He thought better of his last idea. If she found out he’d gone behind her back and interfered with her staff, she’d undoubtedly have a fit of pride. Moreover, he rather hoped to get credit for having done a good thing, just as he had by sending over the well-trained Mr. Randall.
Thus, feeling beneficent, he sent his skilled cook, Mrs. Beechum, letter in hand. She was at Mary’s disposal and would teach her whatever she could, daily, as necessary.
After all, he nearly always ate at his club, and he was paying his cook anyway. He wouldn’t have to pay her any extra for cooking at someone else’s home. Moreover, she’d been pleased to do it, to get out of his kitchen and have a bit of company and help out a fellow cook.
He waited for a grateful missive from Mrs. St. Ange in return.
Nothing for three days, and then, when he started to think he might drive to her home and see if her lights were on at night, or even send another message, perhaps with a few suggestions for plays, finally, he received a brief note:
Mary is pleased to meet Mrs. Beechum, and she sends her gratitude.
Mary sent him her gratitude! But not a word of thanks from the mistress of the house. Naturally!
He would wait before tendering her another invitation, as she suggested. Though he couldn’t help but wonder what the infernal woman was playing at. Didn’t she find both his company and his kisses agreeable? Didn’t she want more of both?
It had been over a week, and he longed to see her face, pretty even when she was scowling at him.
After a meeting with his father, during which, he found himself promising to visit with his mother within a fortnight, Michael felt he’d waited long enough. Tomorrow, he would purchase two tickets and then let his mysterious lady friend know when.
“Father, do you know anything of the family of Mrs. Ada Kathryn St. Ange?”
The earl steepled his fingers, looked toward the ceiling, wrinkled his forehead, and then said, “No. Never heard of this person.”
“What about any St. Ange’s?”
His father shook his head. “I don’t believe so. What’s the husband’s given name?”
“He’s dead, and I don’t know.”
Michael only knew Ada’s given name because he’d asked Elizabeth.
“Another widow?” His father’s tone was disparaging.
“She doesn’t need my money, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”
“Of course not,” the Earl of Alder said. “With the way you’ve taken to this moneymaking endeavor, I’m not going to spend a moment worrying about financial matters. Proud of you at last,” he added, causing Michael a moment of rancor.
Oblivious, his father lit a cigar and puffed thoughtfully.
“I’m only thinking of the future. My legacy, and yours. To that end, it’s about time you considered courting a woman whom you wish to marry. Not playing around with any more of these widows simply because you like what’s under their skirts.”
Michael gripped the polished handrails of his chair. True, Elizabeth and the others had been for physical sport alone. Yet, he hadn’t even experienced what was under Ada Kathryn’s skirts and he liked her anyway.
His father blew a perfect O of smoke, then added, “After all, any wife will have the same attraction in that particular regard. At least enough for you to beget an heir, and then you can go back to enjoying widows, for all I care.”
How warm-hearted of him.
Picking up his glass of brandy, Michael downed it. Their latest frank discussion was over. Thank God. He left determined to discover more about Mrs. St. Ange. In any case, who cared about her husband? The man was in Davy Jones’s locker, after all.
If Michael wanted to figure out where she had come from, whether she’d had a Season, and if she had a past before Mr. St. Ange, then he needed to learn her maiden name.
How on earth would he do that?
*
A week later, he was no closer to solving that puzzle. No one had heard of Mr. or Mrs. St. Ange. However, she was finally ending his misery. And strangely, not seeing her had turned into precisely that—misery. Each day, he awakened thinking how nice it would be to spend time with her. Each evening, he sat at Whites with Hemsby or at home alone, wishing she was beside him. Or better yet, under him. Or on top of him.
He’d never experienced anything like it.
Finally, they were going out together. She was amenable to opera, and thus he had purchased tickets to the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden for a performance of Rossini’s Semiramide.
When he went to collect her, Mr. Randall showed him into the front hall, where she was ready to leave, her cloak already draped about her shoulders.
Clearly, he was not to be invited into the drawing room for a drink, which pained him slightly. However, he would get one at the theatre before the curtain rose, which cheered him. Plus, patting his pocket, he felt his customary flask.
In any case, they would, for a short while, be alone inside his two-seater carriage. The brougham was certainly cozier than a drawing room, and still very private with his discreet driver perched on top.
He held her hand as she set her foot on the step and climbed in, then he entered and sat beside her. If he’d brought his larger clarence, she would have had the opportunity to sit opposite him, and he knew she would have done so.
Instead, he had the extreme pleasure of feeling her arm and thigh pressed against his. He was being a rogue for taking advantage, but he’d waited over two weeks to be close to her again. He was going to enjoy every moment.
“How are Mary’s skills coming along?” he asked, remembering her cook’s name and giving Ada the opportunity to thank him.
She pointedly stared out the window, her head turned from him.
“Improving,” she murmured.
“Mrs. Beechum said she is a willing pupil who only needs some training.”
Slowly, Mrs. St. Ange faced him.
