A Well Pleasured Lady

by Christina Dodd

  With the release of the money, Mary had released a sense of ill usage that had shadowed her for ten years. Lightly she said, “Yes. Dole out the money as you see fit.”

  Nora’s eyes gleamed, then dulled as she slowly shook her head. “My child, Lord Whitfield has no love for the Fairchilds, and he is your husband.”

  “He has control of my fortune, you mean. But he has sworn to let me manage it as I choose, and this is what I choose.”

  “When did he promise this?” Nora sounded more than doubtful. She sounded cynical and a little amused. “Was it before the wedding?”

  “Yes, but Sebastian—”

  “Is just like every other man and will promise anything to ensure he’s trapped his quarry.” She must have seen Mary would protest, for she lifted her hand. “I’m not saying he’s not better than most men. Only that he’ll say anything to get his way. You’ll get used to the disappointments as time wears on.”

  “No!” Denial sprang from Mary. “He wouldn’t lie to me. He was most emphatic. My fortune is my own.”

  “Hm.” Nora put the teacup on the tray and pushed it away from her. “I see your reason to hope, and I would, of course, take the money with appreciation. But if it doesn’t happen, I assure you, you still have my deepest regards. In my opinion, you are the best of the Fairchilds.”

  Mary didn’t know whether she was joking or not. “I think much the same about you.”

  Chapter 22

  Sebastian stood on the low-pitched roof, leaned on the wall that rose to waist level, and stared across Fairchild lands toward the adjoining estate. Toward the estate that should have been his.

  Another family owned it now, upstart merchants who made more money than they knew what to do with. Upstart merchants—much like himself. He’d tried to buy the estate back once, but he hadn’t been surprised when they refused. Now he could admit he was glad. He didn’t really want to live among the painful memories haunting that house. He’d rather make a fresh start…with Mary.

  Only since he had married did the issue of a country property again arise. He would have children with Mary, and those children deserved to have an upbringing such as he had had in the early years. They would have the freedom to climb a tree, to run through the fields, to fish in a stream. More than that, they would have parents who supported them their whole lives.

  He only wished he could take Mary away from this place and start on those children.

  Instead, he still searched for Lady Valéry’s diary. An elusive diary, surely an illusion—except that Leslie had taunted him with it.

  “Sebastian?”

  He turned away from the view as Mary emerged from the stairwell. She moved toward him through the chimneys, appearing to be clothed in a mist of smoke. Then the wind puffed up and blew the smoke aside, and the sun fell full on her uncovered head and turned her hair to gold. The fringe of her shawl tickled her skin as if the breeze itself wished to caress her. Sebastian felt an odd tug at the sight of her, not just the heat of lust—although that certainly swelled within him—but something beyond that. Pride, he told himself. She carried herself well, despite her heritage. Or admiration. She had overcome much misfortune to become a dignified, collected woman.

  Yet whatever name he put on this new emotion, reticence kept him from declaring it.

  He had spent the last fortnight in Mary’s presence, learning to trust her. He had spent thirty years of his life despising everything about her family.

  Although he thought he had conquered his distaste, still he held a small part of himself in reserve.

  Mary smiled at him, an open, joyous smile that rocked him back on his heels. Was this the first time she’d genuinely smiled at him? He thought it must be, for his heart took its first beat. His lungs opened and he took his first breath. His vision cleared, and for the first time he could see into eternity.

  He was mad. Mad for her. Yet he didn’t want her to know of his insanity, for such it must be, so he fumbled for dignity. “What are you doing up here?”

  Apparently he had chosen haughtiness, for her smile faded.

  “How did you find me, I mean?” He tried to smile pleasantly. “I thought the roof would be solitary.”

  She didn’t seem reassured, for she took a step back. “I asked where you were. One of the servants saw you come up.”

  He tried heartiness. “Well, I’m glad you came. It’s almost like old times.”

  “What old times?”

  “The last time I was up here, I was with your father.”

  “My father?” She shaded her eyes against the sun and looked him over as if he were acting oddly.

