignominious thing. “I know a few,” she said, despite her best intentions. “Do you know the ballad that begins:
‘He's lain like a log of wood, in bed for a year or two, and won't afford me any good, he nothing at all would do?'
There are quite a few verses.”

He laughed. “Perhaps men don't care to repeat that particular ballad amongst themselves.” His eyes warmed her to her stomach, sent pangs of warning to her heart.

“I am thinking of returning to London, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” Bea said, making up her mind on the spot. “I must visit my mantua-maker. After all, my favorite garment was eaten by this animal.” The goat rolled his eyes at her.

“Oh,” he said. And then, “Are you then determined not to woo?”

“How many times must you ask me?” Bea snapped. The arrogance of the man was incredible. Incredible! Bea peeked a look at him from under her lashes. He looked almost—well—anxious.

“My besetting sin is arrogance, it would seem,” he said. “Although I had not realized it until recently. I truly apologize if I misinterpreted your interest in me when we played billiards together.”

“No, you didn't!” she wanted to shriek. Why wasn't he wooing her? Why wasn't he trying to seduce
her?

She peeked another look. It was no use. He had the longest chin in Christendom, perhaps, but she wanted to kiss him desperately. Or rather, she wanted to
be
kissed by him. And it seemed that there was still a chance, before Esme scooped him into a forty-year waltz. But she couldn't quite bring herself to give him one of her seductive looks. She was feeling paralyzingly shy, and there they were in front of the goat, and—

“I'll think about it,” she mumbled.

“What? I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch what you said.” He was leaning slightly against the fence. He looked like the most respectable, prudish, Puritan in the world. Not her sort at all. Too old, for one thing. And too opinionated. And too—too desirable.

“I said, I'll decide today whether I wish to woo you,” she said painstakingly.

“Oh, good.”

The infuriating man acted as if they were discussing a trip to see a Roman monument. Bea couldn't think of anything else they had to say to each other, so she made her farewell and then walked listlessly up the lane, swinging her parasol at a rock with the misfortune to be in her way. It was only in front of him that she pretended there was a decision to be made: and that was merely because of an instinctive feminine wish to protect herself.

Tonight she would spent an hour bathing, two hours dressing, and even longer painting her face, and she would seduce that man, by God, if he were seducable.

E
sme stared out the window of the drawing room. They were having a late spring flurry of snow. The white flakes were making the yellow crocuses on the side of the house look pale and betrayed. Or perhaps it was she who was betrayed. Or was it she who was betraying?

The comedy of errors that made up this particular house party was astonishing. She and Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, to all eyes, were apparently planning to marry. Equally well known to all was the fact that Helene was having an affair with the said Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, although it didn't seem to have given Helene's husband even a qualm. The earl was leaving the next morning, but as far as Esme could determine, he was thoroughly enjoying bickering with Helene over her reformulations of Beethoven and had paid no attention whatsoever to Stephen Fairfax-Lacy's lavish compliments to his wife.

Today the pain in her lower back was even worse than usual. She could hardly stand up, it hurt so much. The door opened behind her.

“Hello,” she said, not bothering to look around. It was amazing how closely her ears were attuned to the sound of his step, rather than those of the other two dozen persons thronging her house. He stood just behind her and, without even being asked, pressed his thumbs sharply into the base of her spine. It felt so good that Esme's knees almost collapsed.

“Steady there,” he said. “How is that babe this morning?”

“I received a letter from my mother,” Esme said, turning around and looking up at him. “Fanny is coming to visit, thanks to your mother's persuasive powers. Much though I loath it, I am going to have to express gratitude to Marchioness Bonnington.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. Didn't Esme have any idea why his mother would have done such an act of benevolence? “My mother didn't do it out of the kindness of her heart,” he pointed out.

“I know, I know.” The smile that spread across her face was genuine. “But I am glad that Mama is coming. It must be because I'm having a child myself. And because Miles is dead, of course.”

Of course, Sebastian thought cynically. He was getting sick of Esme referring to her husband as if he'd ever played a significant role in her life.

“Don't you see that your mother is coming here solely to ensure that you do indeed marry Fairfax-Lacy?” he asked harshly. “Once you disappoint her again, she'll drop you like a hot potato.”

“There's always the
small
chance that I won't disappoint her,” Esme replied icily.