“Is Mrs. Beechum in the habit of discussing what occurs in my household?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he shook his head.
“No, I assure you. That’s all she has said.”
“Indeed.” She straightened her shoulders, and he expected her to turn away again. Instead, she took a deep breath as if steeling herself against an unpleasant task.
“I-I…”
What was she trying to tell him?
“Yes?” he prompted.
She looked as if a foul odor were under her delicate nose.
“I thank you for sending her.”
Another sigh from her as if that had been a monumental task, and then she did turn away from him.
Blast! This wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped. How could he get her to relax and be friendly with him when she couldn’t stand to offer even a simple thank you?
The only time she’d seemed at least willing and not hostile was when he kissed her.
Tapping her shoulder, as she turned to him, he gently took her face in his hands, leaned forward, and kissed her.
She froze at his touch, but she didn’t pull away, so he persisted.
The usual delight at kissing her rushed through him. Though there was nothing usual about it. This cool, composed woman lit a unique passion in him each time he touched her.
Slanting his mouth against hers, he felt the heat of desire shoot through him, flooding his groin as she parted her lips, soft and yielding. He wanted to sink his fingers into her shiny blonde locks, but he never knew a woman who would appreciate getting her hair mussed on the way to the theatre.
Instead, he wrapped his arms around the back of her and drew her against him. Still, she didn’t protest. In fact, she gave the smallest of moans.
He wanted to give her pleasure, to delight her so much he cracked her icy shell. To that end, he reached for her skirts, still stroking her back with his other hand.
However, the moment he began to raise her gown, she protested.
“No,” she murmured against his mouth, t
hough she still seemed content to remain in his arms.
“Let me touch you,” he whispered.
“No.”
He could tell she wasn’t unaffected by his ministrations, for she was breathing heavily and leaning into him.
“You will enjoy it,” he promised.
“No.”
Drawing back slightly, he looked down at her.
“But you like my kisses?” he asked, even though he was positive she did.
If she said no, he would know her for a liar.
After a brief hesitation, during which her cheeks grew slightly pink, she agreed. “Yes.”
“I will never force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I simply thought we could pleasure one another.”
“No.” Her entire body stiffened, and the cool Mrs. St. Ange was back beside him.
“May I kiss you again?”
For an answer, she turned away.
The devil! Next time he kissed her, he would do naught else. No matter how much he wanted to do more, he would restrain himself. His instincts told him she was worth the wait.
Pulling his flask from his pocket, more than ever, he needed a drink.
Chapter Eleven
Ada hated the truth, but she enjoyed Lord Vile’s kisses. His were the only lips she’d ever known, and she couldn’t imagine anyone’s kiss being better.
However, she hoped a kiss given with love, not simply desire, would be superior.
Had Lord Vile ever kissed a woman with love in his heart?
She doubted it. Except maybe for Jenny Blackwood, and Ada didn’t know if they’d ever done so.
When Alder put his hand on her skirts, however, he went too far, doing the very thing she’d dreaded he would if she was alone in a carriage with him. Oddly, though, she’d felt no fear. She knew he wouldn’t assault her or do more than she allowed.
How or why she knew this, she hadn’t a clue.
He had done vile things, but from what she could tell, he had some moral guide. Besides, a man as attractive as Michael Alder had no need to force a woman. She was certain every debutante he’d debauched had allowed him without protest, exactly as she had done.
What was one’s virtue when faced with his gorgeous eyes, sensual mouth, and wicked hands? Luckily, she was now immune to his charms.
Going to the opera, though, was an utter delight. She’d never been to a theatre while not in the company of her parents. She liked stepping out of the carriage holding his proffered hand, then walking into the lobby on his arm. Alder attended to her every need, handing her coat to the clerk and procuring their drinks. She had a glass of champagne, he had two.
With all her senses on high alert, she didn’t miss the fact hardly anyone spoke to them. In fact, it was clear when women saw him, they began speaking about him behind their fans or gloved hands. And the gentlemen scowled. His behavior had well and truly alienated him from his peers. Most of the ton probably feared for their wives, sisters, or even daughters. It was a wonder he hadn’t been killed in a duel.
As to her, she was merely a baron’s daughter who’d had a couple Seasons three years ago, the second one ending in her flight from London. There was little reason anyone should notice her, except she was obviously Lord Vile’s companion. At least for the evening.
They climbed the stairs to the next level and he led her to the Alder family box. After they entered, he drew the curtain closed behind them, and she went directly to the railing. All around the theatre were boxes of earls and dukes and marquesses. The royal box was empty, though all the regular seats, including where she would have sat with her parents, were filled.
The noise from the audience was an excited rumble, perfectly mimicking how she felt—dressed in one of her best gowns and seated in a private box. It was, she realized, one of the most thrilling nights of her life.
And it was with Lord Vile!
She watched him remove his opera hat, put his thumbs to the top and his fingers to the brim and press it flat before sliding it under his seat. Then they sat in silence as the lights were dimmed and the curtains drew back.
