“Turtle soup.”
“You’ll find I’m a very good cook. My mother taught me. Do you like Italian dishes?”
“Yes, but that is not one of your duties.”
Gina put down her spoon. “You didn’t tell me what my duties were, apart from, you know ….” She shrugged her slim shoulders.
Blair’s lips twitched. “Are you trying to provoke me?”
She reached for a bread roll and buttered it. “No, of course not. Shouldn’t I have said it?”
Blair choked back a laugh. “No. You should be more discreet.”
She took a bite of the roll with even, white teeth. “Milo always told me to call a spade a spade.”
“Milo, God rest his soul, may not have been the best person to teach you etiquette.”
Gina’s eyes flashed. “I suppose not, but he was honest. I’m not sure I can adopt your ways.”
Blair pushed his plate away. “Gina, if you have something you want to say to me then say it.”
“I wouldn’t wish to spoil your dinner.”
“Rest assured that you won’t.”
“I’ve heard people put quite a high price on turtle soup,” Gina said inconsequentially, “but to me it’s like brown salty water. I make a very hearty bean soup; it sticks to the ribs....”
“Gina?”
“Yes?”
Blair sighed. “You are being deliberately provocative. Why?”
Gina pushed back her chair, her eyes flashing. “You say you want me, then you go and leave me for hours and hours, and then when you return, I find you’ve been drinking.” She turned and ran into the bedroom.
Blair followed, finding her lying curled up on the bed. He sat beside her, stroking her hair, his fingers trailing down over the velvety skin to the tendrils of golden hair at her nape. He held his breath. She was just perfect.
“I’m sorry,” she said in small voice. “I must be tired. I’ll be more like you want, I promise.” She looked up at him and a tear sparkled in the corner of her eye. He wasn’t sure if it was from sorrow or anger.
Blair felt that now familiar twist in his gut. He could get in far too deep with this young woman. He took her hands and pulled her up. “I want you to be you,” he said lightly. “Come and finish your dinner.”
They ate the roast fillet of beef, asparagus and dish of vegetables almost in silence, maybe she thought of what followed. He certainly did, his fingers itched to slip that gown from her shoulders.
Gina exclaimed in delight as the butler served an elaborate confectionary made with ice cream in the shape of a fruit basket.
Blair sipped his coffee as he watched Gina eat two helpings. When she licked her full bottom lip with her tongue and sighed in ecstasy, his body hardened, and it was all he could do to stay at the table and not pick her up and carry her to the bedroom.
Finally, the servants had been dispatched for the night. Gina excused herself and went into the bedroom. Blair sat and smoked a cigar, deciding it would be wise to forego his usual brandy. When she called him, he stubbed out his cigar and walked quickly to the door.
Gina stood dressed in a garish, red chemise, trimmed with cheap, purple lace. Nothing he had bought her. Her full breasts pushed against the thin fabric and her blonde tresses, released from the pins, swung to her waist.
Black stockings adorned long, shapely legs. Blair’s mouth went dry. Despite the appalling outfit, she was magnificent. The tasteless chemise hid little of her lovely body. He longed to taste her strawberry nipples where they thrust through the material. The cheap clothes sullied her beauty. His body tightened and his breath shortened. “Take that off,” he growled.
“You do not like it?” Gina’s hands fluttered up to cover her bosom.
“I’m damned sure we didn’t buy that today.”
“It was a gift from my friend, Mabel. She’s a dancer in the theatre.”
Blair couldn’t contain himself, why did he feel guilty, and ashamed? “That’s where it belongs, Gina!” He didn’t trust himself to touch her. His fingers itched to tear them off. “Remove them at once.”
Gina hesitated. “Here, now, in front of you?”
Something was wrong here. He wished he hadn’t had that last brandy. Ridiculous to find he was wrestling with his conscience. “Off. Or I will.”
