Bubb presented Lady Valéry with her brandy while the footman carried the other glass to Sebastian.
Sebastian took it and waved it beneath Mary’s nose, and this time she spoke so emphatically, everyone in the room heard her say, “No!”
Sebastian smiled, cajoling, and Lady Valéry bit back a sigh of happiness. How wonderful to be able to stir the pot, then sit back and watch the results. Age did have its rewards, after all.
Then Bubb bellowed, “Is she awake?” and everyone in the room jerked to attention.
“It would seem so.” A small, neat woman appeared in the doorway, then made her way to Bubb’s side. “Although your shouting is enough to give her a headache, Bubbie.”
Lady Valéry’s mellow thoughts of love, marriage, and great-godchildren evaporated under a rush of mirth. Bubbie? This woman called the marquess of Smithwick Bubbie?
“I’m Nora, Lady Smithwick.” She introduced herself and smiled at Lady Valéry apologetically. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you, but we weren’t expecting guests for another day.”
“The apologies are ours. We came too soon, but Sebastian thought we should come early in case Lord Smithwick”—Lady Valéry badly wanted to call him Bubbie, but restrained herself—“decided to throw us from his property.”
Nora looked astonished, then shot the fondest glance at her husband. “As if he would. Bubb is the kindest of noblemen.”
And recalling the old rumors of scandal, Lady Valéry thought Nora must mean every word. She studied the new marchioness with interest and noted that though her smile was sweet, her demeanor was self-effacing and…she was brown. Unfashionably brown. Brown eyes, brown hair, which hung in ringlets around her shoulders, brown skin that faded to splotched freckles as it approached her paltry bosom. The tale that Bubb Fairchild had married a governess must be true.
Interesting. Lady Valéry glanced from Bubb to Nora and back. She would have never thought the big oaf would have worked up the nerve to defy his father.
“I have recovered.” Obviously Mary hadn’t experienced the rush of charity toward Sebastian Lady Valéry had, for she pushed at him until he moved aside, then sat up. “I apologize for making such a spectacular entrance to your home, Lady Smithwick.”
“Nonsense.” Nora moved forward with a rustle of silk and laid a hand on Mary’s brow. “Bubb is so strong and vital, he doesn’t realize a woman can be overset by even the simplest of news.” She cast a censorious glance at her husband. “And that the news of a massive inheritance should be broken inside in a civilized manner, rather than on the steps like a ramshackle boy.”
Bubb’s big head drooped. With his forlorn expression and his golden hair, he looked all the world like one of Lady Valéry’s golden retrievers when she’d scolded it.
Lady Valéry examined him with a critical eye. He was a devastatingly handsome creature. But—she sighed—he was married, and Lady Valéry didn’t poach on other women’s property. At least…not often, and certainly not in what appeared to be a love match.
Besides, she liked Lady Smithwick immediately. That surprised her—she was old enough to know the unreliability of first impressions. But something about Nora’s stalklike figure and resolute chin appealed to Lady Valéry. She sensed kinship here, the kind of kinship conveyed by similar intelligence and like goals.
“I was surprised to hear about the legacy,” Mary acknowledged.
And for that, Lady Valéry thought, read “dumbfounded.” And furious. She glanced at Sebastian, now standing off to the side. Mary had to be furious.
Mary swung her feet around and put them flat on the floor. Holding on to the seat on either side of her legs to balance herself, she hung her head down until she got her balance. She hadn’t fainted, not really, but her ears had buzzed and her vision fogged, and it just seemed easier to collapse, at least until some kind of coherent thought was possible.
Now, she realized, coherent thought wasn’t likely for hours, perhaps days. Bubb said she’d inherited the Fairchild fortune. If it was true, then she was no longer a supplicant to Lady Valéry or an anchor on Hadden. If it was true…
Slowly jubilation grew in her, and a heated triumph. If it was true, she could dictate the terms of her cooperation to Sebastian Durant, Viscount of Whitfield. She didn’t know what he thought to accomplish by hiding the fact she was an heiress from her, but whatever he planned, it wouldn’t work. She was independent now, and capable of giving Hadden whatever he wished. She was rich.
