A Wild Pursuit (6 page)

“But why would she color her hair?” Helene asked with some fascination. “She can hardly be showing gray.”

“Of course not!” he agreed. “She's barely out of the schoolroom.”

Helene didn't agree with
that
pronouncement. Beatrix Lennox was obviously far too ripe for a schoolgirl, and besides, hadn't she debuted some three years ago? That would put her at about twenty years old.

“I expect she colored her hair merely to shock people,” Stephen said with a shrug. “She's obviously artificial.” He turned back to her. “Not like you…a true English gentlewoman, bred to the bone.”

Helene felt a pang of envy toward Bea. It wasn't high on her list of wishes to be described as a well-bred filly at Tattersall's. Naturally, she ought to be pleased by the compliment. But it would be fun if just once, she were considered dangerously attractive. Able to shock someone. Helene had never shocked anyone in her life. Well, perhaps her husband. There was that time with the chamber pot…Helene wrenched her thoughts away from the unsavory topic.

“Thank you for the compliment,” she said, opening her fan. Esme always flirted with her fan to great effect. Unfortunately, Helene hadn't the faintest idea how to do the same thing. She waved it gently, but the only result was that she was unable to see Stephen at all. She snapped it closed.

At that moment Bea joined them. “We have been discussing poetry,” she said with a twinkle. “And I am sent to discover each person's favorite poem. Arabella has had the splendid idea that we shall have a poetry reading on Friday evening.”

“I haven't read any poetry in years,” Stephen observed.

Bea looked up at him from under her lashes. “We'll have to do something about that. Perhaps I'll lend you a book from my private library.”

To Helene's amazement, a ruddy tone appeared in Stephen's lean face. “That won't be necessary,” he said brusquely. “I was quite fond of poetry as a boy. I'm certain I can remember something.”

“Have you a favorite poem?” Bea asked Helene.

“I am acquainted with Shakespeare's sonnets,” Helene said uncertainly. “But some of them are hardly suitable for reading aloud.”

“I'm sure you will find something you deem appropriate,” Bea said, and Helene was unable to dismiss the idea that the girl was laughing at her.

“And
your
favorite poem?” Stephen asked her.

“A love poem by Lord Byron,” Bea said, drifting away. “It's quite, quite beautiful.”

“That girl is trouble,” Stephen said, rather unoriginally.

But Helene had had enough of this torturous flirtation. She was exhausted. “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said with a curtsy, “I will join Lady Rawlings.”

Helene had hardly sat down next to Esme when Bea plumped herself on Esme's other side. “Disastrous!” Bea announced.

“What?” Helene asked, but Esme seemed to know precisely what she was speaking about and responded with a choked giggle. Helene narrowed her eyes. “What are you discussing?”

“You, darling,” Esme said, with such fondness in her voice that it removed the sting. “Bea and I have been conspiring to bring you together with that estimable gentleman on the other side of the room, but you're not doing your share.”

Helene already felt tired; now she felt obstinate as well. “While I much dislike the idea of my affairs being discussed in public,” she said, “I also resent the imputation that I have not attempted to…to sway Mr. Fairfax-Lacy's attentions. I am wearing a new dress, and I allowed myself to be walked over to him, like a lamb to slaughter. It is not my fault that the man has no conversation.”

“You must have discussed something,” Esme said.

“Topics
I
introduced,” Helene snapped. “First I brought up Napoleon's escape and then the position of Catholics in the government. He had nothing to say to either issue. Really, if this is what he's like in Commons, it's no wonder the government never gets anything done!”

Bea sighed. “He doesn't want to talk about legalities, Helene. The man is bored with the House. He wants to talk about frivolous things. Men always pretend that they want intelligence in their mates, but it's not really the case.”

“What sort of frivolous things?” Helene asked.

“I don't agree,” Esme put in. “I think Bea has the wrong end of the stick. In my experience, it doesn't even matter what you talk about. The man is burnt to the socket. Look at those circles under his eyes. Unless I miss my guess, he's rather desperately hoping to find a warm body to curl up with. All you have to do is indicate that interest, Helene.”

