A Well Pleasured Lady

by Christina Dodd

  “Sooner or later, you and I will mate.”

  His certainty frustrated her. “I am not an animal. I do not mate.”

  “Aren’t you?” His scarred, long-fingered hands reached out to her and caught the scarf tied to conceal her bosom. The lace gave easily under his coaxing, and he lifted the ends away from her skin. He looked at what he’d uncovered, then looked up at her. “Won’t you?”

  He was crazed, and he’d infected her with his madness; that was the only possible explanation. After years of self-imposed isolation, with only Hadden to relieve the loneliness, she had placed herself beyond such physical response. Even this evening when she walked into the ballroom, she had been nervous, but outwardly placid. Now she betrayed herself.

  Her toes curled; her lips throbbed. She wanted to tear the shawl away from him, but her hands trembled too much. Beneath her skin lived a different person than she’d ever met before. Not Guinevere or Mary, innocents both, but a woman who anticipated and wanted, all because of one man and his devastating scowl.

  She thought thankfully of the party proceeding just over his shoulder. Others were gathered about, else she couldn’t vouch for Sebastian’s actions, or even her own.

  There was danger here, and if not for her loyalty to Lady Valéry, she would shove this man aside, go to London, demand her inheritance, and with Hadden at her side, she would tour the world. Instead she had to remain here, and she had to make him understand her circumstances. “I have to remain untarnished, with a character as cold, hard, and polished as platinum.”

  “Platinum can be melted if the flame is high enough.” His fingers brushed her skin as he retied the scarf. “You’ll see. When you have melted, you’ll still be a lady. A very…well-pleasured…lady.”

  He spaced the words deliberately, and an improper thrill shook her. He was doing this on purpose. He wanted her pliant, and she wanted to be whatever he wished.

  How distasteful to find one subjugating oneself to a man.

  He might have been reading her mind. “You were a housekeeper, but that was merely your role to play. You were not born to be a lump of platinum, nor could you force that precious metal into your soul. You are simply Guinevere Mary.”

  “Fairchild.” She added her surname. “You say I was not born to be a lump of platinum, but I was born a Fairchild, and I tell you it’s better to seek the precious metal than to become one of those wretches.”

  He frowned and tried to speak.

  “No, don’t interrupt. Now that I’ve started, I might as well be frank, also. You told me in Scotland this betrothal would be a sham. Now you tell me we must ‘mate,’ give in to the…the base emotions. For what purpose? When we finish, I will still be a Fairchild and you will still hate me and everyone in my clan. And I’ll be ruined.”

  He didn’t deny it. “So you’ve heard the tale of the feud.”

  She was tempted to lie, to say that she had, but like an insurmountable wall, there existed her damnable propensity for truthfulness.

  He read her too easily, for he said, “You haven’t heard. I would have thought the Fairchilds would use that as a weapon to separate us. But perhaps they can’t think of a way to make their own part sound anything less than despicable.”

  With an emotion that felt like despair, she said, “You see? You hate Fairchilds, and I don’t know why, but I do know if we…mate…you will have sullied yourself with one of the family you despise.”

  “Sometimes a little sullying is good for a man.”

  He jested, but if he ever recalled what Guinevere Fairchild had done, he would know she was worse than any Fairchild yet born.

  “Living away from your cursed clan strengthened you.”

  Sebastian remained before her, a big block that stood between her and the ballroom, between her and freedom…between her and the safe, sterile world Mary Rottenson had inhabited. As arrogant as any man, he thought he could change her. He didn’t know how she had changed herself. “I’ve already been through the flames, Sebastian. I was a weakling once—I’ll never be one again.”

  He watched her, craving her with an inexplicable madness. Her eyes were so big and the same blue the ocean turns during a storm. Outrageous lashes fluttered as she spoke, and her lips formed a kiss with each word. Her skin flushed with earnest eloquence, and her elaborate coiffure slid from formality into sociability. She was twenty-six, yet she acted with both the resolution of a much older woman and the innocence of a girl. She defied him so consistently, he was convinced of her virtue, her morality, and her integrity. Unfortunately, what he wanted of her pertained to none of those merits.

