Everything I Ever Wanted (25 page)

India stood and went to the fireplace. The chill she felt was in her marrow, but she held her hands out anyway, accepting what poor relief the red-orange flames could offer. "I did not want to be the Prince Regent's courtesan," she said at length. "Nor any other man's. I have never wanted success in the theatre at the price some were wont to demand of me. That I have allowed Mr. Kent to use me as he does, to promise my favors without regard to my own feelings, is as much as I can properly bear. He never asks how I will turn the suitors away. It is truer that he does not care. He never inquires after them once he has lightened their pockets. If one of them tries to press himself most insistently, it is left to me to ensure his pride is not unduly trampled and his money is not withdrawn."

Short of self-immolation, India did not think she would ever be warm again. Her back to South, she hugged herself. "The Prince Regent was one of those who were most insistent. What he considered charming was often ham-handed and coarse. It required every diplomatic skill at my disposal to turn him away without giving offense and then to keep it all quiet. His wounded pride might easily have turned to revenge. In the end there was nothing for it but that I beg him not to dishonor me in fact or in fiction. So I did. It struck him finally that he might make a magnanimous gesture. I think he was quite taken with his power to grant this simple favor."

India waited for Southerton's response. When it was long in coming, she eventually turned around and set her back to the fireplace. He was regarding her steadily, his eyes faintly narrowed, his features thoughtfully set.

"He gave you reason enough to dislike him," he said.

"He is still the Prince Regent. And someday he will be king. It matters not whether I like or dislike the man. I respect that we are all in his service and that he is in the service of England."

"Still," South said after a moment, "it would have been understandable if you had withheld information about the plot on his life."

India stared at him, incredulous. "I would never do such a thing." Her hands dropped to her sides, and her fingers curled into fists. "Do you think that I did?"

"I don't know."

It may as well have been an accusation. His doubt was like a blow to her midriff. It came so hard, it drove the breath from her lungs and weakened her knees. India actually thought she might buckle to the floor. It was the knowledge that Southerton would treat her with much less sympathy than she had shown poor Darrow that kept her upright. "I told Mr. Kendall all that I knew," she said. South's voice was grim, implacable. "You did not tell him how you knew it."

India experienced a moment's relief when his eyes dropped away from her face to her hands."He did not ask."

South watched her fingers twist in the folds of her silk dressing gown. "Is that so?"

"Yes."

Although he knew differently, he let it pass. "Tell me about the Spanish consul. Señor Cruz." He saw her fingers twist again. When he raised his eyes to her face, her complexion was pale but her expression was now closed to him. "You were reporting to Kendall about his liaison with Lady Macquey-Howell."

India returned to the window bench and sat down. "How could you lie with me?" she asked quietly. "You brought me here with these suspicions in your pocket, all these uncertainties about my character, and yet you were able to lie with me."

"Perhaps I was the one beguiled."

She drew in a breath and released it slowly. Her voice remained polite, her dignity at full measure. "Go to hell, my lord."

"South," he said, smiling faintly. "You agreed to use my name."

India rose and headed for the stairs. "Good night."

Southerton did not come to his feet."We are not finished, India."

She continued climbing and did not look back. He did not follow.

It was the fragrance of baking bread that woke India the next morning. It wafted from below stairs. She was usually closer to the source of it than she was now. On any other morning she would have risen before Mrs. Simon arrived and been shaping the dough in the pans. Her fingers and face would have been sprinkled with flour, her apron marked by water and a smear of butter. If she had been thinking of Southerton, worried about his continued absence, she would not have let the widow see it. For Mrs. Simon she was entirely good-natured, some part of her glad of the woman's company even when she wished it might not last so long each day. In Mr. Darrow's presence she was equally cheerful, though not without mischief, rousing his suspicions that she was always on the verge of taking flight on her own, then allaying them by making enough noise no matter where she was so that he would know she had not.

India heard Darrow now, his voice coming to her from the bedchamber he had occupied until last night. She could not make out any single word, only muffled staccato bursts. In between them came Southerton's deeper drawl, equally hushed by the wall separating them.

She stretched slowly, her muscles protesting because she had ill-used them the night before, confining herself to the winged chair in her room rather than sleep on the bed she had so recently shared with South. India completed her morning rituals without much thought. She washed, dressed her hair in a loose knot at the crown of her head, and chose a simple long-sleeved muslin day dress from her wardrobe. Lacking ornamentation on the sleeves or closely fitting collar, it was banded near the hem by two parallel rows of sky blue satin ribbon. The silken shawl she chose to wrap lightly about her shoulders matched the bands of ribbon almost perfectly.

She was on the point of leaving the room when she remembered what she had been too tired to do the previous night. With almost violent motions, India stripped the bed of its sheets and the offending stain of her virginity. Arms full, she went back to the door, grasped the knob, and pulled.

The door did not open.

She turned the knob again, rattled the door, and was met with the same end. Over the top of the sheets she stared at the door, genuinely puzzled at first. When the truth of her circumstances was borne home, India did not know whether to laugh, cry, or indulge in a tantrum.

Southerton had actually locked her in. It was medieval.

India considered what she might do to attract his attention. She could wait for him to come to her, of course, but that did not settle well with her. There was nothing pleasant about being his lady-in-waiting. It occurred to her to knock on her door or the wall, but some time had passed since she'd heard anyone in the other room, and she suspected that South and Mr. Darrow were already below stairs. She could simply call for someone, drop a chair on the floor, or pound her feet, but none of those seemed a proper response in light of what he'd done.