Gina looked into his eyes and shivered slightly at his determined expression. “No. I’ll do it.” She placed one foot on a chair and removed a stocking, rolling it slowly down. She shook it and hung it over the chair, then did the same with the next. Then she approached Blair with the stocking in her hand, winding it around his neck coquettishly. He reached out and brushed one nipple with his thumb and she laughed and darted out of his grasp.
Her actions threw him. What was she playing at? Blair leaned against the bed post, marveling at the grace of her movements and her lush body.
She peeled down the straps of the camisole. As the thin fabric fell away, she paused and her eyes sought his. He saw doubt there.
“Wait!” His voice sounded cold and indifferent as he fought against his pounding pulse and the urging of his body.
Gina flushed, and held the chemise against her chest in a defensive gesture.
“Who taught you to do this?” Blair asked.
Gina lifted her chin. “My friend, Mabel.”
“Have you ever performed this for another man?”
She hesitated, before giving a quick nod.
Blair crossed the room in two strides. He took her shoulders and drew her to him.
She raised her face for him to kiss, and breathing heavily, his lips plundered hers, probing in the cavern of her mouth with his tongue. Gina’s eyes flew open with shock.
Blair groaned, she was so sweet, and she was also what he had feared, an innocent. With every ounce of his strength, he drew away, holding her at arm’s length, and gazed down into her face. “Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we, Gina. Are you a virgin?”
“All right. Yes,” she threw at him and scurried over to grab a dressing gown. She wrapped it around herself, denying him her lovely body. “It was just a tiny lie. Does it matter so much? I am quick to learn.”
Still breathing heavily, he took a step back to distance himself from her. “I’m not in the habit of deflowering virgins. Do you really know what all of this means?” His gesture took in the entire apartment. “You must have had such advances from men before.”
She nodded.
“I was about to return to Ireland when you came to see me. It’s where I spend most of the year. If you stay with me, you will be marked as my mistress. Eventually, I suppose, although you will be handsomely compensated, I’ll choose to remain there with my family. Do you understand that? Do you, Gina?” he added softly.
“I have nowhere else to go,” Gina said simply. “I’m prepared to do my part.”
“I know you are,” he said softly. He wished the pounding of his blood would subside. He couldn’t take advantage of her innocence, for what would it make him? Suddenly everything fitted into place. He hadn’t wanted a mistress, which was probably the reason he hadn’t found one before now. He wanted to love and honor a wife. His mother urged him to marry Cathleen, a good friend who would fit well into the family. There would be little adjustment, no fights, no…passion. If he’d searched the earth, he could not have found two more different women than Gina and Cathleen.
“I think we should leave this until I return from Ireland.” He turned away to avoid the shocked and dismayed expression in Gina’s eyes. “I’ll be back in a few weeks. You will be comfortable here. I’ll leave enough money for all your needs. We’ll find a way to sort out your problems then. Will you be all right?”
Gina raised her chin. “Of course.”
“You must be tired. It’s been a long day. I’ll sleep in my dressing room tonight.”
When she heard the door close, Gina pulled off the hateful chemise and threw it into a corner. She crept under the bedcovers and lay awake for hours. Finally, as dawn broke, she fell
into an exhausted, deep sleep.
When she awoke it was broad daylight and Blair had gone.
* * *
Blair found his compartment in the train and threw himself down on the leather seat, his mind in turmoil. The whistle blew and the train chugged out of the station building up speed, too late now to change his mind and give in to the war raging within him.
During the night he had tossed about on the cot in his dressing room, fighting the urge to go to her. In the morning, before he left, he opened her door. If she’d smiled at him, he would have been lost, but he found her sleeping deeply, her glorious hair tangled over the pillow, a hand clasped against her dewy cheek.
He had to get away. He’d turned and hurried out, aware that he’d almost made the most serious mistake of his life.
He tried to read the newspaper but instead, gazed out of the window as the outskirts of London were replaced with green fields and hedgerows, putting distance between them. Maybe from a distance he could think clearly about how to help her. Instead of giving in to his own selfish needs.