  She frustrated him. He wanted her so badly, he dared not unbutton his coat lest everyone see his condition. Yet he unwillingly admired her, and even more unwillingly had begun to wonder if his godmother was right when she’d said Guinevere Mary Fairchild could be his salvation.

  “So you don’t care that I have destroyed your reputation, you only care that I want you and am determined to have you,” he said. “It’s not the appearance that affects you. It’s the reality.”

  “I do care about my reputation. It is very difficult for a woman not to care.” She fingered the fringe of her shawl to avoid looking at him. “Yet I don’t have to live, night and day, with the effects of a ruined reputation. I have to live with myself, and if I allowed myself to become your mistress—”

  “No. It’s not the ‘mistress’ part of it that frightens you.” He clasped her hand and brought it forward so that it lay flat on his chest. Pressing it where she could feel the thump of his heart, he said, “It’s that you would lie in my arms, and I would find all the ways to make you give yourself completely. You know, Guinevere Mary, the kind of woman you could be, and I know it, too. And I won’t be satisfied until you are.”

  Her fingers curled and she tried to pull her hand away. “I don’t understand you at all. Who would you have me be?”

  He still held her close. “Part Mary Rottenson, and part Guinevere Fairchild.”

  She jerked back so forcefully, he lost his grip. “Why would you want her? That silly, vain thing.”

  “You’re talking about Guinevere.” He didn’t quite understand why she had divided herself in half, but he was getting close. “You’re talking about her as if she were separate from you, but she’s—”

  “And why would you want a Fairchild at all? Are you using me for revenge?”

  He should be, but when he was with her, he forgot the need to make the Fairchilds pay. “This is sweeter than any revenge.”

  “Don’t talk that way to me!” She was so perturbed her voice rose, and she seemed unaware of the listeners who hovered behind him.

  Not that he cared about the nobles who strolled past, hoping to hear a tidbit of gossip. But he did care if she embarrassed herself. In a low tone he said, “Most women would be insulted if a man didn’t want them.”

  She turned her head away as if she were afraid to have him read her expression. “I’m not like other women. I have done things other women would scorn.”

  “Yes, you’ve worked. Perhaps it’s just that I’m no different than any other man.” Reaching up to one of the gold ropes that secured the billows of midnight blue silk to the wall, he jerked it free. The shimmering cloth, still connected to the ceiling, fell around them. Not quite as good as a curtain, for the drafts in the chamber waved it back and forth, but it gave them a partial privacy, and he hoped that music from beyond the curtain would mask their voices. “Perhaps I can’t resist a Fairchild woman.” A frightening thought, if true. “Lucky for me I have found the one Fairchild with a platinum streak of honor. A rare jewel in a sterling setting.”

  He stroked her round, soft cheek, but she jerked her head back. “I just want to finish our purpose here and go.” She sounded frantic, pleading. Then she lowered her voice and glanced around. “Have you looked for the diary? Have you found any clues?”

  “I’ve looked, but without success.” He stroked her cheek again, insisting she take
the comfort he offered while reveling in the sensation of living velvet beneath his fingertips. “We’ve been here only a full day. You surely knew finding the diary would take longer than that.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know how much I would hate this farce.”

  Hate him? Ah, but she didn’t. He never claimed to know a woman’s mind, but he knew this woman’s body, and she wanted him. She didn’t want to, but she did.

  “I can distract Bubb’s daughters while you search their rooms,” she said. “I can befriend the servants and question them. Let me help.”

  She allowed his hand to cradle her face, but more in resignation than enjoyment, he thought.

  “You have helped. I’ve avoided our hosts this last day, pleading embarrassment because of the bruises.” He smiled as pleasantly as he knew how, trying to coax a small one from her. “See? Already you’ve created a marvelous distraction.”

