by J. D. Robb
Grace chose the garnets and began fastening the necklace. “Yes, I am having fun.” She picked up the earrings and fastened them, then sat on the padded bench of her dressing table, facing her aunt, her back to the mirror.
“Yes, I am having fun,” she repeated as she reached behind her and picked up the bracelet that made a matched set with the earrings and necklace. “Major Lindsay is a perfect gentleman. Attentive. Courteous.” She made the two words sound inconsequential. She waved her hand. “You know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, Grace, but not why it annoys you.”
“He is a very entertaining companion. We laugh at the same things and we both are happiest when we find someone willing to talk about something other than Fetters’ latest bet.
“But you see, even with that, there is a reserve about him. He never talks about his life, never at all.”
“And exactly what should he tell you? He is your employee, Grace. What do you know of Petkin’s private life?”
She shrugged. “I spend more time with him than I do with the butler.” After a careful inspection of the catch on her bracelet, she added, “He is doing exactly what I hired him for, but the truth is I wish there were something more, something closer to friendship.”
“And are you friends with all your employees?”
“My maid and I are friends.” Even she could hear how defensive that sounded. “But I take your point.”
“Kitty is a rare exception. You grew up together. She will always be as much friend as servant. Grace, you know as well as I do that it is not wise to be friends with an employee.”
“You are the one who encouraged me to become more intimate with him.”
“Yes, and I still think that having a lover would be a very enlightening experience for you. But I have my doubts as to whether this is the best way to go about it.”
“Men do it all the time.”
“Yes, that’s true, my dear, but friendship is not a prerequisite for them.”
“Oh. I always thought that was what would make the difference between enjoying sex and merely tolerating it.” She pressed her lips together. Why had she said that aloud?
“When it comes to sex, men do not think first with their heart”—Louise paused—“or even their brain. For a woman like you, some sort of connection is essential.”
“And what do you mean by ‘a woman like me’?” Grace stood up. “Someone who is happier as a widow than I was as a married woman? Someone who has never had a lover?”
“Both of those, Grace, but mostly a woman who, despite an inclination to flout convention in private, is in public a lady and not given to the casual in any way.” She stood up and took Grace’s hands. “Perhaps that is the solution. Stop thinking so much, Grace. Let him know you are interested in more than . . . what was it you said?”
“He is very attentive and courteous.”
“Yes, let him know that you are interested in more than attention and courtesy and see what he does.”
“I wish this were easier.” Grace looked down at her lap. “It is too much like walking an untested bridge over a deep ravine. It was so much simpler before.”
“You know in your heart that you would rather be facing that bridge than a brick walk that does no more than circle the garden.”
“Yes, yes.” Grace closed her eyes. “That describes my marriage exactly. But that is the past. I have changed, have I not?”
“No one who knew you then could doubt that.”
“I wish there were something between the safe path and the treacherous bridge. Why do I have to go from one extreme to the other?”
“Grace,” her aunt said with an incredulous laugh, “it has taken you two years to risk the bridge. That is hardly going from one extreme to the other.”
“Oh, Aunt Louise.” Grace pulled her aunt into a hug. “I am so glad to have you with me this Season. Talking with you is so much more satisfying than letters. I will try it. I will, even though I have no idea how he will react.”
“Neither do I, my dear. But I must admit that I am hopeful.”
Nine
“Garrick has been dead almost forty years and still his plays entertain. I do think The Clandestine Marriage is my favorite.” Grace looked down as the people below moved out of the theater. She nodded and waved to acquaintances in another box who, like her, preferred to make their departure after the crowd had thinned.
Lindsay had come to realize that she preferred to discuss the play while it was fresh in her mind, and lingering the twenty odd minutes presented the ideal opportunity. “Yes, my lady, Garrick was a genius. The proof being that his characters are true for any age. You must be acquainted with any number like the grasping sister and the snobbish aunt.”
“They ring so true.” She shook her head in some amusement. “Do you think they recognize themselves?”
“Do you recognize yourself in Fanny?”
“The secretly married daughter?” Grace looked at him in some surprise. ““No, not at all. What makes you say that we are alike?”
Lindsay looked away for a moment and considered if what he was about to say would offend her. And wondered for a moment how often Poppy’s mama had to make the effort to guard her tongue lest she offend her patron. He spoke anyway. “You and Garrick’s Fanny are both well-meaning, loyal, sweet.”
Grace blushed a little, and was about to speak when he held up his hand. “Sweet,” he repeated, “but like her, you play a game with society. In the play Fanny felt the need to keep her marriage a secret.”
“Ah, yes. I see.” She was silent a moment. “Well, at least it is a comedy and not a tragedy. Though I suppose you could make the same case for Romeo and Juliet. That they felt the need to keep their relationship a secret.”
“We are not young, plagued by warring families or in love.”
“Remind me of that, will you, when this seems entirely too complicated a charade.”
She laughed a little as though it was a joke and he smiled, but it was the first time in the weeks they had been together that she had ever implied she was less than comfortable with their arrangement.
