Still…She sighed for what might have been, and could never be, and then—feeling more than a little wicked—continued her shameless examination. His ruffled shirtfront was torn, and gaped open almost to the waist; Allegra’s eyes followed the path from his chin, with its slight indentation, down the sinews of his neck to the patch of dark-brown curls on his chest, and on to the sleek ridge of muscle below that rose and fell with his soft breathing. The sight of his strong torso only increased the thumping in her breast; she dared not cast her eyes beyond the waistband of his breeches.
She gasped in sudden shock as she felt a band of steel clamp around her wrist. Her glance flew back to Ridley’s face. Though he still lay in the same position, he was now awake and alert; he had wrapped his strong fingers around her wrist and was pulling her toward him.
Time seemed to stop. Allegra caught her breath, enchanted by what she saw. His eyes were like golden honey, liquid amber that warmed and bathed her with a tender light. His mouth hinted at a smile, and his full, soft lips invited intimacies of which she could scarcely dream. She trembled in every nerve of her body.
Then—it was an almost imperceptible shading, like the wisp of a cloudlet across the sun—everything changed. The amber crystallized. Those melting eyes were now the eyes of a tiger ready to pounce; they belonged in this exotic room. The soft curve of his mouth, which had stirred her but a minute before, now became a wolfish smirk. His eyes boldly dropped to her bosom, then returned to her face. He ran his tongue across his lips in a gesture that was hungry, sensual, mocking.
Allegra was suddenly aware of the heat of his burning hand on her wrist. She felt a prickly sensation on the back of her neck that was fear and a strange longing all at once. “Please, milord, let me go,” she murmured.
He chuckled softly. “The fair Allegra.” His voice was a whispered, seductive croak. “I knew that you would come to me sooner or later. But I scarce expected that you were as eager as this.”
He couldn’t possibly believe that she had come to offer herself! She was too dismayed to do more than stammer. “But, milord…I did not…it isn’t so…”
He grinned. “Has the heat of your passion tied your tongue?”
“You misunderstand, milord,” she said, more anxious than ever to make him see that she hadn’t come to submit to his desires. Nor ever would, God save her! “I…only came into your closet because I wondered if I could be of service.”
The grin deepened into a leer. “Yes. My point precisely. There is but one worthy service a beautiful woman can render to a man. And here you are.”
She cursed her own stupidity, her unwise choice of words. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I told you, milord, I’ll not be—”
“My whore? Yes, I remember. But perhaps I want you to be my lover.” He purred the word, his eyes scanning her face. “There is a world of difference, you know. Begad, ’twould be very agreeable to wake in the morning with you beside me in a bed, warm and contented after a night of passion. To hear that deep, musical voice of yours as I struggled up from a dream.”
She hated him for his despicable attempts at seduction. For tender words that only a fool would trust. Why was he any different from the indolent, lecherous landholders she had seen in the Colonies? From Squire Pringle, who had been content to use her mother as though she were no more than a device for his pleasure? Ridley was probably a good deal worse than any of them—with his gin and his claret and his carnal self-indulgence. “I think it more likely you would struggle up from a drunken stupor than a dream, milord!” she said sharply.
His hand tightened on her wrist with such savagery that she flinched in pain. His eyes flashed in warning. “I expect more civility from you, now that you belong to me,” he growled. “My property for a year, lest you forget. I have the right to lay hands on you as I wish, to ensure your obedience. Do I make myself clear?”
She felt a thrill of terror. The brute was physically powerful and dangerous. Capable of beating her, or…who knew what? They were quite alone, with no one to restrain him. And, God help her, had he killed his wife, as the rumors said? She tried to keep the fear from her voice. “Will you show yourself to be no better than Sir Henry?” she asked, hoping the memory of Crompton’s cruelty would shame him.
The man was incapable of shame, that was apparent. He shrugged in indifference. “You’re scarcely worth the effort it would require. Or the ruin of a good riding whip. However, I could order Mrs. Rutledge to punish you for your saucy tongue. She’s an unpleasant woman, with a sharp temper besides. And a hunger for gold that would do King Midas proud. I’m sure, for a crown or two, she would do whatever I asked. Hot pepper on that tongue of yours, perhaps. Or a sound thrashing, so you couldn’t sit for a few days.” His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile and he stared at her, seeming to gauge her reaction to his threats.