“You make it sound easy,” Helene muttered.

“It
is
easy,” Bea said. “You watch, and I'll do it right now. He's utterly uninterested in me, so there's no threat to your future.”

Helene grabbed her arm. “I can't let you do that!”

“Why on earth not? I do it enormously well,” Bea said with some satisfaction. “In fact, I think one could fairly say that I am an expert.” She sauntered off, and sure enough, even the very sway of her hips was a promise.

“I do believe that girl is more outrageous than I ever was,” Esme said thoughtfully. “She must be quite unhappy.”

“Nonsense. She's having the time of her life,” Helene said. “Look at her now!”

Bea was laughing up at Stephen, waving her fan gently before her face. Her piquant little face was glowing, her eyes sending the man a speaking invitation. Her bosom brushed against his arm, and even from the other side of the room, Helene could see him start.

“I can't possibly do that sort of thing,” Helene said flatly. “I just couldn't.” She felt positively riddled with embarrassment at the very thought.

“Bea is not doing much,” Esme said. “There's only one important thing, and that's to let your eyes tell Stephen that you're available. That's all. It's easy.”

“Easy?” Helene said in an appalled voice. “That's not easy!
Available?
How on earth does one indicate such an unseemly thing?”

Across the room, Bea was laughing up at Stephen. She seemed to be vibrating with desire. Then she turned around for the merest moment and grinned at them. The desire wiped from her face and was replaced by pure mischief. She looked like a girl just out of the school room. The next second she turned around and threw Stephen another languishing look.

“Ah,” Esme said with some satisfaction, “she can still be herself.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Helene said, feeling just on the edge of tears. “I can't do this. I must be missing the ability. Rees always said—” She snapped her mouth shut. She didn't want even her own best friend to know that she was a frigid woman who would never enjoy bedding a man. Her own husband had said so, and she was fairly certain he was right.

“Don't despair, darling. Mr. Fairfax-Lacy doesn't like what Bea is doing. See?”

Sure enough, Fairfax-Lacy was frowning at Bea and clearly growling some sort of reproach. “He's just the man for you,” Esme said with satisfaction. “Not Bea's type at all.”

A fact which Bea exuberantly seconded a moment later. “He told me to go wash my face,” she reported with some glee. “I do believe that Mr. Higher Than Thou M.P. doesn't like my
maquillage,
even though it is imported all the way from Paris.”

Helene felt a little steadier. She had never worn rouge in her life and couldn't imagine why she ever would. Perhaps she and Stephen were suited after all.

Just look available, she told herself. “So, I simply look…look—”

“As if you want to bed him,” Bea said.

“I'll try,” Helene muttered. Never mind the fact that she didn't wish to bed
anyone,
and couldn't believe that any woman would wish to do so voluntarily. Except for reasons of revenge.

“Or you could just tell him,” Bea suggested with a wicked grin.

“I most certainly could not!”

“I have an idea! The poetry! We'll use the poetry.”

“What do you mean?” Esme asked her.

“We are each supposed to read a favorite poem on Friday, remember? If Helene reads the right kind of poem, and looks at Fairfax-Lacy while she does it, it won't fail! That way you need not embarrass yourself,” she told Helene. “The poem will do it all. And I'll warrant he'll visit your chamber that very night.”

“An excellent idea,” Esme said, nodding.

“But I don't know any love poetry,” Helene pointed out. “Besides that of Shakespeare.”

“Good,” Bea interjected, “because we don't want
love
poetry, silly!”

“We don't?”

“Do you love him?” she asked.

“Well, no.”

“Precisely my point. This is an altogether different type of poetry. And not to worry, I never travel without my favorite authors.”

“You are remarkable. You travel with…with this sort of poetry all the time?” Helene asked Bea.

“Naturally,” Bea said, opening her fan.

Helene watched with fascination as Bea shook the delicate, lacy confection slightly. She held it just below the level of her eyes, and somehow she looked ten times more delectable. I shall practice with my fan tonight, Helene thought. In front of the mirror. If I read the poem with a fan covering my face, no one can see me blush. Helene loathed the fact that she blushed constantly, like some sort of green girl.

