by Lynn Kerstan
“Then we are agreed, my lord,” she said, as if negotiating the price of a cut of meat, “I shall spend your money recklessly, be schooled by Mrs. Beales, and move into this house when you are ready to bring me here.” She glanced wistfully at the window seat. “Could I select a book and take it with me? I’ll bring it back.”
Those damn books. He’d offered her freedom to buy anything she wanted, and all she asked was the loan, for a few days, of a book. “Take them all,” he said. “Choose what you can carry now, and I’ll have the rest sent over.”
“This will do.” She picked up the heavy volume of Shakespeare’s plays and clutched it to her chest. “With all that shopping, I won’t have much time to read.”
“I’m beginning to think you agreed to be my mistress only to get your hands on my books.”
Clare smiled at him, the first bright, open smile he’d yet seen. It took his breath away.
“Yes. But mostly because you were kind enough to bring them to me.” She reached up and swept the veil across her face. “Until Friday.” In a gesture he knew was without conscious thought, she tilted her head to the ceiling as if imagining herself upstairs, in bed with him. She stumbled slightly when she turned toward the door.
It was the first ungraceful move he’d ever seen her make. “Clare?”
Pausing, she turned her head.
“I will not make love to you Sunday,” he said gently.
She went completely still.
“We’ll take it slowly, my dear. A bit at a time, until you feel comfortable with me. Contrary to what you saw upstairs and the way I behaved yesterday, I shall not jump on you the minute we are alone. We’ll do nothing until you are ready, however long that takes.” He smiled. “Well, however long, within reason. Now wait here a moment while I see the carriage brought around.”
She nodded, still clutching the book to her chest like a shield.
6
It was time, Bryn decided ruthlessly, to call in a few debts, and no one owed him more than Robert Lacey. That evening, as they relaxed over cigars and brandy at White’s, he informed the viscount of his intentions.
“Clouds is a mess. I want the place decorated, top to bottom, and you, Lace, are the man to do it.”
“Got a new one, eh?” Lacey rounded his lips and puffed a smokeball.
“Flo’s parting shot, and a direct hit.” There was no point fabricating with Lacey, who had known him since they were children. “The young lady and I came to terms this morning, but I can’t move her in until you’ve worked some magic. Go over there tomorrow morning, make some plans, and get things started.”
“Morning? This must be serious.”
“So it is. Money is no object, and chances are you can pick up commissions for yourself from the suppliers.”
“You’d do better to hire a professional, old lad. I know pretty much what a place ought to look like, but as for the rest—”
“Consider it a challenge. You have a good eye and ought to put it to better use than squinting at a deck of cards.”
“Across the table from you,” Lacey pointed out. “Which is why I shall attempt to refeather your love nest. Damn, but I wish you’d let me pay you off in cash. This business of crooking your finger every time you need something done you can’t be bothered to do yourself is a bloody nuisance. At dawn, no less.”
Since Lacey’s notion of dawn was eleven o’clock, and because his small inheritance couldn’t make a dent in what he owed, Bryn was unimpressed. “I’ll settle for cash any time,” he said amicably. “Meantime, one of the rooms downstairs should be a library. Shelves floor to ceiling.”
Lacey coughed on cigar smoke. “A library! At Clouds? You are getting old.”
“I want everything simple. Nothing flamboyant. Fashionable but comfortable. Clean lines, but soft.”
“Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar,” drawled the viscount. “Rich, not gaudy.”
Laughing, Bryn refilled both glasses from the crystal decanter. Lacey was the only friend he could drag along to Hamlet who would actually watch the play. “Make it special, Polonius. To suit Clare.”
“Ah.” Lacey wafted a long-fingered hand. “That he is mad, ’tis true. Does a slight difficulty present itself to your befuddled brain? As in: I’ve never seen her?”
Bryn took a long drink. Clare was so vivid in his own mind it was unimaginable that Lacey could not picture her. Contrarily, he was loath to share that vision. “She looks good in blue,” he said finally.
Lacey chuckled.
