Vanity (23 page)

A boot boy, fresh from his own night’s rest on the chilly stone floor of the scullery, slunk into the hall from the kitchen regions, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The second footman, his immediate superior, resplendent in livery and powdered wig, strode behind the lad, a bundle of keys in his hand, preparing to open up the doors to the main salons for the maidservants to begin the day’s cleaning.

The second footman saw the earl the instant before the earl saw him. He grabbed the collar of the boot boy’s jacket and jerked him into the shadows of the staircase until the master was safely out of sight on the stairs. The Earl of Wyndham’s gaze must not be offended by the sight of a seven-year-old boy with matted hair and filthy hands, his scrawny body enveloped in a grimy apron, roaming the public areas of the house—even at five o’clock in the morning.

Philip strode into his own apartments, where his valet stood waiting for him, an air of alert solicitude on his face despite his sleepless night.

“You passed a pleasant evening, my lord?”

“Yes, thank you.” The earl flung himself into a chair and extended his feet. The valet bent and removed his lordship’s shoes, then tenderly helped him out of his coat.

One glance at his employer’s expression told the experienced valet that conversation would not be welcome, so he went about his duties silently and, once his lordship was arrayed in his velvet dressing gown, drew back the bed-curtains and turned down the coverlet. He stood expectantly beside the bed, while the earl, frowning, took a turn about the room.

“Oh, that’ll be all, Fredericks.” The earl waved him away. “I can put myself to bed.”

“Very good, my lord.” The valet bowed himself from the room and once outside straightened with a grimace. The earl was an erratic sleeper, and one could never be certain whether he’d sleep for two hours or six. He’d seemed restless this early morning, which probably meant he’d be ringing his bell again in a couple of hours, and Fredericks would be expected to attend him as fresh and alert as if he’d slept the night away. In the circumstances he daren’t risk taking more than a catnap on his pallet in the attic before readying himself for his employer’s next summons.

Philip paced his bedchamber for a minute. The encounter with Lady Warwick followed by his confrontation with Margaret had excited him, and his loins were heavy, his blood hot with a sexual appetite that needed gratification. He allowed his mind to dwell on the lissome figure of Rupert Warwick’s wife, on the mischievous sparkle in her eyes that seemed to suggest collusion, on the curve of her mouth, the discreetly veiled swell of her breasts. There was a freshness about her that excited him most powerfully. And she’d seemed inclined to play a part other than that of the straitlaced ingenue bride.

How would Rupert Warwick take to wearing horns? The question amused Philip. His gaze flickered to the door connecting his apartments with his wife’s. It was not a question he would ever have to ask of himself.

His blood grew hotter, so that a mist of perspiration coated his skin. His flesh rose beneath his gown, pulsating with the urgency of his need.

He had a wife. An unsatisfactory wife in all respects, but her body was there, available to assuage this need. He strode to the door, flung it open, and entered the dark chamber.

The curtains were drawn around the bed, and he threw them back.

Letitia had awakened as the door had banged on its hinges, and now she lay shivering under the covers. She
knew what he’d come for and closed her eyes tightly as the bed curtains were opened and she felt his presence beside the bed. He always took her in this way, ever since she’d conceived Susannah. Always suddenly in the night, always waking her from sleep, so that many nights she lay awake until dawn in dread apprehension, straining her ears in the dark, waiting for the visitation.

He never spoke to her, except sometimes when he used coarse, vile language as he pushed hurtfully against the limits of her body, and the language seemed to excite him to greater fervency. There was never any pretense that she herself was important. He had a need, and it was her duty to supply that need.

The bed shivered as he dropped heavily onto the mattress. He raised her shift, then seized her hands, holding them over her head. He pushed into her, and tears squeezed behind her eyelids at the tight, unyielding pain.

When it was over, he left her—without a word, without even drawing the bed curtains again—so that now she could see the first pink streaks of dawn through the window, an offering of a new and bright day.