The opera made her exclaim in wonder at the music and song and nearly cry, and all the while, she and Alder sat close together, unspeaking, their shoulders occasionally brushing.
Ada fanned herself against the warmth of the building, especially up where they were seated. Thank goodness she’d worn a gown with short bell sleeves and her silk gloves rather than satin, which could become so hot as to make one’s palms moist.
As they clapped at the end of the first act, she wondered what Alder had planned for intermission. Would they stay sequestered in his box or would they return to the lobby and mingle?
“You look lovely,” he murmured close to her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “I want to show you off.”
Retrieving his top hat and giving it a sharp snap against his leg, returning it to its tall form, he stood and offered her his hand. Soon, they were descending to the lobby, where they parted with the promise to meet near the bar. In the lady’s retiring room, Ada heard “Pepperton” whispered close by and knew the theatre goers were wondering what happened between Lord V. and Lady P. to end their affair. Smugly, she also knew she would never hear her own name on anyone’s lips. Who knew of Mrs. St. Ange?
When she turned too quickly, she caught two ladies staring at her. Letting them wonder who she was, with a polite nod, Ada left the room.
Finding him standing at a high table near the bar where a glass of wine awaited her, she also noted an empty one, which must have been his. Presently, he held a glass of brandy, swirling its pale amber liquid. His smile appeared when he saw her.
Ada wrinkled her nose in displeasure, realizing he had wanted a drink as much as he’d wanted to display her, for he’d certainly downed the wine quickly.
“Something not to your liking, Mrs. St. Ange?”
About to ask him how he could drink strong liquor at all hours, suddenly, she heard her name called from a few feet away.
“Ada!”
Her heart started thumping. Good God! It was Maggie, Countess of Cambrey, but more importantly, formerly Miss Blackwood, one of Jenny’s sisters.
Stupidly, she hadn’t thought to ask her friend, but of all the venues, what terrible fortune that Maggie and her earl were at this one!
What could she do? It was too late to hide.
With a drink in one hand, she couldn’t hug her best friend, but leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks. Maggie’s husband, John Angsley, the Earl of Cambrey, took her free hand and bowed over it.
And then they realized whom she was with.
“Oh!” Maggie said and nothing more, her sparkling eyes wide with surprise.
John was less subtle. “What the devil?”
Moreover, he didn’t bow to her companion, nor even offer a nod of acknowledgement. Instead, his expression was livid.
“Ada, what on earth are you doing with this scoundrel?”
She glanced nervously at Alder, but he took no offense. He simply raised an eyebrow and looked to Ada for her response.
How could she answer while telling them nothing? “Lord Alder has brought me to the opera.”
That was the simple truth and gave none of her plan away.
Clearly, John wasn’t satisfied. “You know this man’s reputation, do you not? You know how he treated Jenny.”
She noticed Alder flinch out of the corner of her eye. Apparently, he was not utterly unaffected by his own poor standing among his peers.
“And his treatment of other women after her.” John was bristling now.
At this rate of escalation, Ada knew she must diffuse the situation or risk fisticuffs.
“Be that as it may,” she said to the earl, “we are simply enjoying an opera.”
John scowled, but Maggie looked thoughtful. Her friend was quick-witted, and Ada had no doubt she would know there was more to this than met the eye.
Vowing to tell her some part of her plan, but i
n private, Ada thought how to separate them all before anything too telling was said. What if John or Maggie brought up Clive Brunnel?
However, the Earl of Cambrey wasn’t done being protective.
“I think you are making an error in judgment. Do your parents know with whom you keep company?”
Any moment, John would say her family’s surname, and she didn’t want Alder to know anything about her real life or her past.
At last, Alder set down his empty glass as he spoke.
“Since Mrs. St. Ange is a widow, I doubt she has to answer to her parents regarding her companion, either for this evening or for anything else.”
Oh dear, that sounded intimate, almost as if they were paramours.
“And she certainly doesn’t have to answer to you,” he finished.
John’s jaw clenched. He was forbidden from saying anything about the pretense of her marital state to protect Harry being labeled a bastard. Nevertheless, he was clearly bursting to give Alder a dressing down.
Maggie rested a hand on her husband’s arm, and glances went between the two of them and then back to Ada.
Meanwhile, Alder took her free hand and placed it on his arm. “Intermission is over. Are you finished with your wine?”
“Yes,” she said, and set her glass upon the table.
Looking at the Cambreys, he nodded to Maggie. “Countess, I hope your sister is well.”
John made an exasperated sound, but Alder ignored him and led Ada away, even as she offered a reassuring smile to her friends.
“That was interesting,” Alder said when they were far enough not to be overheard. “They are special friends of yours, I take it.”
There was no use denying it.
“Lady Cambrey is.”
“Which means you are well aware of a history between her older sister and myself, whom the earl so indiscreetly mentioned.”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Does that have anything to do with your predisposition against me?”
They’d reached their seats.
“What do you mean?” she asked, arranging her skirts and not looking at him.
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