“Yes, I know. Half the world is brown to me. But I asked her to describe herself, and what I see appears to be accurate. Her hair is … not exactly a color. Light, something like parchment held up to the sun. And her eyes are smoky gray.” He gestured to the smoke ring floating up from the viscount’s pursed lips.
Puffing a breath, Lacey scattered the smoke. “What will you do with her while Clouds is uninhabitable? Not good for her to stay at Flo’s that long.”
Stretching his legs, Bryn contemplated a polished boot. “I want her under my protection immediately, but devil if I can figure out the logistics. She can’t move in with anyone respectable, and I won’t let her move in with anyone who isn’t. Probably she should go to a hotel, but I hate to coop her up in one room.”
Lacey drained his brandy and settled back with his arms crossed behind his blond head. “As it happens, and assuming enormous shall we say condescension on your part regarding my debts, I have an idea that will solve both our problems.”
“Is that so?” Bryn didn’t care two beans for the money Lacey owed him, but his friend’s pride demanded some kind of equable payment. “And just what is your problem?”
“Insatiable curiosity. Damned if I’ll lift a finger until I’ve seen this mysterious Clare.”
“You can’t afford her,” the earl said icily. “And I’ll kill you if you make a move in her direction.”
A wickedly arched brow lifted in denial. “Perish the thought. And hark to a brilliant notion, however devoid of propriety. As it happens, the redoubtable Ernestine Fitzwalter is currently nosing out Egyptian artifacts in, of all places, Egypt. Wouldn’t you have thought all of them to be in London by now? Nevertheless, her house is vacant for at least a month, with a small staff to keep it up. She left me a key, and what dear old Auntie doesn’t know—”
Barking a laugh, the earl shook his head. “She’d string you up by your balls, Lace, if she ever found out. And then she’d come for me.”
“Is this the man who led a cavalry charge that cut Boney’s finest to mincemeat? And now you fear retribution from a seventy-year-old battleax, just for commandeering her house? Nosey would be ashamed of you.”
Bryn stiffened. “Installing my mistress in Grosvenor Square, at a duchess’s mansion and without her consent, is bad ton.”
“And you are a hypocritical, aristocratic boor. That comes of inheriting the title when you were barely out of short pants. Dammit, who’s to know? Well, the servants will tattle, I suppose, but not if I dispatch them on holiday while you send a few of your own people over. We can work it out. And I will personally face Ernie when she returns, tell her part of the truth, and shoulder the blame.” Lacey clapped his hands in satisfaction. “It’s a perfect plan. Hell, when this business is done with, you’ll be in debt to me!”
“I expect so, but that unthinkable state of affairs won’t last through our next face-off at piquet.” In fact, Bryn could well picture Clare in Ernie’s mansion. It would suit her, unlike the vulgar bedroom at Clouds. And he wanted to give her a taste of something elegant, to prove he could offer it with a flick of his wrist. “Lace, if you bring this off we’ll call things even. I’ll meet you at Clouds tomorrow morning at nine so you can look things over. Then we’ll collect Miss Easton and take her to Ernie’s house. You’ll get your chance to see her, but I want your word you won’t set foot there once she’s settled in.”
“You needn’t spray every rock and tree in London like a tomcat,
Bryndle. No man who values his life would trespass on your territory. And since when can’t you trust me?”
“Since Clare.” He looked over in surprise when Lacey didn’t respond. The viscount’s gaze was fixed on a burly, puffy-eyed man with a large red-veined nose, ringing a peal over one of the waiters. Bryn recognized Giles Landry.
“Devil take it,” Lacey swore. “Why hasn’t he been blackballed?”
“Old family. And why bother? Almost no one plays with him at White’s. He games in the hells.”
Lacey’s face was grim. “He’s worse than a gambler who doesn’t pay off. He’s a brute.”
“Yes? I hadn’t heard that. More bark than bite, I’d have thought.”
“He’s brave enough when his opponent can’t fight back. Took a horse whip to his tiger last week, Isabella told me, and beat the boy senseless. I’ve half a mind to go pick a fight with him.”
