Lady in Blue

by Lynn Kerstan

  When they were off, she straightened and felt his hands touch her shoulders.

  “Let me.” Skillfully, he loosened the buttons from their tight loops. “I have seen you,” he reminded her, one hand resting on her bare shoulder as the other worked its way down her back. “I still see you like that, a hundred times a day, in my mind’s eye.”

  So tense a bullet would bounce off her, she waited for him to finish. And make his next move.

  But when he was done, he stepped away. Afraid to turn around, she heard several muffled sounds, the rustle of sheets, and finally the protest of creaky wood.

  A real gentleman, she thought peevishly, would have passed her the nightgown. She glanced over her shoulder. Bryn had stacked the pillows against the headboard and sat against them with the covers pulled to his waist. His chest was bare. She couldn’t tell if he’d removed his breeches. One of his knees was raised under the blanket, and across it lay her nightgown.

  White teeth gleamed behind a wide male smile of appreciation at her dilemma.

  And then, to her astonishment, he tossed her the nightgown and closed his eyes. “One minute,” he said, starting the count immediately. “A thousand-and-one, a thousand-and-two—”

  Swiftly, Clare flung off her dress, left on her chemise, and struggled into the mass of heavy flannel. Before he got to a thousand-and-fifty, she was considering how to place herself on the bed. There wasn’t much room left, with a tall broad-shouldered man encamped dead center.

  “Sixty!” He opened his eyes and spread his arms to invite her in.

  The only place to go was on top of him. Her gaze lowered to where the sheet and blanket were folded back, revealing the edge of his navel and hard stomach. She gulped. A narrow line of dark hair stretched up, broadening over his chest and curling around two flat brown nipples. His arms and shoulders, smoothly muscled, glimmered in the lamplight.

  Clare had never seen a naked adult male before. Nor imagined anything quite so … interesting. She allowed herself one last look at sleek biceps before instructing him to move over. Her voice came out in a squeak.

  He obliged, although he couldn’t go far on the cramped bed. “I’m not inviting you to the gallows, princess. In that tent, you might as well be wearing armor. I won’t be able to feel a thing.”

  She eased gingerly onto the hard mattress, digging her feet under the covers. He slid down beside her.

  “Lift your head,” he said softly. “You’ll need a pillow.”

  She heard him punch the pillow to fluff it and felt it slip under her neck. With careful positioning, she could just manage to stretch out on her side without touching him.

  For a moment he held still, and then he leaned away to extinguish the lamp. The room went black.

  Clare huddled like a mummy, so cold and stiff she might well have been dead for centuries. Finally he rolled over, turning his back to hers, leaving a space between them.

  At first she was relieved. But gradually the gap between them seemed to widen until it felt like a canyon. Except for the heat of his body tingling against her skin, he could have been in another country. She took a deep breath, catching a faint scent of brandy, sandalwood soap, and male sweat.

  Above it all, the subtle odor of loneliness.

  So many times he’d reached out to her, and every time she’d backed away. Even cringed, as if she found his touch repulsive.

  In the harsh silence, so close to him and so distant, she admitted a truth she could scarcely bear to confront. She wanted his arms around her, his hands on her body, the awful pleasures of sin.

  Staring into the black emptiness, Clare felt something like the touch of Lucifer’s wings. This, then, was temptation. She had always imagined evil an ugly thing, chosen only by weak and foolish souls blind to the consequences. Until now, she never understood the seduction of wickedness.

  But understanding was not yielding. She might be forgiven for whoring herself, because God was merciful and her reasons unselfish—so long as she did not enjoy her sin. Above all, she must not do that. She would not.

  But he had not invited her to immorality. I only want to hold you, he had said.

  There could be no vice in it, she decided. He’d confronted a monster, rescued a helpless girl, and for a reward asked only to hold her. A woman he’d paid for.

  Turning over, she put a hand on his rigid arm. “Bryn? May I have this again, around me?”

  She heard him release a long breath. Then he settled on his back and gathered her in his arms. “Thank you,” he said.