Chapter Fifteen
Lord Ogilvie splashed water on his face. Gazing into the mirror, he dabbed at his chin with the towel. He’d cut himself shaving. He’d put off his London manservant and was now reduced to living like a serf. He had lost almost everything in that last card game. Now he didn’t have a high enough stake to enter another. Not until he’d returned to the castle to search for anything left worth selling. He’d be staking the castle next. That would end up a sore joke to the person who won it. His laugh cracked into silence.
Where had Giovanna Russo disappeared to? She had slipped away when his back was turned. He had been working hard to bring her down, and planned to have her on her knees, pleading to do anything he asked for. She would be a sorry thing then, wouldn’t she? And Blair Dunleavy, the cause of all his angst, would find the woman he so highly sought to be the worst kind of prostitute.
He tied his cravat deep in thought. Giovanna would make the perfect bait to draw Dunleavy away. Then he would kill them both. First her, and then Dunleavy. He would be very imaginative about it. Not a quick knife thrust as he’d dealt that Russo fellow. Nor a fire.
Enjoyable as that had been, it was only meant to send the chit back onto the street. It had succeeded, but where had she gone? Never mind, she would be easy to find in the theatres or among the artist colony, that was her life, what else did she have? Ogilvie frowned. Unless Dunleavy had already found her. He smiled as he shrugged on his coat. Then it would be two for the price of one.
***
Ireland
In his grey frock coat, matching trousers and a grey top hat, Blair strode down the Dublin street resisting the temptation to stroll through the Green. He wasn’t in the mood to contemplate nature. He hesitated beside the glossy, black fence rail at the stone entrance of Dunleavy Court, and gathered his thoughts before knocking.
He found his mother lying on a multi-striped, silk daybed in her bedchamber, with a ginger cat at her feet and a book in her lap. The room was busily furnished in florals and stripes and patterns, all mauves, pinks and purples. His mother’s favorite colors. Somehow, in a way that was beyond his understanding, it all worked together to produce a charming, warm atmosphere.
“Why did you leave Dunleavy House?” He bent to give her a kiss.
“I grow weary of the country now that I can’t do the things I used to enjoy. Dublin offers other delights.” She patted the bed beside her. “Tell me all the news. How was London?”
“Foggy, dirty, busy.” He perched on the edge of the daybed. It was a loaded question, but he had been expecting it.
“And alluring?” She sat up, with her hand on his arm, her eyes bright. “Have you met someone?”
Blair smiled at his mother’s perceptiveness. He shook his head, there were some things she need not know. Rising, he walked over to the window. There were picnickers on the green taking advantage of a perfect, early spring day. He took a deep breath; aware he’d run away from London like a coward. Even here in Ireland his thoughts remained in Hanover Square.
“You’re very quiet, Blair. Have you heard the news about Cathleen?”
“What news?”
“She is to marry Charles O’Reilly.”
He felt nothing but happiness for her. “I hadn’t heard. She will make Charles an excellent wife.”
“I always thought that you and she…”
“I know.”
“I doubted she was right for you,” she added.
Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Why not?”
She smiled mysteriously. “I’ll tell you one day.”
Blair frowned. “You can be annoying, Mother.”
“It pleases me to hear you say that,” she said, pushing away the cat. She took up the bell and rang it. “It means I’m getting through to you.”
“Can I escort you back to Dunleavy House?” Blair asked.
She shook her head. “I’m lunching with friends at the Shelburne. Would you care to join us?”
“To be honest I’m rather tired.” In truth, Blair was anything but tired. He couldn’t get Gina out of his thoughts. A war raged within him. Gina was indescribable and unlike anyone he had ever met. And heaven knew what Maeve would make of her, should they ever meet. Still, he could have stayed in Mayfair. Perhaps he should have. Gina had been prepared to become his mistress. But he’d been afraid that giving in to his base desires would destroy something fragile and wonderful. He needed time to understand his feelings. His brain refused to function when she was near.
