Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  But now, she had let her years of self-discipline slip. What had she been thinking? Certainly, it was apparent what he had been thinking. Cam’s vile suggestion was another hurtful reminder of the new disparity in their circumstances.

  And yet, it had not always been so. In Randy Rutledge’s day, English society had seen their families in much the same light; marginally acceptable, fashionably risqué, and nearly insolvent. Never received in the very best drawing rooms, but rarely given the cut direct by anyone. But now, their paths had diverged; his as a result of fate, when he’d married wealth and inherited a title, and hers by choice, when she had decided to make herself into something other than what her mother had been.

  Inwardly, she tried to laugh at how foolishly they had once planned their lives together. And when the worst had happened, her mother had known better than to press Randolph Rutledge for a wedding ring for her daughter. When a man was sly enough to avoid giving his light o’ love such a token, why would he trouble himself over her daughter? It had undoubtedly been a happy transaction all around. Randolph’s valuable heir was saved from a marital embarrassment, and with her daughter safely tucked away on the Continent, Maman had been able to shave yet another five years off her age.

  It was no relief at all to realize that Cam still wanted her, not when he thought her fit only to be his mistress. His mistress! Her blood ran cold at such a suggestion, though admittedly, it was not the first time a man had made such an overture. When a woman was in service, men quickly leapt to all manner of assumptions. Inexplicably, however, Cam’s offer had sounded much more vulgar, and far more rapacious, than any she had previously spurned.

  But what had she expected? What had she thought Cam meant when he dragged her across his lap and bared her breasts to his mouth? When he had touched her so intimately, and driven her nearly mad with need? Had it not been for those ugly words, spoken just as Helene clung to her last vestige of sanity, Cam would be buried deep inside her now. And when he had finished with her, Helene would have been buried with shame.

  It had taken a potent mixture of panic and indignation to pull herself up, half-naked, from Cam’s floor, with her composure intact. Yes, she looked like her mother, and was cursed with her mother’s appetites. But she was not—and would never be—like Marie Middleton.

  With the back of one hand, Helene wiped at the dampness of her cheeks and rummaged about for a handkerchief. Tomorrow she would speak to Cam about leaving. She would insist that she be allowed to renege on her agreement and return to Hampstead.

  But then she remembered the child. Ariane. Oh, she wanted so much to help her!

  And she remembered something else, too. She remembered Cam’s hard, cold eyes. She had gained the upper hand on him tonight, but it would not last. Cam had become an unyielding, exacting man. A powerful man. And he desperately wanted his child to get well. What if he simply refused to let her go?

  A part of her believed that Cam, for all his hard ways, was still an honorable man. And yet, her body remembered the burning intensity of his touch, the demanding grip of his hands. Did she really think she could ever win a contest of wills against Cam Rutledge?

  Suddenly, Helene’s thoughts were disturbed by a faint noise. The soft, swishing sound had seemingly come from beneath her bed. Grateful for the lamp which a maid had left burning low, Helene stared into the dimness of the room.

  Beneath the bed, something rustled. Abruptly, Helene pulled herself away from the door and walked closer. She heard the noise again, soft, yet unmistakable. “Mon Dieu!” she whispered. “Who is there?”

  After a long pause, two tiny hands poked out from beneath the hem of her counterpane, and with a minimum of effort, the rest of Ariane Rutledge slid out onto the carpet.

  “Oh, Ariane—!” Helene sat down on the edge of the bed, a wave of relief passing over her. “Dear child, you frightened me to death!”

  As pale and as silent as a ghost, Ariane wavered uncertainly by the bed in her nightclothes. Then, as if she had made up her mind about something, the child dug one hand deep into the pocket of her robe. Like a nervous squirrel, she darted forward, dropped a handkerchief into Helene’s lap, and skittered back again. She stood, hands clasped behind her back, starring fixedly at Helene.

  Helene remained calm. She had no doubt that any rapid movement on her part would send Ariane Rutledge scrabbling beneath the bed, clambering into a closet, or heaven forfend, leaping out a window. Forcing a smile, Helene lifted the little scrap of linen to wipe her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Ariane,” she said softly.