Sebastian snorted. “Your mother is the sort of woman who would find something to criticize if you had taken on a nun's habit.”

“I mean to be respectable, and I shall be,” Esme said. But her heart wasn't in the argument: her back hurt too much.

“You are pretending not to be in love with me. You're a hypocrite, Esme, and you're making a terrible mistake.”

“I don't feel very well,” Esme mumbled. It wasn't only because she didn't want to think about Sebastian's offensive comment. Her back hurt so much that she seemed to be hearing his voice through a fog, as if filtered through cotton wool. “Perhaps I ought to go to my chambers.”

At that moment the door opened and a flood of chatting houseguests swept in. Lady Bonnington took one look at Esme and announced, “I do believe Lady Rawlings is having that baby now.”

“Well, you've done this sort of thing before,” Arabella said to her with a tone of mild panic. “Tell the poor girl what to do.”

“Don't be more of an idiot than nature made you!” Lady Bonnington snapped. “Obviously she needs to retire to her bedchamber.”

“I see no occasion for rudeness,” Arabella replied, bristling.

Esme took a deep breath. She was surrounded by a ring of faces. A second later Arabella was pushed to the side, and Sebastian bent over Esme.

“Up you go,” he said to her, with a tone of unmistakable intimacy. Before she could protest, he picked Esme up in his arms and started carrying her up the stairs, looking for all the world as if he knew directly where he was going.

“Oh!” Esme gripped his arm as her entire body shuddered and seemingly attempted to turn itself inside out. She dug her fingernails into his arm.

“Call the midwife!” Sebastian yelled over his shoulder. A moment later he had her in one of the spare bedrooms, on a bed specially prepared for just this occasion. But Esme didn't let him put her down.

“Wait!” she gasped. He started to lower her to the bed. “Wait, damn it!” She hung on for dear life as another wave swept through her body. Just then the door popped open, and in streamed Arabella, Helene, Marchioness Bonnington, and three maids.

“All right, Bonnington,” Arabella said importantly. “If you could just put my niece on the bed, we'll carry on from here. The midwife will be here directly; the silly woman had taken a walk to the village. Just try to keep that baby where it is until she arrives, all right, Esme?”

“Don't be a widgeon!” Lady Bonnington said, marching over to the side of the bed. “The babe will not arrive for hours.”

“God, I hope that's not the case,” Esme gasped.

“That's the way of it,” the marchioness said. Her tone was not unsympathetic.

Esme let go of Sebastian's hand. He bent over her for a moment, pressed a kiss on her forehead, and then he was gone. She felt a bit like crying, except another pain rushed up from her toes and stole her attention away. “Bloody hell,” Esme said in a near shout, reaching out and grabbing Arabella's hand. The pain receded, and she flopped back on the bed, drained.

“Profanity will not ease the pain,” Lady Bonnington observed. “My own mother told me that what distinguishes a lady from a lower being is that a lady accepts pain without rebuke.”

Esme ignored her. “How many of these pains will there be?” she demanded of the midwife as she entered the room.

Mrs. Pluck was a thick-set woman who was cheerfully confident about the “course of nature,” as she called it. “I expect you're in some discomfort,” she said, bustling about with a stack of towels. “But you've got the hips for a quick one.” She chuckled in a wheezing sort of way. “We must let nature take its course, that's what I say.”

“My niece will dispatch this business with…with
dispatch,
” Arabella announced, surreptitiously examining the red patches on her hand where Esme had squeezed her. “Bring me a wet cloth,” she snapped at one of the maids. “Esme, darling, you're rather unbecomingly flushed. I'll just bathe your forehead.”

“Took me all of six hours,” Lady Bonnington trumpeted.

Esme immediately decided that she was going to birth her baby in less than six hours. She'd never survive an ordeal as long as that. “Oh no,” she moaned. “Here it comes again.”

Arabella hastily dropped her wet cloth, and Esme grabbed her hand. The tidal wave came, swept her down and under, cast her up gasping for air. “I don't like this,” Esme managed to say in a husky whisper.

“Never knew a woman who did!” the marchioness said cheerfully from the side of the bed. “All a lady can do is endure with fortitude, showing her well-bred nature in every moment.”

Esme responded with flat profanity.

As the marchioness thought later, if she hadn't already known that Esme Rawlings was an appallingly ill-bred woman, she would have known from that moment on. The gel just had no idea how a lady behaved under duress.