“Would you like to leave now?” She held up her cloak.
He took it. The cloak was a light wool with a silk lining. The weave was fine, soft to the touch. He suspected it was as soft as her skin would be. As much as he might have liked to test the theory, he did no more than drop the cloak around her shoulders.
They found a crowd still on the stairs, and waited, Grace chatting with an acquaintance as he considered her comment about their “charade.”
If she was not entirely satisfied with their arrangement, then it showed they shared something beyond an appreciation of Garrick’s plays. He hated the constraints of his position, and attending the opera was the least of them.
For a man who had spent most of his life in charge, taking orders from a woman was a dramatic change. Yes, he had always had to obey orders as well, but he had never been so low in rank that there were not others to obey him. It made him realize that the chain of command was a salve to the self-worth of a man. Now he was in a position where he took orders from someone who was more comfortable holding a reticule than a sword.
Hardly onerous, yet still, at times, maddening. Especially the way she phrased things as though he had a choice. “Shall we leave?” Or “Would you like some supper?”
Lindsay had watched her with the others she employed, and, as she was with him, she was unfailingly courteous. But probably like her other servants, he had learned to take her questions as they were intended: All that mattered was what she wanted to do, and when she wanted to do it.
How did the others handle fatigue that came with a teething baby? How did they handle worry about responsibilities that had nothing to do with employment but were what made it so necessary?
In the army he was focused on one thing only. His loyalties were not split between a family that wanted to know every detail of his life away from them and a woman who never asked about h
is life in the hours they were not together.
When it became unbearably irritating, like tonight, he would remind himself that in time he would sell his commission and leave her employ. It was an option that the others did not have.
He watched as she laughed at something and could not help but smile. He looked around and saw several others turn toward the sound. Her laughter was one of the most charming things about her. Always genuine and inviting, so that anyone who heard it wanted to be part of her party.
Her laughter and inquisitive mind were not the only things that made his employment bearable and, when he was less tired and frustrated, fair compensation for her maddening version of leadership. Grace Anderson found good almost everywhere. And if she could not see the good in something, she would wish for it. How many times had she said “I wish . . .”?
There was a long list of changes she would make if she had Poppy’s magic coin. The Prince Regent would be more attentive to his wife, the Luddites would end their unrest, her aunt would let her son live his own life.
He watched as she complimented Mrs. Schuster on her earrings, truly the only item she wore that suited her. Which only proved his point that Grace could find good almost anywhere.
Satisfied that he had talked himself out of his ill humor, Lindsay moved to rejoin Grace.
“Fine Season for you, Lindsay. Eh?”
Fetters might be talking to him, but he was watching Grace with interest, and Lindsay could hardly miss his meaning. He decided to ignore the man.
“We could make a wager. Just between the two of us. A hundred guineas that you two are leg-shackled before Christmas.”
“Do you know how to say anything that does not begin or end with a wager?” Lindsay kept his tone civil, but he trusted that his irritation was clear. “You are an embarrassment to society. Move out of my way.”
“Looking for a little fun, that’s all. All the young chits are paired up and the Season is only half over. It will be damn dull if I can’t stir things up a bit. No need to take offense. It’s a sure thing for you. You’re as close as two pistols in a gun case.”
“Fetters, I am not wasting money betting with you, not on anything.”
“It would be quite a coup for an army major to marry such a wealthy widow. No money problems ever again. If you don’t want to spare the blunt you could always wager that.” He flicked a finger at the Waterloo medal.
He grabbed Fetters’ arm and squeezed so hard that the man gasped. “This medal represents something you will never understand, Fetters. Thousands of men died so that you can spend your life making ridiculous wagers. You can insult me all you want. But you will treat this medal and Lady Anderson with the respect they deserve.”
Finally he let go of the man. Grace was still talking to a group of women and had not seen their exchange. Several others had. Wonderful, he thought, praying the conversation would not find its way to the gossip sheets.
As he and Grace reached the lobby, they could see that a heavy rain was what had slowed the departures. Rain was common enough in London. In this case it was the cap on an evening that had been anything but perfect.
Grace turned to him. “Would you like to come to Norfolk Street with me? Then I can have the coachman take you home. It will save your uniform from the wet.”
He bent closer to her so that no one would overhear. “If they see us leave together then we will be the next bit of gossip.”
“Do you care what they think?” she asked, then waited the barest of moments before turning to the door the porter was holding for them.
As usual she expected no answer from him, but it was all he could do not to give one anyway. No, madam, I am being well paid to not care what society thinks, but for once I would like to be the one making the decisions.
The ride to Norfolk Street was silent. The rain beating on the carriage roof made any but the most perfunctory conversation difficult, and Grace seemed lost in thought.
He watched her through half-closed eyes. There was some internal debate going on, and he did not have to ask to know that he was at the heart of it. As the carriage made the turn from North Audley to Green, she turned to him. “Would you like to come in for a brandy?”