  Seemingly from nowhere, a draft stirred the hems of Ariane’s nightgown. Helene could almost believe that the child was an apparition which might well vanish on her next breath. In a halo of yellow-white floss, Ariane’s hair settled around her face, then flowed down her tiny shoulders, almost to her waist. The girl’s eyes were wide, and even in the dark, their stark blue color was haunting.

  “I daresay I’m a bit homesick, Ariane,” Helene gently prevaricated. “Did you guess my secret?”

  The child made no response, and so Helene ventured further. “Ariane, you have been watching me, have you not?”

  Her face flushing slightly, the little girl flicked her gaze upward, then made a slight, uncertain motion with her head, more a jerk than a nod. Yes, Ariane Rutledge understood virtually everything which was said to her—and everything she overheard, no doubt. Given the girl’s propensity for hiding, and the fact that some people undoubtedly treated her as if she were both deaf and dim-witted, heaven only knew what manner of things she might have overheard.

  Then, much to Helene’s amazement, Ariane took one step, and then another, but stopped a bit short of the bed. Gracefully, her tiny hand came up, two fingers outstretched, to touch her own pale cheek just below the eye, her expression gently inquiring.

  The child’s question was plain. In acknowledgment, Helene repeated the gesture. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I was sad. But now, I feel better. Your visit has made me feel better.”

  With a ghost of a smile, Ariane Rutledge disappeared, floating silently around the bed, and through the dressing room into the schoolroom.

  In the gray light of dawn, Cam awoke to discover a suffocating layer of guilt spread heavily across his chest, a sensation far more weighty than the heap of bedcovers that shut out the chill of the Cotswold morn. Had he been attentive enough to note that the hour was already advanced well beyond his rigid schedule, he would have been further exasperated.

  But Cam did not notice, for he had scarcely slept. Moreover, in those rare moments when he had managed to doze, he had quickly regretted it. Erotic dreams of his Circe writhing, naked and insatiable beneath him, had tempted him relentlessly until dawn.

  It was precisely what he deserved, too, he acknowledged, crawling naked from his bed and stumbling to the washstand to stare at himself in the mirror. “You, sir, are a pig,” he informed the bruised and haggard fellow who glared back at him. “And an idiot. And a libertine.”

  Yes, that about summed it up. He admitted it, now that his mind was clear of lust. Setting aside all the emotional turmoil which an affair with Helene would undoubtedly have caused him, only an idiotic libertine pig would have attempted to seduce his daughter’s governess, especially when Ariane so desperately needed one.

  What in God’s name had seized hold of his mind? Had he really offered to set Helene up in a love nest? He was ashamed he’d sunk low enough to ask. And heart-sick that she’d refused him. A pity she hadn’t smacked his teeth loose while she was at it. Indeed, a good, brisk slap would not come amiss just now.

  Well! There was yet another harrowing thought! Lately, he seemed to be developing a rather alarming penchant for pain, and at the moment, he absolutely craved it. Suddenly, an erotic vision of Helene—in a risqué black gown, impatiently flicking a leather crop against her thigh—danced wickedly through his mind. Cam felt his rod stir appreciatively.

  Oh, God! He clasped his face in his hands.
Was he really that unhinged? Abruptly, he leaned closer to the mirror and raked the hair harshly back off his forehead, studying his face. What did a depraved pervert look like, anyway? Cam snorted aloud. A vast deal like Randolph Rutledge, he rather suspected.

  For his part, though, Cam looked much as he always did in the mornings. A heavy black stubble of beard shadowed his tanned skin, and his eyes looked narrow and mean. Today, however, his usual glower was further enhanced by a yellowish bruise and a trickle of dried blood, evidencing Bentley’s well-planted facer. Cam straightened up and pensively scratched his bare belly. Good Lord. Perhaps it was a wonder Helene had ever desired him at all.

  Turning from the mirror with a sigh, Cam yanked the bell for Crane. He had business to attend. No matter what Helene had once been to him—and no matter what she had or hadn’t chosen to be to other men—the woman was now his employee. Helene’s passionate nature did not excuse his ungentlemanly behavior. Had he not learned that lesson long ago?

  Oh, Cam was angry with Helene. Both angry that she had tempted him, and angry that she had rejected him. But his anger was as irrational as his behavior, and he was man enough to admit it. As if atoning for his sins, Cam doused his head with cold water.