  She looked at the floor, sulking like a child who was too young to play the game but wanted to imitate her siblings. In truth, the woman never smiled. At least…not at him. “I wandered the halls,” he said, “and reacquainted myself with the layout of the manor.”

  She looked up, rancor forgotten. “You’ve been here before?”

  Damn! He hadn’t meant to say that. “Years ago.” She started to question him, but he said quickly, “Tonight before I arrived in the ballroom, I searched Bubb’s study.”

  As he had hoped, curiosity distracted her. “What did you find?”

  “Plenty. Your grandfather’s will, a pile of unpaid accounts, another pile of unpaid accounts, a safe…”

  Her mouth turned down. “Locked, of course.”

  He grinned. “Yes, and none of the keys I brought worked.”

  “You brought keys?”

  “I brought everything I thought I would need to search this house inside and out.” He grimaced. “But evidently I didn’t bring the proper key.”

  “I could break into it.” She rubbed her fingertips together as if she remembered the sensation of a file scraping the skin.

  “How would you have such a talent?” he asked forbiddingly.

  “My father insisted I learn.” She looked him in the face. “He said the knowledge might be useful.”

  Her father, Charles Fairchild.

  Sometimes Sebastian saw the image of Charlie in her features, and he confessed, “I visited Fairchild Manor when Charlie was still a favored son.”

  “You remember when my father lived at home?”

  “Of course.” He found himself wanting to please her, so he revealed yet more. “In those days Charlie was older and dashing, and I wanted to be just like him.”

  A subtle glow lit her features. “Everybody liked my father.”

  “Except for his father.”

  The glow was extinguished. “Papa said he was disinherited because he wasn’t foul enough.”

  “I believe that.” Charlie had disappeared and Sebastian had lost everything at about the same time, and it had been years before they’d seen each other again. By then, Charlie had been married, widowed, and much reduced in circumstance. Sebastian had been bitter, orphaned, and also much reduced in circumstance.

  Charlie had expressed penitence for the Fairchilds’ brutal prank and its deadly results. Sebastian had accepted the apology, because Charlie had not a mean bone in his body.

  But Charlie had lived for gambling, adventure, excitement. The last time Sebastian had seen him, he’d borrowed money…money Sebastian had given. Money he’d known would never come back, because even the best Fairchild had a touch of larceny in him. Sebastian mused, “I can’t imagine him raising two children—especially not a girl.”

  “He did the best he could after my mother died,” Mary said.

  He hastened to assure her, “I liked Charlie, I really did.”

  A mixture of fondness and pain shifted across her face artlessly. Then the display faded, and she slid back into that persona he’d first seen in Scotland—that of an upper servant, cleansed of all sentiment. “Every man my father ever met liked him.”

  They’d gone beyond her pretending to be a housekeeper and hiding her emotions from him. Women were supposed to comprehend these sentimental intricacies; why didn’t she?

  He wanted to shake her, make her be Guinevere and Mary and open to him, but he knew already she wouldn’t respond. Instead he paid tribute to the only decent Fairchild he’d ever known—until now. “If your father taught you to open a safe, then your father was a wise man.”

  Mary relaxed. The edges of her eyes tilted up, a dimple quivered in her sweet-cream cheek, and he realized he’d done it! He’d made her smile.

  A very nice smile, with teeth and lips…those pouty, kiss-shaped lips…

  He was kissing her before he realized it. She didn’t even struggle, although a less-skilled man might attribute that to surprise. He preferred to think that she’d acquired a fondness for his kisses yesterday.

  He recognized her hesitation now as she remembered, and he loosened his grip on her waist, rubbed her back with gentle hands, disguising the greed that drove him to claim her regardless of the consequences.

  “Sebastian.”

  She whispered his name, and he heard the quaver of uncertainty. No matter how hard he tried, he still swamped her with desire. Too much desire for this little virgin to welcome.

  Hell, he wasn’t even sure of his restraint, and they were in the middle of a ballroom with only a thin sheet of silk separating them from avaricious eyes.

  But he couldn’t stop just yet. Not yet. Not until she responded.