India shifted the sheets in her arms as she thought. Then she found herself staring at them, a frown creasing her brow as the first vague notions of a plan began to unfold in her mind. Turning slowly on her heel, India faced the window. She regarded the sheets again.

Did she dare?

She did. She would.

It was medieval.

India tied the sheets together and pulled the knot tight. She wedged the ladder-back chair under the window frame and attached one end of her makeshift rope to the uppermost rung. Upon pushing the window open, India was first struck by the cold bluster of the wind she was facing. It swirled into the room, causing the curtains to strain against the silken cords that secured them. Flames stirred in the fireplace, and her shawl beat against her shoulders. She leaned around the chair and thrust her head out. Then she looked down.

Juliet's balcony was not so high.

India reconsidered her plan, wondered at the recklessness of it, and realized that her need to do this had little to do with Lord Southerton and everything to do with herself.

She threw out the sheet and was gratified to see that it did not dangle terribly far above the ground. Once she reached the end, it would not be a long drop. The likelihood of serious injury was small. At least that was her hope.

India bunched handfuls of her day dress and chemise around her waist, effectively raising each hem to the height of her knees, then secured the material by making a belt of her shawl. She climbed onto the slim window ledge and sat there a moment, letting her legs dangle over the side while she contemplated whether she had sufficient courage.

He must needs go whom the devil drives.

The old proverb seemed inordinately appropriate to her. India grasped the sheet, twisting it around one hand and holding it more loosely in the other, and tested the strength of it one last time. The chair creaked a bit as it was wedged tightly under the window, but it held its place as did the knots.

There was little grace in the way she eased off the ledge and suspended herself above the ground. Her stockinged legs flailed awkwardly, her elbows jutted out at odd angles, and her head knocked the windowsill with rather more force than she allowed was good for her. Still, after what seemed an eternity but in reality was only the passing of a few pounding heartbeats, her calves found purchase around the sheet, her elbows were pulled in to increase her strength, and the first wave of dizziness passed.

India began lowering herself to the ground. She reached the literal end of her rope in a very short time and dangled a moment longer before making her release. She was in free fall for less than two feet when her body was plucked in midair by two strong arms and brought to rest hard against a broad expanse of chest.

India stared up at Southerton as he eased her slowly to a standing position. He was grinning at her, not at all put out by what she had done, but as one who was genuinely entertained. Her toes settled on the ground, then her soles, and finally her heels. He gave her no choice about stepping back from the circle of his arms. She was struck by the odd thought that he had not faltered once when he caught her. Not a stumble or misstep. And now he was amused. If Southerton was not precisely the devil, then neither was he entirely human.

She was on the point of telling him that, but he spoke first.

"The colonel was in the right of things," South said. "You are resourceful."

A compliment? she wondered. Or merely an observation?

He still had made no move to release her. His hands rested lightly on the small of her back, and her toes had settled closely to his. India realized she had not quite caught her breath, but she was no longer certain that the activity of her descent was responsible.

"As are we all when necessity demands," she told him.

South glanced up at the open window. The twisted sheet was unwinding slowly, the tail of it flapping against the house. "You are better than most, I think." He regarded her again, his smile fading as one dark eyebrow was lifted. "You have some particular destination in mind, I collect."

"The kitchen, m'lord. Unless you mean to starve me, I would have breakfast." She saw his skeptical regard. "What? Never say you thought it was my intention to leave."

"It occurred to me."

"Then let me apprise you of a particular fact you seem to be in want of. I do not ride and have never done so. I am quite afraid of horses. Your grays severely tested my mettle when I was forced to care for them, but now that your great Irish beast is stabled nearby, nothing could compel me to go within a stone's throw of their stalls. Furthermore, as much as I would enjoy a bracing walk this morning, I find the idea of going to London on foot rather daunting. So you see, it is only that I came for breakfast."

At some point during India's persuasive little speech, South's eyes had dropped to her mouth. Once, as a youth, he had dared East to place his tongue on a frozen metal pail to prove that it would be caught fast. He'd been right, of course, and had cheerfully collected his winnings from North and West before he helped Eastlyn removed the pail from his face. Now South was moved to wonder if, upon kissing India, he might find his tongue wedded to her lips in just such a fashion. Her manner was half again as cold as that pail had been.

It required only a few steps to back her against the wall of the cottage.

"My lord?" India's hands had been resting lightly on Southerton's upper arms. Now her fingers curled and clutched the brushed woolen sleeves of his frock coat. "South?"

She was not frozen at all, he thought, but frightened. While it was not there for him to see in her face, he felt the truth of it in her fingertips and heard the same in her voice. She would not have acquiesced so easily to calling him South had she not felt some pressure to do so. The knowledge made him cool his heels.

He released her abruptly and stepped back. South felt the tug of her fingers on his coat, almost as if she meant to keep him close. He reminded himself that it was only that she was slow to react to her release, not that she was urging him to remain as he was.

"Mrs. Simon was preparing a tray for you," he said. "Which Darrow was going to deliver. The widow knows nothing about you being locked in your room, only that you complained of not feeling well last night and again this morning. It is up to you to explain to her as little or as much as you wish. I would not look to her for help, India. She is well compensated for her services here. It would only cause her great discomfort if you attempted to compromise her loyalties to West by slighting one of his friends."

"I should do a great deal more than slight you," India said. "If I were possessed of such a nature. I am not, however, so I shall make you this promise: I will not leave this place without your permission, but neither will I have further conversation with you if you shut me away again."