  Straightening up from the shock of it, he began to wonder if some arcane rule of physics made it impossible to sustain rational thought when Helene entered the room. It would have come as no surprise to Cam. After all, he’d deliberately set out to maintain his distance, yet within a matter of minutes, he’d dragged Helene across his lap, rucked up her skirts, and fondled her as if she were a tavern whore.

  It was almost laughable. The only thing Cam had kept at a distance was his code of honor. Now it was time to make amends, and it would take every inch of his self-control to do it. Nonetheless, he would apologize to Helene, and hope like hell that she did not abandon him—or Ariane. Please, God! Anything but that.

  Ariane was already intrigued by her new governess. That had to be a good sign, did it not? Already he had noticed the child peeping out at Helene through draperies, shadows, and potted palms. Moreover, during yesterday’s backgammon game, she’d looked almost at ease. Yes, there was hope—if he did not ruin it.

  Across the room, the door swung inward on silent hinges. “Good morning, my lord,” said Crane. A fresh towel lay neatly across his stout arm and he carried a burnished brass water can.

  “Morning,” returned Cam with measured reluctance, plopping down to be shaved.

  The old valet leaned forward to set down his burden with a grunt. He peered at his master’s face. “Nasty bruise, m’lord, if you don’t mind my mentioning it.”

  “I do.”

  Crane shrugged and tipped the brass can forward to fill a porcelain bowl. “Going to be the devil to shave around that lip,” he murmured in a cautionary tone.

  “You have my full faith and confidence,” grumbled Cam.

  Crane merely smiled, and opened up the towel with an artful snap of his wrist. “And does young Mr. Bentham look any worse?” he ventured, flicking open the razor and laying it to one side.

  “Aye, a bit,” admitted Cam with a snort of satisfaction. As the valet tucked the towel around his neck, Cam’s brows drew together. “Lay out my old brown breeches and frieze coat when we’re finished, please, Crane,” he added.

  “Very good, my lord,” he murmured, leaning over him to soap up a lather. “Planning to help clear the south fields today, are we?” he added, after a moment had passed.

  Cam jerked a little straighter in his chair. “I might do. Why do you ask?”

  Crane merely shrugged, his razor poised, high and glinting. “Well, my lord, you have that look,” he said, neatly laying the blade to Cam’s face and drawing it neatly down.

  Cam gave his valet a hard stare until the blade lifted. “Blister it, what look?” he asked. “I don’t fancy I have any sort of look at all.”

  The old valet made a sort of tsk, tsk, noise. “That rather penitent expression which comes over you, my lord,” Crane clarified, taking another expert stroke. “It inevitably signals your intent to engage in the filthiest, most grueling chore to be found. A tad unseemly for a man of your station; nonetheless, today is the day to clear fieldstone for fencing and I know—”

  “Damn it all, Crane, just shave!” interjected Cam irritably. “If I wanted to be rigged-out by a bloody fortune teller, I’d go fetch myself a gypsy wench.”

  By the time Cam strode downstairs to breakfast, he had realized his tardiness, and the knowledge had not enhanced his mood. It was the worst possible day for Bentley to have arisen early. No matter Cam’s schedule, it had always been a certainty that he would have dined long before Bentley bestirred himself from bed.

  And so it was with a great deal of shock, and no small amount of exasperation, that Cam stepped into the dining room to find his younger brother polishing off a thick slab of ham and what appeared to have been, only moments earlier, a whole loaf of bread.

  Of all the horrors of the preceding evening, Cam had decided that Bentley constituted the least of his concerns. Aside from the inevitable taunts, Bentley would keep his mouth shut about Helene, for the boy was that most perplexing of combinations, both a scoundrel and a gentleman. As for Cam, he had been humiliated by his young sibling’s mockery, it was true. But he was rapidly reaching the conclusion that humiliation was good for the soul when it was deserved. Moreover, he’d often seen Bentley at his worst, and it was no pretty sight.

  Cam therefore resolved to ignore his brother. If the boy continued to plague him, Cam would simply drag him along to haul fieldstone for the remainder of the day. Perhaps they would stay at it for the rest of the week. Cam was not yet certain just how much penance would be required—from either of them.