This one was different from the usual question, tentative and uncertain.
“If that is what you would like, my lady.” What exactly did she want? She had never offered such an invitation before. They had thoroughly dissected the play. What was there left to do this evening? He grimaced at his naïveté.
“Major?”
He came back to the moment and realized that he had not heard her reply.
“What I wish,” she repeated with some brusqueness, “what I wish is that you do what you wish.”
A choice? She was giving him a choice? He did not have to think. “Then no thank you, my lady. I am needed at home.” It was a lie. He was saying no only because he could.
Completely mortified, Grace tried for a casual “Very well,” and hoped that he could not feel her chagrin. She wanted nothing more than to be out of the carriage, away from him, but it was clear that Petkin had not heard their arrival. The coachman jumped down and hurried to the door to rouse the butler, or at least find an umbrella.
The silence grew, and Grace’s embarrassment gave way to a fury out of all proportion to his refusal. He was a complete and utter idiot. His instant “No” seemed so instinctive that she could only assume he had taken a dislike of her. Now he was pretending she did not exist.
“Major.”
He was staring out the window, but with a slowly drawn breath he abandoned his study of the rain-soaked street and gave her his full attention.
“Perhaps you are bored with our arrangement. Shall we say good-bye as well as good night?”
He gave no sign that he understood her but stared into her eyes, infuriating her all the more, something she had not thought possible. “Is that a yes or a no, Major Lindsay? Have you had enough of this game—is that what your refusal means? I hate it when you expect me to read your mind. I would rather you yell at me, abuse me with words, than suffer this contest of wills.”
He nodded slowly, and when he spoke it was with a calm that was worse than a shout. “I would only bid you good night, madam.”
He looked away from her again, and she saw that those few words had been a terrible blow to his pride. He did, after all, need the work. Need the money she paid him. This was not about his sensibilities, but his livelihood. How could she have forgotten that?
“I will see you tomorrow, then. At eight.”
He nodded, and she admitted to herself that her own pride had been bruised. “The Prince Regent is expected to make an appearance. I want you to look your best.”
He nodded again, his face still without expression. She turned toward the carriage door and the umbrella Petkin held out, wishing that her order had sounded more authoritative and less petulant.
Ten
It could be a very awkward evening, Grace decided. Unleashing anger, and then not apologizing for it, was as forbidden as picking roses from her mother’s garden. It was also rather exhilarating.
Lindsay had come without his medal.
“The ribbon was too frayed and must be replaced.”
“Is it? Did you bring the medal with you? I can send Petkin for a new ribbon.”
“I left it with my man. He’s been tending my uniform for years.”
He glanced away from her as he spoke, and she was sure he was lying. He’d left the medal home solely because she had told him, demanded, that he look his best. In the military that would be called something heinous, she was sure—denying a direct order? And punishable by something equally awful. Whatever it might be, it was not an option for her. She waited until he looked at her again.
“I am disappointed. Very.” Why was it that she was the one who sounded defiant?
He did no more than bow to her.
Clearly she did not have what it took to be an effective officer, for she had no i
dea how to handle this. She opted for escape. “Shall we go?”
Lindsay turned with the barest of nods and opened the door before Petkin could be called. The coachman held the carriage door, and she did not speak again until they were both seated.
“Major, would you please check the latch on my necklace? It feels loose.”
She watched his hands while he pulled off his gloves and then turned her back to him, loosened her cloak and bent her neck so he would have a clear view of the necklace. It was still light out, but inside the carriage it was dim, and only now did she realize Lindsay would have to feel the clasp with his hands.
Grace had intended the request as a set-down, but the feel of his fingertips brushing her skin made her forget the need to remind him of his place.
Had any man ever touched her there before? Surely she would recall. His fingers left an exquisite fire on the back of her neck, a fire that warmed her from head to toe. She wished he would press his lips to the same spot. She closed her eyes and imagined the pleasure. Then she would turn into his arms and press her mouth to his. Her whole body responded to the fantasy. Oh dear, oh my, this was what lust felt like.
“Your necklace seems quite secure, my lady.”
He was either exerting great control or was totally unmoved. Was that possible? For one party to be on fire and the other uninterested? Of course it was.
She turned and straightened her skirts, making sure that no part of even her clothing touched him. She endured that for a full five minutes before she felt more herself again.
Herself. Whoever that was. A widow, largely happy, interested in all manner of things, and, at the moment, tired of being angry with the one person who seemed to enjoy the same things she did.
She turned to him. “I declare you the winner.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
She really was beginning to hate those two words. Why would he not call her Grace? “I said that you are the winner.” She let out a puff of breath that was as much annoyance as frustration. “I am tired of being in your bad books. I have never actually lost my temper with anyone before. And this is the second time I have done so with you. It takes entirely too much energy and ruins my sleep. So, I am sorry that I was rude last night. Sorry that I asked what you wanted to do and then was offended when it was not what I wanted to do.”