  In all her dark fantasies about their first night in bed together, she had not considered actually sleeping next to him. For some reason, she assumed he would do whatever he intended to do and go away. Now, more comfortable and relaxed than she’d thought possible, Clare imagined she might even be able to fall asleep like this, her head on his shoulder and her hand at his waist.

  His fingertips brushed her cheek. “Princess, I’m afraid you are about to discover a few more things about me you won’t like.”

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

  He gave her a tiny squeeze. “I sleep like a tree stump, and I’m surly in the mornings. But tomorrow I want you to wake me up when Isabella gets here, even if you have to hit me over the head with a skillet. And … sometimes I snore.”

  “In that case,” she said, “the skillet will be essential.”

  The bed creaked as he chuckled. “I’ll wager you are a morning type.”

  “Up with the roosters. And invariably cheerful.”

  “We’ll see about that.” His thumb made little circles on her back. “In future you’ll get up when I do, and I won’t mind if you’re cheerful. In fact, I intend to give you good reason to be.” His hand moved to just below her breast. “Lord, this is one day I never expected to end up feeling so good. Dare I press my luck?”

  She tensed.

  “I only meant,” he said in a hurt voice, “to suggest a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon. A little fresh air.”

  She touched his chin in a gesture of apology. “That would be wonderful, Bryn. I love to be outside.”

  He took her hand and pressed it to his neck. “Um, that feels good. What were we talking about?”

  “The park. You must tell me what time to be ready and what to wear.”

  “Half past four. Do you not have a maid to advise you?”

  “Not … precisely. I am fond of Amy and would not replace her for the world, but we share a mutual ignorance about society wardrobes.”

  “Any other time and place, we might have a small discussion about that, Miss Easton. But I’m much too excited. About taking you up in Black Lightning, I mean.”

  “Whatever is Black Lightning?”

  “My curricle,” he said, with evident pride. “Designed it myself. And you will be the first woman to have the privilege of riding in it.”

  A ride in Black Lightning sounded like a privilege she’d sooner forgo. But he was in a good temper again, which made her feel oddly happy.

  “Be sure I’m up when Isabella gets here,” he reminded her through a yawn. “Don’t forget.”

  Seconds later, she was vividly aware that he snored.

  11

  Clare disobeyed Bryn’s order to wake him up.

  He could not have been thinking straight to imagine Elizabeth would want to be seen as she was, swollen and bruised, by her future husband. Better she never learn he had come to the house at all.

  It was clear as the bright morning he intended to marry Elizabeth Landry. Her father certainly thought so, as did Robert Lacey. Last night he had pointed out more than once that their marriage was the obvious solution, Bryn requiring an heir and Beth needing to be removed from her father’s control. Robert wasn’t thinking either, to keep repeating that in front of the earl’s mistress. Some women might have been offended.

  She was only relieved. Bryn’s marriage to Elizabeth, or anyone else, marked the end of her employment. Perhaps he’d shed her long before that,
but the day his betrothal was announced would absolutely be her last. She had to draw the line somewhere.

  Of course, she’d drawn a great many lines, only to cross them one by one. But adultery was a barrier no temptation could lure her to pass.

  Truly, Elizabeth would make the earl an excellent wife. She was sweet-natured, remarkably gallant, and with her quiet dignity had managed to calm Robert Lacey when he badgered her to admit she had been beaten. With all the best intentions, men could be incredibly obtuse.

  Elizabeth felt a great deal better, or so she maintained as Clare and Amy helped her dress. She insisted on walking, unaided, to the carriage, and made sure to thank Amy for her kindnesses. Then she took Clare’s hand.

  “I am most grateful,” she said, with a valiant attempt at a smile. “We shall meet again soon.”

  Knowing they would not, Clare nodded and turned to Isabella, who’d been a flurry of lavender all morning.

  “I’m so glad to have something useful to do for a change,” she confided, drawing Clare aside. “Would you believe I’m looking forward to a few months of near respectability while Elizabeth is launched into society? You must help me think of a color to complement Isabella the Chaperone.”