“You’ve half a mind, anyway. And you can’t call him out until you’ve decorated Clouds. Nine o’clock, Lace.” The earl stood, stretched, and stabbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “By the way, did you drop by the Hothouse last night?”
Lacey grinned.
“Well?” Bryn glared at him. “What’s the story? Is Florette really leaving?”
“Within the week. Rose bought her out.” The grin widened. “Saw the contract myself. I do hope your new mistress pleases you, because she’s the last one Flo will ever provide.”
And the last I’ll require, Bryn thought as he left the club. Things were rapidly falling into line. The bank draft was locked in his safe, Lacey would see to the restoration of the house, and Clare had a place to stay until it was ready. His secretary had begun inquiries for a suitable girl to maid her, and Bow Street Runners would be tracing her background. He wanted to know where she might go when the terms of their bargain were fulfilled. She’d not escape him easily. He would leave her no place to hide.
Behind that cool poise and those impenetrable eyes, a passionate, fascinating woman waited to be claimed. He was sure of it. He’d had glimpses, but he wanted it all. There was nothing he could not arrange, nothing he would not give her, at least within the boundaries of mistress and—
He frowned.
The porter muttered an apology as he handed over his lordship’s hat and cane, clearly wondering what he’d done to offend.
Bryn scarcely noticed. As he swung into his carriage, he tried to think of the right word for his position with Clare. Protector, yes. He would guard her with his life. Lover? Oh, yes. Friend? That too. Scarcely knowing her, confused as to his own uncharacteristic possessiveness, he realized there was no word to describe what he wanted to have with Clare. And so far as he knew, she didn’t even like him. There was no sign, not the slightest, that she was attracted to him.
All he had was her promise to try.
His staff was astonished when the earl arrived home before midnight. He ensconced himself in his study, making lists and detailing orders. A big business deal brewing, they muttered among themselves over a late cup of chocolate in the kitchen.
Long after he’d sent them off to bed, Bryn leaned back in his chair, facing the dark garden, remembering. Strange how every detail was etched in his mind. Everything she’d said. Most of all, how she had looked, draped in her long hair, naked and remote, yielding and proud, with nothing to give or withhold except herself. He was still there when the first light of dawn filtered through the trees, lost in a fantasy of their first night together.
7
Three days after coming to terms with the earl, Clare sat in the music room of Ernestine Fitzwalter’s mansion, absently picking out the melody of an old hymn on the ebony pianoforte.
Whatever was she doing in this bizarre house? The walls, hung with wooden African masks, war hatchets, and objects she could not identify, seemed to be closing in on her. And all the tables and chairs had paws, like animals. Bellpulls dangled everywhere. She had only to give a tug and a servant appeared, so proper and aloof that she took care never to touch the cords.
This was her first day alone, at loose ends. Until now Mrs. Beales had kept her occupied, towing her through an endless number of shops where she was tugged at and measured, draped and pinned, until her head spun and her feet ached. A small portion of her new wardrobe was stored upstairs, while seamstresses completed the rest, but already she had more clothes and fripperies than any one person ought to need.
The earl appeared to have lost interest in her. Since bringing her here, in the company of a charming man named Robert Lacey, Lord Heydon, he had virtually disappeared. She had a note from the earl this morning, saying he would call on her at his earliest convenience, and since reading it she’d been unaccountably nervous. For a short time, she’d almost managed to convince herself that he didn’t exist.
Lost in thought, she was startled when the door swung open and a vision in lavender swept across the polished floor. Clare came to her feet, heart thumping in her chest.
The woman was beautiful, with blue eyes, pale blond hair, and a bright smile curving a wide mouth. Except for the gold settings on her necklace and earbobs, she was done up completely in shades of violet.
“You must be one of Aunt Ernie’s friends,” said the vision in a light, cheery voice. “How nice to meet you. I am Isabella Marbury, her most disreputable relation. But I expect she told you about me. She makes it a point to warn everyone in advance. And you are—?” She extended a gloved hand expectantly.