No, by heaven, she thought. If he was waiting for her to cringe or beg for mercy, it would be a cold day in hell before she would show fear! Not to this devil! She kept her expression bland.
He began to laugh. “Egad! Not a flutter. Fearless, aren’t you? Perhaps we shall have to resort to boiling oil, or some such.” He laughed again. “On the other hand, I might spare you—for a forfeit. Give me a kiss.”
She drew in a shocked breath. “Beg your pardon, milord, but I will not.”
He grunted in annoyance and gave a sharp twist to her arm. She cried out. She found herself forced to bend low, her face just above his, merely to keep him from snapping her bones like kindling. “I shall not let you go,” he said coldly, “until I get my kiss.”
It was madness to fight him. Clearly he had no scruples about breaking her arm. Ah, well. What did it matter? A moment of unpleasantness, and then she could escape him. She sighed and planted her mouth on his.
She was totally unprepared for the sweet gentleness of his mouth. It moved softly under hers, as though he were seeking the precise angle at which their lips would be perfectly joined—one rounded swell pressed against the other as though they had been formed for just this divine union. She felt his other hand at the nape of her neck—stroking, caressing, his long fingers cool on her bare flesh as he held her head to his. If he meant to prevent her from raising her head, it was a wasted gesture. Nothing would have persuaded her to end the kiss. Heaven help her, if he wished to keep her lips on his until the end of time she would be willing! She had never thought a man’s kiss could stir her so.
She felt abandoned when he suddenly jerked his head away from hers, pushed her upright and released her wrist. It was so brusque and surprising that she nearly toppled backward. But surely he had felt something of what had moved her. The thrill of surprise and discovery that left her still quivering. “Milord…” she whispered.
He groaned and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Go away,” he said tiredly. “I’m finished with you. My head hurts.”
“You will be needing your breakfast, Sir Greyston.” Ridley’s valet, Jagat Ram, stood in the doorway. His voice was gentle, and his liquid, deep-set eyes were warm with concern. He bore a tray that held a cup and saucer, a chocolate pot, a plate of buttered sweet cakes, and a small flask. Behind him stood Briggs, with a sheaf of papers.
Grey shifted his body on the couch and groaned again. “Help me to sit up, Ram. And put away that bloody tray. I’ve not felt so vile in a long time. My head, my guts…Not even the thought of that gin holds any appeal.” He glanced at Allegra. His lip curled in supreme boredom. “Are you still here, girl?” he drawled.
She glared at him, wondering if he could see the hurt, the anger, on her face. It had been deliberate—his cruelty. He wasn’t a fool, after all. He had to know what he’d done. The seductive words, the sweet kiss, and then—when she was trembling, humbled, almost willing to abandon herself to him—the blunt, brutal dismissal. She scowled at him in pure hatred. It would be worth even a beating to speak her mind.
“If you must get drunk, milord,” she said, “you had best stay with gin. Too much cla
ret is poison for your head and guts. It dries out your brain and corrupts your liver. Any half-wit in an alehouse knows that!”
Briggs looked alarmed at her insolence to the master, but Grey only laughed. “Are you a storehouse of rustic lore as well as a saucy wench?” he asked.
“I only know common sense. Have your stillroom maid mix you up something for a good vomit. Then you’ll be restored. To your usual disposition, milord,” she added sarcastically. She gave a halfhearted curtsy. “I’m needed in the laundry,” she said, and swept out the door into Ridley’s bedchamber.
“Allegra!” Briggs came hurrying after her.
She stopped, and bobbed politely. He, at least, deserved a respectful greeting. “Mr. Briggs.”
“You spoke of the stillroom. Are you yourself trained in the arts of distilling and perfumery and cures?”
She nodded. “At my previous employ, I was expected to know all the skills of a goodwife. And there was a library of old herbals, as well as secret family recipes, that I was permitted to use.”