“Don't forget that your friendship with Mr. Fairfax-Lacy will curdle your husband's liver,” Bea said with relish.

“Of course I haven't forgotten that!” Helene said. Why on earth would she even consider doing such an immoral act otherwise?

“Just remember to look at Stephen while you read,” Esme advised. “I shall put the two of you next to each other at supper so you can practice giving him desiring looks. Naturally I'll have to be on his other side, since Arabella is determined that we should marry.”

“I rather agree with Arabella,” Helene said. “He would undoubtedly make a good husband, Esme. I was just thinking how very much I wish that I had married someone like him, rather than Rees.”

“He's not for me,” Esme said, shrugging.

“Nor me,” Bea said, with the little yawn of a cat. “He's all yours, Helene. If you can stomach all that virtue and pomposity, that is.”

“He's not pompous!” Helene protested, and then realized that her two friends were laughing at her.

“Not pompous—perfect for you. We'll confer over poetry tomorrow, shall we?” Bea said, a twinkle in her eye.

“Better not,” Helene said, biting her lip. “If I have to read something shocking, and”—she narrowed her eyes at Bea—“I have the feeling that your choice will be along those lines, I'd much rather not know the worst before the moment arrives.”

Esme put an affectionate arm around her shoulder. “I'll be there, cheering you on.”

“As will I!” Bea put in brightly.

Helene looked at Stephen Fairfax-Lacy again. He was leaning against the mantelpiece, deep in conversation with a stout lady from a neighboring estate. He was the very picture of a timeless kind of elegance. The kind of elegance that her husband didn't even dream of. Rees didn't give a toss what coat he drew on in the morning. He'd never tied a cravat in such intricate, snowy folds in his life. And since no decent servants would stay in his employ, he didn't have a gentleman's gentleman to tie it for him.

Stephen Fairfax-Lacy was just what she needed: an antidote to her loathed husband. Rees's antithesis. Helene's hands curled into fists at her sides. She
would
do it. She would do it, and then she would tell Rees that she had. And when he looked stricken with jealousy…

The smile on Lady Helene Godwin's face reflected pure feminine glee.

When Rees was stricken with jealousy—and suffering from a curdled liver—she would just laugh and walk away.

Bonnington Manor
Malmesbury, Wiltshire

M
archioness Bonnington was not accustomed to opposition from the male sex. She had ruled—and survived—two husbands and fourteen male lapdogs. To her mind, there was no question as to which group had provided the better companionship. And as for logic…her own son was an excellent example of the worthiness of lapdogs over humans.

“Did I understand you to say that you are living in a garden hut, Bonnington? A garden hut?”

Her son nodded. The marchioness let silence fall between them. She had not invited him to sit, since she considered sons to be inferiors, along the lines of a butler: willing to take advantage, and needing to be continually reminded of their place. Not that her only son Sebastian had ever shown much proclivity for rebellion. He was a quite appropriate example of his sex, if she said so herself. Never caused her a moment of worry, until she had heard he had been courting the Duchess of Girton and persuading her to seek an annulment of her marriage.

That had ended in disaster, as she had known it would. In the end, her only son had been exiled to Europe, labeled unmarriageable, tarred as a liar and deceiver. The only thing that had sustained her in the past eight months had been a lifetime's knowledge that the sins of young, very wealthy men seemed to dissolve after a year or so. She had fully intended to recall him to England in the summer and rehabilitate him in the eyes of the
ton
by marrying him to an upright young woman, perhaps someone who reminded her of herself at an earlier age.

Except here he was. Back in England without her permission.

She placed her hands carefully on top of her walking stick, which was planted in front of her chair. “May I ask why you have chosen such an insalubrious location in which to lodge?” she asked gently. Neither of them was deceived by her tone. The marchioness tolerated insubordination in no one.

“I am living in a garden hut, Mother,” her son said now, smiling at her for all the world as if he were a natural rather than a marquess, “I am living in a garden hut because I am working as a gardener on the estate of—”

She raised her hand. “I do not wish to hear her name spoken out loud.”