  “Perhaps all colors,” Clare suggested. “It is the last thing anyone will expect.”

  “Why, that’s exactly right. How clever you are. Now I’ve a confession to make, and it must be our secret. I told Robert to delay the work at Clouds. Only for a few days, mind you, for it’s practically finished now. But wholly on my own accord I have determined that Sunday is too soon for you and Bryn to carry on after this repellent business with Landry.”

  “He will be furious,” Clare said at once.

  “Won’t he, though? But Bryndle always gets his own way, to the point of complacency. A bit of sour medicine will be good for him.” Her brow wrinkled. “Will you mind, Clare? I own I never thought of that. If you’d rather, Robert can be instructed to proceed at full speed.”

  Clare lowered her eyes. “I’m not altogether sure. Mostly I want to push it off until the last possible moment, but other times I find this limbo nearly unbearable. Perhaps it would be best to get on with it, if only because I dare not remain here. What if the duchess should come home unexpectedly?”

  “We’d all be in the soup,” Isabella said cheerfully. “For my part, I’d prefer you to stay. It will not be so easy to visit you at Clouds.”

  “No,” Clare said with a downturned mouth. “You certainly cannot set foot there.”

  “Don’t count on it. With Elizabeth in tow I must be more circumspect than usual, but there is always a way to spend time with one’s friends. And when next we meet, I shall be a walking rainbow.”

  “I didn’t mean all colors at once,” Clare protested as Isabella swooped away with a cheerful wave.

  Sighing, Clare went to the kitchen to help fix a tray for the earl’s breakfast. She’d not be seeing the newly respectable Isabella again, for all the lady said otherwise. The thought was lowering, and she banished it with one even worse—facing Bryn after disobeying him.

  A few minutes later, she entered the bedroom carrying a tray with coffee, sliced strawberries in cream, and hot scones with butter and honey. A great deal of honey, to sweeten him up.

  As he’d warned her, the man was virtually impossible to rouse. When poking and shaking him failed, she tried dripping cold water on his face, aiming for the tip of his nose. At last, he responded with a growl.

  “Hibernation is over, Bryn. Rise and shine.”

  “Go to hell,” he muttered, rolling over and burying his head under a pillow.

  So I will, she thought with a stab of pain. “You told me to get you up when Isabella arrived.”

  There was no response. She jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp finger and heard a muffled protest. Then his head shot up. “Did you say Izzy?”

  “Yes. And it’s past one o’clock.”

  With an oath concerning Bloody Dogs of Doom, he came to his hands and knees in the middle of the bed with the covers draped over him. Head lowered, shaggy hair concealing his forehead, he shook himself awake.

  Like a Dog of Doom himself, she thought, wanting to laugh. Grumpy was putting it mildly, but she rather liked him this way.

  She changed her mind about that almost immediately. When she’d explained for the third time that Isabella had come and gone, taking Elizabeth with her, and when that information finally penetrated his fogged brain, he came alert with a vengeance.

  “What?” he thundered, barely remembering to pull the sheet around him as he surged from the bed.

  Again she was hard put not to laugh. Like a togaed Roman senator, one fist lifted to the ceiling, Bryn raged at her. He was not terribly coherent, but the words obey and I told you appeared frequently. Those were exactly the kind of words apt to send her into a rage of her own, had he not looked quite so absurd.

  He’d glared at her for several moments before she realized he was finished.

  In silence, she took his elbow and turned him until he faced the mirror which hung on the back of the door. “I did not think you would wish Miss Landry to see you this morning. When you’ve had time to reflect, you will agree she would not want you to see her either. I’ll leave you to your breakfast, my lord, and arrange a hackney to collect you in half an hour.” With a curtsy, she swooped out.

  Damn that woman, he thought, mauling his whiskers. He was getting a little tired of having her show himself to himself, in a mirror. He never liked what he saw.