“And do you remember them?”
“A great many. God has blessed me with a clear memory.”
He smiled in pleasure. “Good! Mrs. Rutledge will be relieved. The last stillroom maid left a week ago, and we have despaired of finding another. Come with me. You’ll concoct Lord Ridley’s cure, and then we shall speak to Mrs. Rutledge about your new duties.”
The stillroom to which Briggs led her—an airy little space off to itself on the lower ground floor—was in a state of disarray. A jumble of porcelain bowls, glass beakers, and mixing spoons was spread across the shelves that lined the room. Some of the vials and bottles that held curative powders and other ingredients were lying open, their contents scattered. Although many of the containers were identified by crude, scribbled labels affixed to them with paste or tied on with string, more than a few bottles were unmarked. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams, but they were so old and faded that Allegra supposed most of them were useless by now. The large work table in the center of the room held several alembics, the cone-topped tin vessels used for distilling; they seemed serviceable, but sorely in need of polishing. And the equipment for making complicated confections—molds for jellies, cutters for marzipan, flat pans for candying nuts and fruits—was stacked in a chaotic pile. There was a small, open charcoal stove, placed under the latticed window so that the dangerous fumes given off by the coals as they burned would be dispelled; no one, it seemed, had bothered to rake out the old cinders or sweep away the ashes.
“A fine enough stillroom,” said Allegra. “Though it wants a bit of orderliness,” she added with a smile that held a gentle reproach.
Briggs looked embarrassed, his cheeks turning red. “Yes…well, there have been a number of girls…and the last one left in rather a haste.”
Allegra snorted. “His Lordship’s exceeding charm, no doubt?”
The blush deepened. “His Lordship’s example, I fear. The creature had a fondness for the cordials she distilled.”
Allegra reached up to one of the shelves and took down several small bottles, which she unstoppered. “I hope she has left me with some kind of ardent spirits, at the very least.” She took a deep sniff from each bottle, then nodded in satisfaction. “Yes. Good. This one is a strong aqua vitae, I think.” She poured a little of the liquor into a clean glass, then rummaged among the shelves for the rest of her ingredients, murmuring their names aloud to herself as she searched and sniffed. Now and again she dabbed her finger into a powder or liquid to place it on her tongue and taste. “A spoonful of stonecrop. Alum. Is there mustard here? Yes. Here it is. A drop of verjuice. Let me see…what else? We shall make His Lordship well in no time, Mr. Briggs.”
He smiled uneasily as she mixed and stirred, adding strange ingredients of various hues. “So long as you don’t kill him with the remedy!”
Allegra laughed. “For a few moments, God knows, he’ll wish he were dead. But perhaps ’twill lead him to more wisdom the next time he is tempted by a bottle of claret or sack.”
By the time they returned to Ridley’s closet, he was up and sitting in a chair. He had a cloth tucked around his neck, and his valet was just finishing his shave. It was the first time Allegra had seen him with smooth cheeks; he was even more handsome than before. “I’ve brought your cure, milord,” she said, holding out the glass.
Briggs cleared his throat and waved the papers that he still held. “Shall I return for your decision on this when you’re feeling better, milord?”
“No. Stay.” Ridley pulled off his neck cloth and reached for the glass. “This won’t take long, will it, girl?”
“No. But I should have a basin nearby, if I were you.”
He smiled in mockery and nodded toward a small open door. “I shall retire to the privacy of my dressing room when the moment arrives. You shall not be privy to my discomfort, however much it might please you.”
“I take no joy from others’ distress,” she said tartly. “I had thought to go to the kitchen, to have them prepare a water-gruel and some broth for you.” She scowled at the flask of gin from Jagat Ram’s tray, placed close to Ridley’s elbow. Was the man ready to begin drinking again, as soon as he was cured? “A sensible diet, for one day at the very least, wouldn’t be amiss,” she scolded. She swallowed her anger at his stupid self-destruction, curtsied and turned to go.