Letitia’s tears flowed hot and strong as she lay in wide-eyed misery. This was her life, and there was nothing she could do about it. No one she could turn to. Her father would never listen to a complaint against her husband. Her husband was her lord and master in the eyes of the Church and the law, and how he chose to treat her was a matter for his own conscience. The Duke of Gosford would have nothing to say. The world would have nothing to say.

“N
o dinner engagement this evening, Octavia?”

“No, I thought I’d pamper myself with a little peace and quiet for once.” Octavia turned her head against the rim of the bathtub, smiling through the fragrant steam at Rupert in the doorway. “Are you coming in, because there’s a howling gale coming from behind you.”

Rupert stepped into the room, closing the door at his back. “Nell, your mistress will ring when she needs you again.”

Nell, who was smoothing the folds of a gown of dark-green silk, showed no surprise at this statement. One glance at Lord Rupert’s coolly appraising gaze resting on the naked Lady Warwick in her bath had told her that her presence was about to be superfluous. She adjusted the gown on its hanger, curtsied, and slipped discreetly from the room.

Rupert hitched his foot behind the leg of a padded stool before the dresser and dragged it across to the tub, next to the fire. He’d become accustomed to Octavia’s predilection for baths, although that was as unusual as her refusal to wear paint and powder.

“If you’re intending to play, you’re going to spoil your
coat,” Octavia observed with a severe air. “Water and velvet are bad combinations, my lord.”

“A problem easily resolved,” he said, removing his coat of glossy black velvet and the black silk waistcoat beneath. He placed both carefully on the bed, then unfastened the tiny buttons hidden in the deep lace ruffles of his sleeves and twitched the fine lawn up to his elbows.

“But you might splash your britches,” Octavia said in the same tone, idly flicking her fingertips across the surface of the water.

“I’ll take the risk. What have you done with the soap?”

“Oh, I’ve already soaped myself,” she said languidly.

“Then you’ll have to be soaped twice,” he declared, sitting on the stool beside the tub, bending to pick up the lavender-scented cake from the dish on the floor. “Now, where shall I start …”

Octavia chuckled and surrendered, her body malleable and obedient to instruction. Rupert always took the greatest delight in playing with her, and yielding herself in this way set her mind adrift from her body, bringing her a rich and pure sensual pleasure.

She knew that Rupert intended that this game would stay with her throughout the evening, her body, aroused and sensitive, waiting with eager impatience for the moment when the promise of these playful caresses would be fulfilled. She knew that throughout the evening Rupert would glance at her occasionally, brush against her, murmur something in her ear, and her body, already on the brink of passion, would be jolted by a current of hungry lust. Rupert would smile and move away, knowing exactly what he’d done, knowing that when they were at last alone, the mere brush of his fingers would send her plunging into the chasm.

“Where are you dining this evening?” Attempting to carry on an ordinary conversation was part of the game.

“Viscount Lawton has a small gathering,” he replied in the same casual tone, his hands following their own busy path. “He’s promised a degree of light entertainment.”

“Women, in other words.”

“Possibly,” he agreed. “A party of Posture Molls, I believe. The Prince of Wales has made it clear that he relishes such spectator sports, and Malcolm assures me that the three ladies he’s hired for the evening will provide a spectacle to satisfy the most prurient imagination.”

He withdrew his hand from beneath the water and ran a fingertip over her lips. “One of them, I believe, specializes in flagellation, one of His Highness’s most particular pleasures.”

Octavia chuckled, licking the tip of his finger. “Does he prefer to administer or receive?”

“Oh, either or both, according to mood,” Rupert said airily. “Unfortunately, he expects his companions to participate with the same enthusiasm, so I think I shall excuse myself before the entertainment really gets going.” He reached for a large towel, draping it over his knee as he sat on the low stool. “Come.”