  SOOTHED BY A hot bath and the attentions of his valet, Bryn returned that afternoon to collect Clare for the promised drive in the park. This time he came in a hack and hustled her inside it for another rendezvous on a side street with a vehicle everyone would recognize as his.

  Black Lightning. The sleekest, lightest, fastest curricle in England.

  Clare eyed it dubiously. “It seems awfully … frail,” she murmured as he lifted her up. When the vehicle swayed she fell back onto the narrow bench with a squeal.

  “The hell it is,” he said, offended. “Solid as a rock, light as a feather, swifter than the wind. Took me six months to perfect the design, and never mind how much it cost. One of a kind, Black Lightning.” He swung up next to her, instructing his groom to make use of the hack to get home. Built for racing, the curricle had no place for a tiger.

  “I’m sure it’s very nice,” Clare stammered as Bryn feathered the corner and swerved around an oncoming wagon heaped with cabbages.

  “Nice? I’ve been offered ten thousand guineas for it, not including the grays.”

  She clutched his arm as the curricle sped down the street, dodging coaches, riders, and pedestrians with an ease that both terrified and amazed her. “I ought to have more respect,” she allowed. “It seems this wagon and I come at the same price.”

  Bryn whistled between his teeth. “Unfair, princess.”

  She winced. “Forgive me. That was a terrible thing to say.”

  “Apology accepted. But have at me when you will, because I don’t mind and you will endure worse from me. You already have. Only, never think I set a price on you. As I recall, you did that. To me you are priceless.” Without slowing, he maneuvered past two phaetons and a milk wagon. “If you need proof that I value you beyond anything, tomorrow Black Lightning will be broken up for firewood.”

  “Good heavens, Bryn.” She gave him an exasperated look. “What a cork-brained, theatrical gesture. Sometimes you haven’t the sense God gave a goose.”

  “So Isabella and Lacey keep telling me.” He laughed. “With the three of you to put me in my place, I may yet mend my ways.”

  “I shan’t hold my breath,” Clare said. “But when we are not inches from colliding with a milk wagon, I promise to be impressed with your dashing curricle. In the park there will be more room to run.”

  “Not necessarily.” He pointed straight ahead. “There is Stanhope Gate.”

  Clare looked up in amazement at a virtual para
de. One by one, a host of vehicles edged like horse-drawn snails into the press of traffic. She saw riders in top hats and curly-brimmed beavers, aristocratic ladies sidesaddle on delicate steeds, and clusters of women with children in tow or pushing prams. There were gentlemen on foot, gentlemen with ladies on their arms, gentlemen ogling ladies through quizzing glasses. Compared to this, the packed Opera House had been deserted.

  Her fingers dug into Bryn’s forearm as he managed to pass an enormous barouche and turn onto Rotten Row. “A drive in the park? Fresh air? What a clanker. You might have warned me what to expect.”

  “Perhaps drive was an overstatement, but now and again there is a wisp of fresh air. I failed to explain what goes on at Hyde Park every afternoon because I knew you’d worry about it.”

  “Any sane person ought to worry about coming here. And it’s not as though I could refuse.”

  He considered for a moment. “Actually, I suppose you could, although no one has ever done so before.”

  She drew herself up. “What would happen if I refused to accompany you someplace I didn’t want to go? What would you do about it?”

  “Planning an insurrection?” he said mildly. “I’ve no idea how to deal with a refusal from you, on any count, and I rather hope not to find out. We must not be adversaries, Clare.”

  “We shall be adversaries any time you lie to me.”

  He nodded. “I did mislead you, by omission, and quite deliberately. But if you prefer, in future I shall provide you with the most disagreeable details of any excursion I plan.”

  “You have not dealt with the refusing part.”

  “Clare, I want to go places with you and share things with you. When you are more comfortable with your situation, you will want that as well. For now, you find it awkward to be with me in public, but I’ll shield you every way possible.”

  “You mean I’ll get used to it.”

  “Something of the sort. It’s like swimming in cold water. Some ease in a bit at a time while others jump in immediately. I think you are a jumper.”