Shaking her tumbled hair back, she looked around and recognized this chamber. She remembered its sheen, the miracle of polished brass and expensive fabrics, the odor of beeswax and fresh flowers. She saw the massive desk, built of expensive dark wood with the express intention of intimidating whoever stood before it. The chair behind it was as tall as Mary herself, with gargoyles that dug their claws into the wooden finials and glared at any mere mortal who dared defy the master of Fairchild Manor.
She had dared, all those years ago, and she’d been ejected by her grandfather. Remnants of intimidation lingered, mingling with her sense of triumph. She was an heiress. The heiress. And ironically, because of her grandfather.
Fixing her gaze on Nora, Mary said, “Perhaps you could tell me more about this astounding legacy.”
Nora stared back at Mary as she spoke to the footman. “You may retire, Henry, and shut the door behind you.”
Silent, well trained, the footman bowed and did as he was told without indicating by a flicker of an eyelash his interest in the topic. And he had to be interested. The whole household must be fascinated by this turn of events. Mary wished she held the concession for the keyhole in the door.
The silence left by the footman’s departure was broken by Sebastian, introducing himself to Nora, and by Bubb, offering more drinks. Apparently both men thought a liberal application of courtesy and liquor would ease the strain of the occasion.
Both, Mary was pleased to note, seemed subdued and on their best behavior. That was good; it meant they were unsure. As they ought to be—especially that twisted weasel who called himself Lord Whitfield.
“I remember seeing you when you came to speak to my father-in-law,” Nora said to Mary. “You were little and brave, and he threw you out.”
Sebastian glared at Bubb.
Bubb stared at his toes and rocked back and forth.
Heat climbed in Mary’s cheeks as she realized her prayers had not been answered—the prayers that requested that episode be erased from everyone’s recollection.
“He tried to do the same with me once.” Nora pleated the silk of her skirt between her fingers and watched the motion steadily. “I had Bubb to stop him.”
Mary felt an unwilling empathy with her aunt by marriage. “Better to be married to a Fairchild than to be one, then.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Nora frowned, then her brow cleared. “You’re joking, of course. Excuse me, they say I haven’t got a sense of humor.”
Mary hadn’t been joking, but neither did she want to disillusion Nora.
“When Lord Fairchild—Bubb’s father—tried to throw me out, he’d already disinherited your father, so I suppose he had to tether one son at his side.”
Not a flattering portrayal of Bubb’s role all these years, Mary noted. But a fair one? “Then he left me the money. Why?”
“Guilt over the way he treated your father?” Nora spread her palms to indicate her ignorance. “Or you? I think most likely, spite against Bubb.”
“If I might offer a supposition?” Lady Valéry said. “I knew the marquess for years, and I think he left the money to Mary simply because he knew it would cause an fracas among his progeny.”
Nora’s mouth puckered and her nostrils flared. She might have been consuming rotten meat, or smelling the sickly odor of decay. Mary suspected she was instead thinking of her father-in-law, although her voice remained polite enough. “You are probably right, Lady Valéry. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but such a scheme woul
d appeal to him. Why else would he have left everything, the whole, immense fortune, to a granddaughter he easily dismissed before?”
Strange, how discussing Mary’s newfound wealth vanquished the ill effects of road travel. “Just how much money are we talking about?” she asked.
“Bubb has the title, of course, and the lands are entailed to the eldest male heir.” Nora stroked one curl that rested on her chest. “Aside from that, your grandfather amassed over one hundred twenty thousand pounds.”
A film of moisture suddenly formed all over on Mary’s skin, and Sebastian murmured, “You’re flushed.”
Of course she was flushed. She’d never heard that much money even mentioned at one time.
Bubb clapped his hands, and the small explosion of noise made everyone in the room jump. “This is a cause for celebration. Let’s lift a toast to my newfound niece and her newfound fortune. It’s good to be back in the fold, heh, Guinevere?”
Mary stared at him for a few moments, just long enough to make him squirm. Was he sincere? He couldn’t be.