“You’ll be back here later for the gaming?” Octavia rose in a shower of drops, stepped delicately out of the tub, and deposited herself on Rupert’s knee.

“Of course.” He wrapped the towel around her and began to blot the water from her skin. “And followed by most of Lawton’s guests, I trust. Once they tire of watching the sexual antics of a trio of whores.”

“I thought Posture Molls considered themselves to be above whores.” Octavia leaned forward obligingly so he could dry her back. “They don’t actually sell their bodies, do they?”

“No, they merely perform in as lewd and depraved a manner as any slavering idiot could wish for. Stand up, so I can reach the rest of you.”

Octavia did so, fighting hard now to keep the conversation going as the towel patted over her bottom and down the backs of the thighs. “Slavering, arrogant, and complacent idiots,” she declared, her voice catching in her throat. “We’re making fools of them all, and it would never occur to them that we might not be what we seem.”

His hands on her hips turned her to face him, and it
dawned upon her that she was going to lose this particular battle.

Rupert laughed and leaned back, looking up her body with an amused and desirous eye. “Shall I have mercy, sweeting?”

“Would you take any notice of my wishes?” Her voice wouldn’t come out right. Her body cried out now for the promised dissolution, and she wanted him to finish it, even though she knew that to do so would deny her the long hours of sensitized anticipation that brought their own exquisite delights.

“Oh, I might,” he said consideringly. “But I think I’ll leave matters as they stand.”

Octavia’s breath rushed between her lips, and she stepped away from his hands hastily … too hastily. The rim of the bath caught her behind the calves and she fell backward, arms and legs flailing, water slurping over the tub in a soapy gush.

“Clumsy,” Rupert said, shaking his head reprovingly as she lay in an ungainly sprawl. “Now I’m going to have to start all over again.”

“No, you’re not!” She struggled to her feet again. “Go away, sir, and leave me to Nell.”

He laughed, enjoying her indignation that was only half-feigned. He caught her chin and kissed her before replacing his waistcoat and coat. “I’ll be back here by eleven at the latest. I don’t imagine the serious business of the evening will begin before then, but you’ll be able to amuse any early guests in your own inimitable fashion, my dear.”

Octavia wrapped herself in the towel again. Two inducements were offered in the Warwicks’ salon on Dover Street. The flirtatious and entertaining company of Lady Warwick, and the high-stakes gaming furnished by Lord Rupert. Between them they managed to entice to their house most of the younger members of the ton led by the Prince of Wales.

Enticed them and made fools of them, Octavia thought as the door closed on Rupert’s departing back.

Gaming was against the law, but it remained the most
popular and ruinous activity in London. Octavia hadn’t been surprised to discover that Rupert was an expert gamester. Expert and perfectly willing to take a fortune from any young blood eager and inexperienced enough to allow him to do so. It was one way to pay their household bills. Octavia, who had no skill and couldn’t see the appeal in hazarding fortunes on the turn of a card or the fall of the dice, played the part of an easy, flirtatious hostess, offering a warm welcome and generous hospitality to all who came to play in her salon and pit their wits and nerve against her husband.

And it was an amusing business for all its deadly, serious purpose. The vain, posturing idiots deserved to be made mock of. The men with whom she flirted never showed the slightest reservation over her frequently outrageous flattery. The women who preened themselves under Rupert’s suave attentions never evinced a hint of suspicion that he might not be in earnest. The greed, self-consequence, and vanity of George Ill’s court defied belief, or at least to Octavia’s blunt and clear-eyed way of thinking. She felt no scruples about using such failings against them and knew that Rupert had not a whisper of conscience about it.

It was an amusing game, but it was also an exhausting one. After a long evening’s performance Octavia was drained and relished tonight’s prospect of a few quiet hours before the curtain went up. She would dine with her father, who was so much his old self these days that he was once again the entertaining and informative companion of her childhood. And when Griffin announced the first guest, she’d be refreshed and ready for the fray.