  Like a host seeking to put a guest at ease, he made conversation. “Your father liked the roof. He said it was a good place to dream.”

  “He would.” Her hand dropped from her forehead, and in a solicitous, elderly-sister tone, she asked, “Sebastian, are you ill?”

  Determined not to alarm her further, he bowed. “I am in excellent health, I thank you.”

  She bobbed a curtsy back. “Because I think there may be a sickness preying on the guests. I saw Mr. Brindley in the corridor outside the study. His complexion was almost green, and he hurried away without speaking to me.”

  Sebastian enunciated the words through his teeth. “I am well.”

  Her brow cleared. “Then I have good news.”

  He noted she clasped a book to her bosom, hugging it as if it were a treasure. “Yes?”

  She extended the book toward him. “This is it.”

  He looked at the plain black cover. “It?”

  “The diary. I have it!”

  With one stride he was beside her. He snatched it out of her fingers and opened randomly to a page. Beautiful, well-rounded penmanship sprang out at him. Lady Valéry’s handwriting.

  I caressed him in the Russian manner until he promised to do as I instructed and “influence” enough of the lords to get the bill passed through Parliament. Then I gave him satisfaction such as he never had before, and he almost begged to do another favor for me. So I let him pleasure me.

  Abruptly embarrassed, Sebastian snapped the book shut. “You’re right. This is the diary. Where did you get it?” He’d searched for it so long, so hard, and now his wife just handed it to him, as if finding it were a snap.

  “Lady Smithwick.” Mary was smiling again, a quietly amused smile. “We could have searched forever for it here and never found it. It was in London. That’s where she’s been the last two days.”

  “Fetching the diary to give to you?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his tone.

  Mary recognized his ill humor this time, for her smile dimmed. “No, actually she brought it to give to you.”

  “No Fairchild ever gave anything but trouble to a Durant.”

  “It was her wedding gift to us, and a precious gift it is, too. She was going to sell it to the highest bidder and keep the family from debtors’ prison with the proceeds. Instead, because of our marriage, and because she is incredibly loyal to the Fairchilds, she gave it to us.”

  “Wait. Wait a minute.” He held the diary out at arm’s length. “You’re telling me she stole this diary, was going to ruin an old lady, my fortune, and possibly the entire country in the name of profit, and now she’s giving it back to us as a gift?”

  Mary sighed with what sounded, impossibly, like exasperation. “She didn’t steal it, she found it in a shop where the thief pawned it.”

  “Whew.” He pretended to wipe sweat from his brow. “I was afraid she might be involved with dishonest dealing.” He projected sarcasm, enhanced with a prowling, low-grade fury. “Tell me—how much do we have to pay for this gift?”

  Mary’s gaze left his face to inspect the vista.

  “I thought so.” He started to slip the diary into his jacket. “How much?”

  She plucked the diary out of his hand, then stuck it in her pocket and looked at him. “Nothing. She asked for nothing in return.” She nodded firmly. “So I gave her my
fortune.”

  “What?” It wasn’t a question so much as a roar, a protest that rose from the depths of his sin-ridden soul. He grabbed her shoulders and lifted her until she rose onto her toes. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Sebastian, you’re hurting me.”

  He dropped his hands away and waited, and she rewarded him by admitting—no, just telling—she had bestowed two thirds of her fortune on her dastardly, cruel, traitorous, and evil family. On the Fairchilds.

  He couldn’t believe it. Her prosaic revelations struck like a frost on his tender new emotions. He withered as she spoke. He squirmed, he writhed, he died. His hands clenched. He wanted to strangle her for what she had done. Instead, when she finished, he simply said, “No.”

  The hussy had the nerve to look amazed. Confused even. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean no. No, you cannot give your fortune into Fairchild keeping.”

  “But it’s not going into Bubb’s hands,” she explained, as if that made a difference. “Nora will handle it.”

  “As if I cared about that. Before me I see a great future. A future in which every Fairchild is desperate for money, reduced to penury, begging…” Mary was staring at him, so he reined himself in. “No. Let them all rot in hell.”