  He gritted his teeth and boldly entered the dining room. Bentley’s bruises were indeed apparent. “Hmph,” Cam grunted, striding toward the head of the long mahogany table. “Up at cock-crow nowadays, are we?”

  Lavishly buttering a second chunk of bread, Bentley elevated his eyebrows suggestively. “Ah, perhaps one oughtn’t assume I went to sleep, Brother.”

  “Just bugger off, Bentley,” retorted Cam in a silky undertone as he slid into his chair. “Or I’ll have that skinny arse of yours planted in the south pastures for the week. And you’re sober enough now, I’ll warrant, to take a proper drubbing, too.”

  Bentley merely grinned, then bit voraciously into his bread. It only served to further irritate Cam. His brother’s unflagging ability to waste an evening in debauchery, only to arise hale and hearty on the morn, had always aggravated him. The aggravation was especially acute on this particular day, when Cam’s stomach roiled at the mere sight of food for no reason whatsoever, while his brother wolfed down breakfast like a half-starved cur.

  When Cam continued to glare across the table, Bentley wiped the grin off his face and set down his knife with a sharp chink. “Had to roll out a bit earlier than usual,” he finally explained. “I’m to take Aunt Belmont to Cheltenham today.”

  “To Cheltenham?” asked Cam, motioning to the footman for his toast. “Whatever for?” He stared across the table at Bentley’s plate, which was filled near to overflowing. Good God, did the boy suffer no ill effects from alcohol?

  “Horses,” mumbled Bentley, chewing around another generous mouthful of ham as he forked up his eggs. “Dawson’s got a pair of grays he’s hoping to foist off, so I thought I’d best go along.” He winked at Cam. “Got to protect the ladies, right?”

  Just then, a thin shadow fell across the table. Cam looked up to see Helene lingering uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Oh,” she said, clutching her hands in an awkwardly girlish gesture. “I thought to be the first down.”

  Cam and Bentley rose from the table at once, but it was Bentley who made her a sweeping, theatrical bow. “Ah, a ray of early morning sunshine!” he cried. “Do brighten our table, Miss de Severs.”

  Helene wavered in the doorway. “Oh, no indeed! I would not w
ish to ... to intrude,” she said hesitantly. “I usually breakfast alone.”

  “Ah, yes, but we are left to suffer the loss, eh, Cam?” answered Bentley, grinning shamelessly at his brother.

  In response, Cam grabbed the back of the chair nearest him, and yanked it out with a scrape. “By all means, do sit down, Miss de Severs.”

  “Yes, by all means,” echoed Bentley, reseating himself as Helene reluctantly accepted the chair. Without instruction, a footman came forward with coffee as Bentley grinned down the table at his brother.

  After a quarter-hour of casual conversation, all of it prompted and carried by Bentley, the young man pulled the linen serviette from his lap and rose. “Well, this has been exceedingly pleasant, Miss de Severs. I say, I have a capital idea! Why do you not join us for dinner each evening?”

  “I—well, I ...”

  Bentley gave her a brilliant smile. “But I think you ought, rather than leave us bachelors alone to wallow in our miserable fraternity.” His voice took on a pleading desperation as he pressed the back of one limp hand to his forehead. “Indeed, you should take pity on my youth and vivacity, ma’am! Cam’s an insufferably dull dog. I languish in his company.”

  Already suffering from embarrassment, Helene felt a flush of heat rise to her face and politely waited for Cam to charge into the fray with some diplomatic interdiction. It was not her place to inform young Bentley that his brother had never asked her to dine with the family. Moreover, a tray in her room seemed infinitely preferable to choking down food under Cam’s cold scrutiny. Indeed, she very nearly choked on her coffee at Cam’s next words.

  “An excellent suggestion,” he smoothly responded. “We dine at seven, Miss de Severs, if that suits?”

  Cam noted the expression of alarm which spread across Helene’s face as she watched Bentley seize an apple from the silver epergne, then ramble out of the dining room, casually polishing it on his coat sleeve. Helene looked rather like a mouse left to break her fast with a starved cat, and Cam liked it little better. The thought of dining with Helene now, and for every evening hereafter, was daunting.