He looked at her and said, “On the estate of Lady Rawlings, Mother, the woman whom I shall marry.”

Of all possible outcomes to her son's disastrous impudence, this was the worst.

“I cannot fathom it,” she said, punctuating each word with vigorous disapproval. “I understood when you were courting the Duchess of Girton last year. I was as aware as anyone that Ambrogina Camden's marriage was not consummated. She was a respectable woman, an excellent choice for marchioness, if one could disregard the unfortunate annulment that would have had to occur.” She paused and gripped the carved top of her walking stick even harder.

“As I say, I understood your wish to marry her. Marriage to a duchess, even one who has annuled her previous marriage, can never be seen as a mistake. But marriage to Esme Rawlings is—is beyond my—I cannot fathom it. The woman took lovers under her husband's nose. Everyone in London knew what she was up to. Her own mother has publicly expressed horror at her behavior. I was never so surprised as when I heard that Lady Rawlings was actually entertaining her husband in that bed of hers; Lord knows all of London had been there at some point or other.”

“If you repeat that comment one more time, you'll never see me again.” His voice was calm, but the fury there made the marchioness blink.

She rallied quickly. “Don't be a fool!” she said sharply. “In my estimation, the gossip probably didn't cover half of what she did. I know for a fact—” Her eyes widened, and Sebastian saw that she had only just grasped the full ramifications of the situation.

“
You
to marry her!
You
, who killed her husband?”

“I did not kill her husband,” Sebastian said, standing taller. “Rawlings's heart failed him on my unexpected entry to the chamber.”

“You killed her husband,” his mother said. “You entered that room looking for the bed of your duchess—oh, don't give me that folderol about a false wedding certificate. I don't believe common gossip. You had been bedding the duchess, but you crawled into the wrong bedchamber and encountered a husband. I call that killing the man! In my day”—she said it with grim triumph—“a man ascertained whose door he was entering
before
he did so.”

Sebastian suppressed a grimace. “I mistook the room,” he said stolidly, “and it had an unfortunate effect.”

“Then why in the name of blazes should you marry the woman? A mistaken notion of paying for your crimes? If so, I shall have the vicar speak to you. Because one can overemphasize the doctrine of reconciliation, and marrying a doxy simply because one killed her husband is Going Too Far.”

Sebastian sighed and looked about him. He was tired of standing like a schoolboy before his mother. She was perched on a thronelike chair in which the Regent would have felt comfortable, fitted out with claw feet and serpentine arms. He spotted a reasonably comfortable chair in the corner and strode over to fetch it.

“What are you doing?” his mother barked. “I didn't give you permission to sit down, Bonnington!”

“My name is Sebastian,” he said, putting down the chair with a decisive thump and seating himself directly before her. “My name is Sebastian, and I am your son. Your only son. It would make me feel a great deal more comfortable if you did not refer to me as having killed Lord Rawlings. He had a weak heart, and the doctor had given him until the end of the summer. It was truly unfortunate that I was the cause of his seizure—and I would give anything to have not instigated that episode. But I did
not
kill him.”

The marchioness blinked. Her ever-courteous, ever-proper, almost boring son appeared to be showing a little backbone for the first time in his life. She didn't know whether to be pleased or horrified.

She chose horrified.

“The only man with whom I have ever been on a first-name basis was your father,” she said with some distaste, “and that only in the most intimate of situations. You, Bonnington, are my son, and as such should offer me only the greatest respect.”

He inclined his head. “And that I do, Mother.” But he stayed seated. He had her looks, that son of hers. When she was young, men wore their hair powered and women wore patches. But it would be a pity if Sebastian powdered his hair. He had her hair, the color of sunshine, that's what Graham called it. Of course, Graham hadn't been bad-looking either. Those were his deep-set eyes looking at her. After her first husband died, she had married the most handsome man in London, and if Graham Bonnington wasn't a lively conversationalist, he knew his place. He listened to her. She said enough for both of them.

She thumped her stick on the floor. The stick made some of the younger servants quite ill with anxiety, but her son merely glanced at the floor, as if checking for scuff marks. She decided to stay with the most crucial point.