But a housekeeper always makes those around her comfortable.
Taking a careful breath, she told herself she no longer had to monitor the contentment of the people around her. Still, the habits of ten years died hard, and she kept her tone polite. “I prefer to be called Mary now, Lord Fairchild.”
“Of course.” It seemed Bubb was unaware of any undercurrents, for he beamed like a boy who’d been invited to share a confidence. “Call me Uncle Bubb. After all, I’m your guardian now.”
In that instant, with that one sentence, Mary saw the genius in Sebastian’s plan. Unmarried women had no rights over their money. If she kept quiet about the sham betrothal, she would be subject to Bubb’s manipulations of her self and her fortune.
If she allowed Sebastian to lay claim to her, he could protect her wealth from Fairchild greed.
Whom did she want? Bubb, apparently good-natured, obviously a wastrel, and one of the many Fairchilds who couldn’t be bothered to help her when her grandfather chased her away? Or Sebastian, who…She found herself staring at Sebastian, eyes glazed.
Sebastian.
Power hungry. Rude, impatient. A blackmailer.
But not weak. Although she’d never asked what Sebastian planned for her after this wretched masquerade was over, she didn’t worry he would strip her of her fortune and, when that was done, throw her into the dung heap.
Into prison, perhaps, but not the dung heap.
Before she could change her mind, she said, “Uncle, I have good news. Lord Whitfield and I are betrothed.”
Bubb didn’t wilt or show signs of shock. He’d seen Lord Whitfield lifting her from the carriage, then, and seen the way they moved together with the ease of a couple accustomed to their ritual. He’d probably heard Lord Whitfield’s carefully announced claim on her affections, too. Bubb seemed a simple, jolly man, but did he hide his financial schemes beneath that bluff facade? Mary’s toes curled in her slippers as she remembered Hadden’s prediction of trouble.
Of murder. Her murder.
Lord Whitfield moved to her side, placed his hand on her shoulder, and pressed firmly. “You’ll have to remember to call me ‘Sebastian,’ my love, or your uncle will believe we are not fond.”
“I think my uncle understands a woman’s need to maintain the proprieties,” Mary said to the room at large.
“Possibly.” Lord Whitfield sat beside her, and his hand slid along her arm in a leisurely, sensuous sweep.
Her fist clenched, and she called on those years of housekeeperly training to keep her from boxing his ears.
Turning her wrist over, Lord Whitfield unbuttoned her glove. One fingertip at a time, he loosened her glove from her hand. Slowly he stripped it from her. She watched, as fascinated as their audience, until he clasped their hands, palm to palm.
Then she understood his intent. The intimacy of his touch forced her to comprehend, and she struggled to free herself until he caught her wrist with his other hand and held it still.
He wasn’t done with his show. Speaking loudly enough that his voice would reach across the study, he said, “Your uncle undoubtedly understands a lover’s need to break down the barriers of propriety, also.” He looked warmly into her eyes as he raised her hand to his mouth.
She would have been impressed, but she remembered a similar gesture made to his godmother not a fortnight ago in Scotland. So what? He would kiss her knuckles. Did the man have to depend on such a boring repertoire?
Then he took her forefinger in his mouth—and nipped it.
She jumped so high, everyone in the room no doubt observed, and she gasped when he soothed the ache by closing his lips around her finger and sucking on it.
Tangled in a web of embarrassment and fascination, she stared at him, at his mouth, the mouth she’d noticed the very first time she’d met him. Not even the horror of that bloodstained night had dimmed the memory of his lips, and now he used them to touch her flesh in a manner she could only describe as intimate. She didn’t know what he meant by such a display, and at the same time her instincts informed her it was a gesture for lovers.
And he made it look so sincere. The way he watched her face, eyes glowing as he observed her struggle to deal with sensation as sharp as his teeth and as soft as his lips.
If he was going to simulate the part of her fiancé so sincerely, she would be hard-pressed to retain her good sense.
Good sense. Surely some resided somewhere in this madhouse. She looked at the others, appealing for help, but none abided within this chamber.