His voice, cold and dark with malevolence, stopped her. “Did I give you leave to depart, girl? You will stay, damn it, until you are dismissed!”
Allegra turned, her heart contracting in sudden fear.
He had risen from his chair, and now towered over her. “Did you think to get off scot-free?” he asked. His eyes bored into hers, filled with menace and danger. “You will stay. If your cure works, I shall forgive your presumptuous manners. After that you may go to the kitchen and arrange my diet for the rest of the day. If it doesn’t work…what had we decided? A good thrashing? Boiling in oil?”
Despite his intimidating height and the satanic gleam in his eye, she was beginning to wonder if his bark was worse than his bite. He was free with his threats, that was sure. But Squire Pringle would have long since blackened her eye for speaking out of turn as she had.
She stared defiantly at Ridley, her chin set, and willed her body to still its frightened trembling. He glared back at her; she surrendered before his superior power and dropped her glance. “I trust you will be cured in no time, milord,” she murmured.
He laughed, an unexpected response. “What a contradiction. Brazen one moment, and servile the next. What do you really think of me, I wonder?”
She smiled blandly. She would reveal nothing that this devil could use against her. “The sooner you take your potion, milord, the sooner you will be restored.”
“Indeed.” He took a tentative sip of the liquid, made a face and closed his eyes. He inhaled a deep breath, as though he were working up the courage, then downed the contents of the glass in one long gulp. He shuddered, grunted, opened his eyes and curled his lip in disgust. “Could you not have contrived to make it taste better?”
The cool smile remained on her face. “Yes,” she said softly. She ignored Briggs, whose eyes seemed to beg her to remember her place.
Ridley’s hands knotted into fists, and his dark, shaggy brows came together in a fearful scowl. “Now, by God,” he thundered, pacing the floor from one side of the small room to the other, “you will stay until this is done, and then we shall deal with your insolence! I’ll not tolerate the brass of an impudent little baggage who hasn’t the sense or wit to be grateful that I’ve saved her life! Crompton would have skinned you alive, whilst I am expected to endure insults—not the least to my stomach and palate! Well, by heaven, I…Christ’s blood!” He gasped and gulped and clutched at his belly, then dashed for his dressing-room door, Ram following close behind. The sounds of violent retching came from the little room.
Briggs glared at Allegra. “Are you quite mad?” he said in a l
ow voice.
She sighed. What was it about Ridley that kept her from guarding her tongue? Always before, she’d had the sense to know when to be humble, when to defer to the master. She sighed again. “No doubt I am, Mr. Briggs.”
“Well, I think he can be soothed. I’ve seldom seen him strike a servant, for all his bluster. And never a female.” He smiled ruefully. “Of course, there is always a first time. And you seem to have touched a rare anger in him. You would be wise to keep a distance between you whenever you can, and mind your manners when he is near. Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. Wait for permission to leave his presence. And, for the Lord’s sake, hold your saucy tongue!”
The unhappy sounds from the dressing room had stilled. After a few minutes, Ridley came staggering back to the closet and sank into a chair. His face had gone white, but his eyes seemed brighter and more alert. He looked past Allegra as though she were invisible and smiled wanly at Briggs. “The chit at least has healing skills to match her impudence. Give her a shilling for her trouble. Now, what were those papers?”
Allegra waited while Briggs explained the correspondence, which seemed to have come from Ridley’s secretary in London. It was clear that she was expected to stay until Ridley chose to speak to her or let her go. Perhaps the humiliation of being ignored, of being treated like a piece of furniture in the room, was to be her punishment. Or perhaps he had something worse in mind. She bit her lip in consternation. Baniard patience or no, she would almost have preferred a quick cuff on the ear and an immediate dismissal to this waiting and wondering. And dreading.
“If you will but read through these letters, milord,” said Briggs, ending his report by proffering the papers he held, “you will see that the sale of that piece of land in Windsor will earn you a nice profit.”
Ridley dismissed the papers with a bored wave of his hand. “I take your word on it. Gifford agrees on the wisdom of selling now?”
“Yes. The price won’t go any higher, he says. And the land itself isn’t prime.”
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