“You cannot marry a doxy out of some misplaced sense of obligation. The Bonningtons are an ancient and respected family. Make Lady Rawlings an allowance, if you must. The estate can certainly bear the cost.”

“I intend to marry her,” Sebastian said. “But not out of obligation.”

“No?” She invested the word with as much scorn as she could.

“No. I love her.”

The marchioness closed her eyes for a moment. The day had begun with the unpleasant shock of seeing her son in England, and it was rapidly turning into something truly odious.

“We don't marry out of love,” she sat flatly. “Marry a decent woman, and you can always see about Lady Rawlings later.”

“I love her, and I will marry her.”

“I believe I have fallen into a comic opera. And I detest musical theater. Are you planning to break into song?”

“Not at this moment.”

“Let me see if I understand you: you feel yourself to be in love with a doxy who has shared her bedchamber with half the men of London, and whose husband you didn't kill, but certainly helped to his grave?”

“This is your last warning, Mother.” He said it through clenched teeth. “You speak of the woman I intend to marry, who will be marchioness after you. Speak so again, and you will have no part in our life.”

The marchioness rose with some difficulty—the gout in her left foot was growing worse by the moment—and thumped her stick for good emphasis, although it seemed to have little effect. She was pleased to note that her son rose when she did. At least he hadn't discarded all manners.

“The day you marry that doxy, I shall disown you,” she said, as if she were commenting on the weather. “But I am quite certain that you knew that would be the outcome. I may remind you that my portion is not inconsiderable. Any child you—”

Sebastian groaned inwardly. The other shoe had dropped.

“By God, the woman is
enceinte
! I'd forgotten that trollop is carrying a child. Tell me you are
not planning to marry Esme Rawlings before that child is born!
”

Sebastian toyed with the idea of threatening to marry Esme tomorrow, an action that would make her unborn child his heir. But he didn't want to be responsible for his mother having heart palpitations. Miles Rawlings's death already weighed heavily on his conscience. More to the point, Esme still refused to marry him at all.

“Lady Rawlings has not accepted me,” he admitted.

A look of grim satisfaction crossed his mother's face. “Well, at least someone is showing intelligence. Of course she won't accept you. You killed her husband.” She began to stump her way toward the door. “I don't know where you got this devilishly self-sacrificing side to you. Your father didn't show any penchant for that sort of nonsense.”

Suddenly Sebastian felt his temper, which had been growing at a steady rate, flare into life. He walked around his mother and stopped before the door.

“Move aside!” she said.

“I will make Esme Rawlings marry me. She
will
accept me because she loves me as well. Moreover, I shall expect you to attend the wedding and behave in a respectable fashion.”

“There won't be a wedding,” his mother replied calmly. “I felt a momentary anxiety, true. But from what I know of her, Esme Rawlings is as intelligent as she is dissolute. She won't marry you. She won't even think of it. I've no doubt but what Rawlings left her warm enough in the pocket, and a woman like that doesn't need a protector, or yet a husband either. Now if you'll excuse me, I will return to my chamber.”

And she walked past him.

Sebastian spun on his heel and walked over to the other side of the room. He looked down at his clenched fist, pulling it back on the point of putting it through the window. His mother had said no more than Esme herself had done, although she had never said he wasn't the one to father her child. But she probably thought it. How could a man serve as father to a babe when the whole world—his mother included—thought he'd killed the child's true father?

Sebastian Bonnington had faced few obstacles in his life. Thanks to his mother, he was both remarkably beautiful for a man and rigidly aware of proprieties. When other men strayed to mistresses and gambling, losing their estates and their minds in dissolute activities, he had watched and not partaken. Before he'd met Esme, in fact, he had never even felt the urge to commit an indecorous act.

He shook his head, staring blindly at the garden. Oh, he loved Esme's delicious curves and her beauty, but it was her eyes that he found irresistible. There was no other woman in the world with eyes at once seductively enchanting and secretly sad. They had taken his head, robbed his heart, and stolen his senses. Something about her made him love her, willy-nilly.

And if to love her and to marry her was indecorous or foolish, he had no choice in the matter. All he had to do was convince her of the same.