Not from Lady Valéry, who watched the proceedings with open fascination.
Not from Nora, who pressed her lips together in self-imposed discipline.
Certainly not from Bubb, who attacked the weakest point of their plan without hesitation. “Are the marriage contracts negotiated and signed?”
Sebastian relinquished Mary’s finger so slowly, it looked as if he relished the taste of her. “Of course.”
“It’s unlawful to negotiate marriage contracts without a guardian’s consent.”
Resentment made Mary forget, for a moment, her indignation at Sebastian. “I didn’t know I had a guardian. I’ve been on my own for so long…” She let the accusation linger in the air.
Bubb ignored her easily. “You knew, Whitfield.”
“So I did.”
“Then you ought to have told me, Lord Whitfield,” Mary said. When she thought of the many things Lord Whitfield had kept from her, she could have screamed.
And she almost did when he slipped his arm around her waist. He could have made the motion a simple, proprietary gesture, but no. He had to turn everything into a production.
His open palm skimmed in circles across her back, and when his hand reached the far side of her, he used his strength to draw her along the slick, hard cushion and close to him. Too close to him. So close she felt the muscles of his thighs flex. Oh, for the return of her whalebone petticoat!
His breath brushed her cheek. “Sebastian,” he said.
“What?” She didn’t make the mistake of turning her head to look at him. He was much, much too close.
“Sebastian. My name is Sebastian.” His voice was only a trickle of sound, gauged to flow into her ears alone. “If we’re to deceive your family, you’re going to have to yield me at least that small familiarity.”
She’d do anything to get him to release her. “I will.”
He spoke again, and it was more of a sigh than a word. “Sebastian.”
“Sebastian,” she repeated.
He smoothed back her hair. His lips moved against her ear—her ear! What was he doing by her ear? She waited to hear something, then with a leap of intuition realized the motion she’d felt was a smile. He’d leaned close to the side of her head, put his lips to her ear, and smiled. A mechanical series of motions for him. A touching display of devotion as witnessed by the audience.
Nevertheless, she shivered because…why
? Because he’d given her a chill? Or in anticipation of his next move?
He touched her, she reacted, and all the while she told herself he was despicable. He might masquerade as someone gifted with a rare kindness; he might have held her gently when he lifted her from the carriage and coaxed broth down her throat when she was so ill, but his actions hid an empty heart. He would have carried her all the way to London in his arms if that had been what it took to get her here. He wanted only to use her. She needed to remember that.
Grateful for the discipline she’d learned in the past ten sterile years, she gathered her poise and smiled at her uncle. “As you might imagine, Lord Whitfield is very persuasive, especially to a woman so long on the shelf.”
Sebastian pinched her when she called him by his title, but he replied sweetly, “Twenty-six is scarcely old, my darling.”
“Still, he didn’t tell you about your fortune, and he knew about it.” Nora eyed Sebastian forbiddingly, possibly less impressed than Mary with his affectionate performance. “No doubt it slipped his mind the first time he—”
“Saw her unbound hair.” Sebastian arranged a handful of the wild stuff over Mary’s shoulder, and stared out at the audience with every evidence of sincerity. “I couldn’t resist, Bubb. You know how it is with you Fairchilds, and you must know I tried to resist.”
“Of course, old chap.” Bubb consumed every one of Sebastian’s words as if they were the golden truth and he were King Midas.
That gold will kill you, Mary wanted to say. That she even experienced the impulse to warn him surprised her.
Nora grasped Mary’s still-gloved hand and pulled at her, as if attempting to remove her from Sebastian’s influence. “Have you thought he wishes to wed you for your wealth?”
Mary might have considered it, if he were going to wed her, but she felt sure of only one thing in this farce—that Sebastian despised the Fairchilds. He wouldn’t marry one if he were destitute and she controlled the Bank of England. Smoothly she lied. “If he wishes to wed me for my fortune, it is a fair exchange. I wish to wed him for other reasons, and it would not be easy for him to overturn the marriage contracts.”
A Well Pleasured Lady Page 6