  He pressed his parted lips on hers gently, allowing his breath to warm her, depending on her curiosity to let him in. She took longer than he liked, but when she leaned against the wall and allowed her stiff muscles to go lax, he knew he’d won.

  His sense of triumph far exceeded the accomplishment.

  Her mouth opened; her soothing breath swept into him. Gently his tongue touched hers; slowly she accepted him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then slipped around his neck.

  He wanted more. He wanted to feel her slide her fingers into his hair. He wanted to discover the type of sounds she would make as he touched her bared breasts for the first time.

  Blood thundered in his head. Images blossomed in his mind. He could almost feel the globes of her bottom in his hands as he lifted her against the wall, stepped between her legs, and—

  “God!” He pulled away and stared at her as she stood all sleepy-eyed and pliant.

  When Guinevere Mary Fairchild was stiff and formal, he desired her. But when she yielded even the tiniest bit…oh, then he would give anything to have her.

  Breathlessly the miniature siren asked, “When and where do you want me to meet you?”

  His heart beat so fast, he thought he would collapse. Triumph! Here was triumph! He would go to her bedchamber, to that huge bed. He would find her waiting in her nightclothes, a little wary. He would be gentle, strip her slowly, kiss her body.

  “You need me to open the safe.” She straightened. “When do you want me to meet you?”

  He could lay her down, or stand her up, or kneel behind her, but however he did it, he would enjoy it.

  And he’d make sure she did, too.

  “No safe,” he choked. “Not you.” He’d been mad to even think he could expose her to danger. “Not ever. Don’t you understand? That diary is dangerous.”

  “I do understand.” She lifted her chin, and her eyes sparked. “But there are more important things to be afraid of.”

  She didn’t know what she was talking about. Closing his hands on her arms, he rubbed the muscles beneath the silk. She was strong, sturdy from her years of manual labor, yet she was slight, delicate, and in need of protection. “I’m here to steal the diary.”

  “I know that, and I’m here to help you,” she said earnestly.

  “Someone else has to be here to buy the diary, and I assure you, he is desperate to lay hands on it. In addition, the Fairc
hilds need the profit from the sale, and only a fool doesn’t think the Fairchilds would kill for a shilling.” Damn the woman, she could just get that mulish expression off her face. He was perfectly willing to use logic, but if she didn’t see sense, he would tie her to her bed. He would like to tie her to the bed. “You receive all the attention because of the mystery surrounding you, your background, and most important, your inheritance. Just be a good girl and distract the curiosity from me.” He lifted her chin in his hand and looked deep into her eyes. “And I promise you a reward you’ll remember always.”

  Chapter 13

  Sebastian strode away from the alcove where he’d hidden Mary, and he was smiling so delightfully, at least three of the Fairchild daughters almost swooned.

  Lady Valéry wasn’t impressed. In her opinion, the Fairchild daughters would never swoon for a smile worth less than a hundred thousand pounds. But when he brushed past them as if they were nothing more than pesky midges, she had to concede the boy had some taste, although she’d had to personally refine it more times than she liked to remember.

  Lady Valéry watched as he stopped and spoke to that merchant, that Mr. Brindley, a pretty bit of manners considering how out of place a merchant was in this august gathering.

  An august gathering that stared fixedly toward behind the blue silk curtain, riveted by Sebastian’s possessiveness and anticipating Mary’s appearance. Curiosity was a vulgar emotion, and if Lady Valéry didn’t make a move to protect Mary, she would be exposed in a perhaps less than perfect moment.

  Tucking her cane under her arm, she walked regally toward the alcove where Mary remained hidden. In the act of pulling the curtain back, she heard Mary mutter, “A housekeeper never drives a knife though the heart of the man who is claiming to be her betrothed.”

  Lady Valéry paused.

  Then in a frustrated tone—“So it is a good thing I don’t have a blade in my hand.”

  Lady Valéry chuckled and stepped inside. “You’ve already marked the boy—think of the extent of your fame should you succeed in murdering him.”