His mother broke into his thoughts. “Lady Gregory has invited me to a play—The Shaughraun by Boucicault, and friends are urging me to attend their dinners and parties. You’ve become like a stranger here. Allow me to show off my handsome son to society. And there is someone I want you to meet.”
“Ten days, Mamma. Then I must return to London.”
She studied his face. “Very well,” she said, finally.
His mother always knew just how far she could push him.
Chapter Sixteen
Gina should be relieved that Blair had rejected her. But her heart ached and she felt dreadfully lonely. She’d come at a desperately low point in her life, abandoning her principles for him. If he’d taken her as his mistress, she would have been forever changed, and she doubted she’d be happy with that. She had to make a decision. It wasn’t right to stay here with him gone. The maid and butler danced attendance on her, but she knew they considered her to be on a lower rung of the social ladder. They probably sniggered behind her back. And the staff were so efficient, there was nothing left for her to do. She’d never lived the life of a lady, she liked to be busy and when Mary asked her for the umpteenth time if there was anything she required, Gina wanted to scream. She bit her tongue, and made up her mind. She had no intention of becoming a burden for Blair to have to deal with on his return.
The next morning, she rose early and dressed in her old apple-green gown, placing a tam-o-shanter over her hair. She swathed a plain brown shawl around her shoulders. The poorer and more insignificant she looked, the better.
Gina slipped out of the apartment. She was more conspicuous walking alone in this wealthy part of town than the crowded streets of Shoreditch. As she crossed the square, grey morning light filtered down through the tall buildings, leaching the street of color. The bare trees looked skeletal, and a chill wind rustled the dead leaves along the path. She shivered and pulled the shawl tighter, regretting her decision not to wear the blue-velvet coat with the Russian sable collar. Somehow it hadn’t seemed right to wear those clothes.
The noise deafening, the roads a tedious crawl of carriages, cabs and omnibuses. Gentlemen on business ogled and winked as she passed. Ladies dressed in their finery walked in pairs accompanied by their maids, hawkers yelled and merchants pushed their wheel-barrows piled with fruit and vegetables.
Keeping an eye out for Ogilvie’s cruel face in the crowd, Gina walked along
Oxford Street to Great Russell Street, and entered the gallery displaying two of Milo’s paintings.
The man with the handlebar moustache greeted her more warmly this time. “I’ve had great success with your father’s work,” he said, offering her a chair. “They have both been sold for a very decent amount.”
Gina sank into the chair as the lassitude of exhaustion swept over her. She realized how worried she’d been. “How much?”
“One hundred pounds.”
She frowned. “For each?”
The man gave his mustache a twist. “For both. I was surprised to find buyers, but Mr. Russo’s work has a certain charm. Regrettably, they have already become old-fashioned. Art is making great strides toward the new Century.”
“Bah!” Gina scowled at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Milo was a genius!” Gina was more incensed that he was denigrating Milo’s work than cheating her. “His work will still be great at the end of the next Century.”
The man laughed hollowly. “You are his daughter, of course you would think that.”
“It is the opinion of men far more expert than you!”
He opened a drawer and withdrew some banknotes. “If you wish me to sell any more of Russo’s paintings,” he said, avoiding her glare as he handed her the money, “I might do you a favor and consider them.”
Gina carefully counted the notes. “A painting of Milo’s brought four hundred pounds at auction. As you well know.”
The man shrugged. “That’s as may be. Markets fluctuate. And as I said before, your father’s paintings are less popular now that he’s dead.”
She tucked the money into her purse. “It will be a pleasure to know you have missed out when the rest of Milo’s paintings fetch high prices.”
She stood in the street, unsure what to do next. Three of Milo’s paintings were stored with his friend, Arthur Cowper in Holland Park. She would have to go there. Arthur would advise her. She clutched her purse. At least she now had money and, although far less than she’d expected, it bought her more time.
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