  “I find you lacking in compassion.” She judged him calmly. “However, that is not important. What is important is your promise to let me do as I wish with my money. Was that a lie?”

  “No, it wasn’t a lie. No. You can do anything you wish with your wealth—except this.”

  As she gazed at him, her bright countenance dimmed. She looked as grieved as if he were at fault, rather than Nora and all her wretched family.

  “Why do you want to do this? I thought you hated them as much as I do,” he said harshly.

  “I look at the family, and I see one whole generation which is rotten to the core. I don’t know why, I only know it’s true.”

  Sebastian remembered Leslie’s comment that they had suckled perfidy from their mother’s breast. But that was only an excuse. He didn’t care.

  “But I am a Fairchild,” she said proudly. “My father was a Fairchild. My brother is a Fairchild. We’re not wicked. Neither is Bubb, although he is…misguided. Bubb’s daughter Wilda is rather sweet. With another generation, perhaps the taint will be gone. In the meantime, I can’t sentence them to certain disgrace when I have the means to save them.”

  With the backing of years of experience, he projected implacability. “You will not rescue the Fairchilds from the result of their follies.”

  She could project implacability, also. “It is not their follies which has resulted in their penury, but my grandfather’s will.”

  She was stubborn. God, she was stubborn. And she was judging him unfairly, without knowing all the facts.

  He didn’t like having her judge him harshly. He didn’t like it at all. So perhaps it was time to tell her. “Have you heard how the feud between our families came into being?”

  Her eyes flickered. “Lady Valéry told me both families used to breed horses.”

  “The Fairchilds, as a lark. The Durants, because we desperately needed the money.”

  He waited to see if she was repulsed by the realization that even though his father had been a lord, his family had been involved in business.

  She only nodded.

  “A particularly fine stud came on the market, and after careful study my father decided that stallion would breed champions. He told old Fairchild about it—we were neighbors and didn’t bid against each other—but when the auction arrived, the Fairchild foreman bid against Father.” Sebastian smiled, one of his razor-sharp smiles. “We won the bid.”

  “But if the Fairchilds had more money—”

  “The foreman only had permission to go so high, and old Fairchild didn’t realize my father was willing to gamble everything, everything, on that stallion.”

  “I see.”

  No doubt she did. The tale he told had all the elements of disaster marked on it. “The Fairchilds were furious, and as revenge, your uncles introduced their most feeble, piebald stallion into our mare stable.”

  He had accepted the facts years ago, but telling Mary did something to him. Embarrassment rose in him, dying him a ruddy tint, carrying the old bitterness to the surface as he exposed himself and braced himself—for laughter. “That stallion bred all the mares, ruining them for one season and rendering the prized stud useless.”

  She wasn’t laughing yet. “Then the stallion Leslie gave us as a wedding gift—”

  “A taunt.” Fury mixed with the old pain.

  “Were you…was your father ruined?”

  Still no laughter, but she had a rather soft, compassionate expression in her eyes. Pity? That was worse than laughter, so he straightened his shoulders and hardened his tone to show he no longer cared. “We had invested all our capital in one venture, and as the result of the malicious jest, we lost our horses. We lost our home.”

  “Would no one extend a loan?”

  This time he laughed. Not with merriment, but he laughed. “The trick the Fairchilds played made of us a joke. No one…” For one moment, humiliatingly, emotion closed his throat and he couldn’t speak. He shut his eyes and struggled for his usual impassivity. Something touched his arm; he grabbed for it and found himself holding a hand. Mary’s hand. Her fingers curled around his, their palms met, and she offered comfort with her touch. He opened his eyes and looked at her, and miraculously he could speak again. “It was actually a rather funny trick, the stuff farces are made of.”

  She murmured, a low, throaty disagreement.

  “So no one would loan money to us for fear of the scorn they would get.”

  The memory of that laughter still haunted him. That was why Leslie had taunted him with Mary’s infidelity. That was why he had reacted so violently when he thought Mary might have betrayed him.