Clare stepped back, flushing hotly. She didn’t think women in her new profession ought to shake hands with ladies. “C-Clare Easton,” she stammered.
Isabella colored too and dropped her hand. “Oh,” she said, her eyes a little hurt.
Clare hurried to explain. “Truly, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s only that I have never met the duchess and ought not to be here at all.”
“But how delicious! An authentic mystery, and I so longing for one. Will you have lunch with me?”
The startling invitation rendered Clare mute again. She had no idea in the world how to deal with this awkward situation.
It quickly became apparent the matter was out of her hands. Isabella Marbury was the violet personification of an irresistible force. “Come,” she said, already on her way to the door. “We’ll have Mrs. Halley fix us a bite and a dish of tea.”
“Mrs. Halley?” Clare trailed in her wake. “But the cook is a man. Mr. Lyle.”
“Hendly Lyle?” The vision paused. “How odd. I thought he worked for … well, never mind.” She took off again, heels clicking on the marble floor. “At least we’ll have a fine meal.”
Isabella maintained a steady flow of chatter while the servants dished up lobster salad, veal medallions in cream sauce, gingered carrots, and asparagus soufflé. Clare pecked at her food, little being required of her but an occasional nod. The woman was Isabella Marbury, Countess of Hogge, she learned. And because she despised being addressed by her proper title, Lady Hogge, she insisted that everyone call her Lady Isabella. Even the High Sticklers had finally agreed to do so. She was Robert Lacey’s sister and a widow. Her bridegroom’s regiment had been dispatched to the Peninsula three days after the wedding, where he was almost immediately killed in battle.
“How sad,” Clare murmured.
“Dear me, no. Not that I wished him dead, but I scarcely knew the man. Henry Marbury has been gone these eight years, and all I remember of him was how splendid he looked in his regimentals. I was very young and immature, you understand.”
“But you are still in mourning.”
Isabella look puzzled. “Why would you think … ah! My clothing. This is merely my lavender phase, Miss Easton, which I sense drawing to an end. Perhaps you’ll help me select a color for my next wardrobe. I’ve wanted to try shades of orange, but with blond hair I might look too much like a summer sunrise. What do you think?”
“Blue would suit you perfectly.” Those were the last words Clare spoke during the meal. After a dessert of raspberry puddin
g, Lady Isabella led her to a small sitting room, where she examined the furniture meticulously before choosing a silver brocade chair.
“So many colors clash with lavender,” she explained, settling herself gracefully. “Sometimes I am compelled to stand for an entire evening. Why don’t you sit right across from me, so I can look you in the eye while I quiz you. You do have the most spectacular eyes.”
Unable to muster a response, Clare sat obediently and folded her hands in her lap.
“Have you had sufficient time to recover yourself, Miss Easton? When I first came into the room I thought you would swoon dead away. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone swoon who wasn’t pretending—not that I wanted you to demonstrate, of course. But you were so pale I thought perhaps you ought to eat something.” She cocked her head appraisingly. “You do look better. Or at least more composed. I would not turn you over to the authorities, you know, even if you were a housebreaker. And that is impossible, because Hendly Lyle would never prepare luncheon for a criminal.”
He would if you told him to, Clare thought, wanting to smile. “I was admitted with a key,” she said, answering the real question before launching a small surprise of her own. “By a relation of yours, I believe, since he also referred to the duchess as—”
Lady Isabella raised both hands, which sparkled with amethyst rings. “No, no. Let me guess.” Then she frowned. “It’s too easy. No one but Robert would even think of using Ernie’s house while she’s gone, let alone have the nerve.” She looked directly at Clare, her gaze frank and not unfriendly. “Have I stumbled upon a difficult situation, Miss Easton? Is my brother keeping you here under his protection? It’s a clever idea, I must say, though Ernie will have a fit. Good heavens, what a lark. I’m glad to see old Lace is still up to snuff. Never think I’ll give you away, because Robert and I have been covering for each other all our lives. And I should be able to let you know when Ernie is on her way back to England, for we are in frequent correspondence. Indeed, I only came by to sort through her post and forward anything important.”