  But she hadn’t, and surely she wouldn’t, not even in this matter of her fortune. When she had heard the whole story, then she’d do as he wished. “The Fairchild uncles made sure they came to witness our eviction from our home. My mother cried. My father just stood apart and watched as though his heart had broken. And I suppose it had, for he committed suicide less than a week later.”

  He was rather proud of himself. He had never said the words out loud—my father committed suicide—but he had this time, and he fancied he’d sounded normal.

  Mary squeezed his hand ever more tightly. And she wrapped her arm around his waist. And she pressed herself against him. And hugged him. Just as if he needed comfort.

  Which, he discovered, he did.

  “Poor little boy.” Mary’s voice shook. “How did you live? Did you go to relatives? Did your mother seek employment?”

  “No relatives.”

  “Lady Valéry, then.”

  “Lady Valéry is a friend from my father’s side of the family. Mother refused to go to her.” He embraced Mary fervently, not knowing how he could draw strength from a slip of a woman but finding he savored it more than…more than bread pudding. “And Mother couldn’t work. She…cried.” Until she was sick. Then she cried some more. An endless, relentless stream of tears. Whimpering, sighing, with never a word of solace for her bewildered son.

  Remembered agony tried to well up through the cracks of his composure, but he tamped it down with the ease of long practice.

  As if she didn’t realize how well composed he was, Mary rubbed her hand across his back and made shushing noises.

  He both disdained the comfort and relished it. Beneath her stroking hand he was melting like butter on a hot cross bun. “I worked. On the docks. When Mother died, I went to Lady Valéry. She smoothed the rough edges I had acquired and loaned me money to start my shipping business. I have since repaid the loan and she has made a tidy profit.”

  “Of course,” Mary murmured.

  Being in her arms had a narcotic effect, but he injected his lax muscles with resolution. “So you see why
you can’t give your fortune to the Fairchilds.”

  She released him so quickly, he swayed. She turned her back to him, walked away, stood looking out over the lands as he had earlier.

  Did she see wealth ill tended? Did she see ill-gotten gains? Or did she simply see the hint of lush summer green? He wanted to tell her to look below the surface, but somehow he feared to do so. Somehow he feared if he suggested she look closely at her own family, she would look closely at him, too. She would see the lad who had walked London’s streets looking for a job, and had found only other children, tougher children, who’d fought him, stripped him of his fancy clothes, and rolled him in the mud. She would see that lad hardening as he grew. She would see the times he’d stooped to theft, the times he’d been almost caught, the tears he’d wept when he’d come home to find nothing he’d done had been enough, and his mother had died of grief…

  Her words came to him on the breeze. “So you did marry me for my fortune.”

  That jerked him from his melancholy. “No!” He strode to her. “I tell you, you can take that money and fling it out the window, for all I care.”

  “But you did,” she said stubbornly. “You married me so the Fairchild fortune would never return to the Fairchilds.”

  “I never thought of such a thing.” He turned her to face him. “Good God, woman, why would I? I couldn’t have imagined you would come up with such a witless idea.”

  She didn’t answer, ignoring the story he’d just told. The story that so clearly explained why she couldn’t give her fortune to her family.

  He’d plastered over the hurts of the past. His parents’ betrayals no longer affected him. He’d been strong, stoic, enduring—until Mary had come into his life. Now he needed something, something he didn’t comprehend but something he knew she could give him, and instead of showing any kind of compassion, she whined about her family. In an unrehearsed and thoughtless phrase—all right, a stupid phrase—he gave an ultimatum. “Choose. Them or me.”

  In some wild part of his soul, he must have hoped she would enfold him in one of those gratifying embraces. When she just stared at him blankly, his stomach sank. His emotions seesawed from anguish to denunciation, from resentment to rage. Deep, bubbling rage. That, he knew how to release. “Fine.” He almost spat the word. “You don’t want me. You can have your precious Fairchilds, although I’ll be interested to see how they’ll react when you’re hanged as a murderess.”