Fascination -and- Charmed

by Stella Cameron

  She felt him laugh. They had reached a corner that was perilously close to her destination.

  “I will set you down here,” he told her, drawing his great horse to a halt. “But I will watch until you are safely inside the house.”

  “I must enter from the gardens,” she said.

  “Just so.”

  His arm tightened around her and he shifted to dismount. Without meaning to, Pippa gripped the horse’s mane in one hand and Calum’s sleeve with the other.

  “What is it?” he asked, concern heavy in his deep voice. “Are you afraid? Only say so, and I will take you with me now.”

  He was headstrong. She must be wise for both of them. “I am not afraid.”

  “There is something you want, then? Tell me.”

  “I want to…” Oh, she could not believe herself. “I want to thank you for your kindness,” she said quickly and slackened her grip.

  He dismounted and lifted her to stand before him. “You’re certain that’s all you want to say to me now?”

  “Yes.” But what she wanted to do was run her hands over him. All of him. A heaviness pressed downward inside her lowest places. Goodness, what could it be that made all this happen? She wanted to run her hands—and her lips—all over him, and she wanted to do so when he wore no clothes. Not a single item. Not a stitch.

  “Goodbye, then, Pippa. For now.”

  “Yes. Goodbye.” She began to run. “Goodbye!”

  She was completely mad. Only a mad female would have such evil thoughts, and she knew they were evil even from the rather peculiar teachings the dowager had given her on the subject of intimate behavior between husbands and wives.

  At the entrance to a passageway leading to the rear of Franchot House, she paused and glanced back. Calum stood there, bareheaded, his hand raised in a wave.

  Pippa gave the most insignificant of waves in return, ducked her head and sped to the little gate in the high wall around the gardens.

  Mad, mad, mad!

  An evil, carnal spirit. Why, the dowager had informed her that all men were evil, carnal spirits who required the sacrifice of a woman’s body to satisfy the appetites of those spirits. The dowager had said, in a voice one might use to discuss a nuncheon menu, that it was a woman’s duty to lie supine, retaining only those garments her husband permitted her to retain, whilst he “did with her what he would.” The inference—or so it had seemed to Pippa—was that “what he would” might entail a considerable amount of touching one—with various parts of himself. She visualized Franchot’s moist lips and equally moist palms, and shuddered.

  Shunning the unpleasant thought of going into the house by the nasty potting shed again, she had decided to trust the activity she knew prevailed inside Franchot House as an adequate diversion and use the conservatory for her departure and return.

  She crept along in the shadow of a tall hedge. Then came the part that was most critical. This was where she had to leave the cover of the topiary gardens and dash across open lawns to the terrace and the conservatory.

  Pippa began to run.

  On the one occasion when Franchot had attempted to kiss her, she had turned her face away and his wet mouth had slithered across her cheek to her ear—which he proceeded to bite rather painfully. And whilst he did all this, he contrived to clutch—equally painfully—at one of her breasts. Pippa wrinkled her nose and felt quite sick at the memory.

  She gained the terrace, and then the conservatory door. Then she was inside with the door closed behind her. Blessedly, there was no one in sight.

  As a wife, she was supposed to submit to beastly pawing from her husband, and she did not like the thought of that one bit.

  With such haste that she began to pop buttons, Pippa ripped off Saber’s green coat and divested herself of the woolen cravat.

  Really, she was so puzzled by herself. She considered the idea of her husband touching her bare skin abominable, yet…Oh, dear, what a bother all this was. She wanted to run her hands all over Calum Innes’s bare body. She wanted to “do with him what she would.” Whatever that might be.

  Lady Philipa Chauncey was an evil, carnal spirit.

  Really! Who would have thought it?

  She retrieved the apricot velvet mantle she’d hidden in a cupboard where the gardeners kept supplies and slung it around her shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the nearest planting bed, she hauled off the boots.

  Before she could pull on her slippers, the door into the conservatory from the little salon opened. Shaking in her agitation, she finished putting on her shoes and turned to stuff Saber’s coat and boots into the cupboard.

  “Pippa!” Justine whispered hoarsely. “Thank goodness. I was so afraid you wouldn’t get back before someone came looking for you. I’ve had to put that poor little maid of yours to bed and have the housekeeper told she’s ill.”

  “Why?” Pippa asked, alarmed.

  “Because she’s frantic with worry about you, of course. As am I. What exactly did you do to them?”

  Pippa shut the door on the evidence of her escapade and faced Justine. “It will all work. There will be no duel.”

  “Certainly not this day,” Justine said severely, but her pretty mouth began to twitch. “I cannot believe I have involved myself in this. It is not at all like me.”

  Pippa tossed her head. “On the contrary, I think it is probably exactly like the real you. The you that you were meant to be.”

  “We will not discuss that notion further.” Justine slipped her hand beneath Pippa’s arm and limped beside her into the salon. “We must be careful getting you to your rooms. The entire house is in an uproar, people rushing hither and thither. The physician has been here for several hours.”

  “They will live,” Pippa said, but she did feel a little ashamed. “What of the dowager?”

  “Grandmama has also taken to her bed. She says she will not come down until all this nonsense is over.”

  “Very wise. Perhaps we should follow her example.”

  A careful reconnaissance of the vestibule outside the salon confirmed the confusion that reigned in Franchot House. “They will never notice us,” Pippa said, thinking aloud. “Come, we will go to my rooms together.”

  She was right. Servants dashed up and down staircases. Folded linens or steaming jugs of water filled their hands and arms and they scarcely spared a glance for the two women.

  They gained Pippa’s lofty chambers and Justine immediately turned upon her future sister-in-law. She plunked her fists on her slim hips. “Now,” she said. “I thought you said you intended to use some mild device to accomplish our ends. I want you to tell me exactly what you did to my brother and his friends.”

  Pippa gestured airily. “Very little, really. I merely employed one or two remedies my nanny found cause to administer to me when I was a small girl. Senna was for those times when everything that went into me did not seem anxious to leave me in an acceptable period of time.”

  Justine’s cheeks turned fiery red and she whispered, “Pippa.”

  “And then there was ipecac. My nanny found that necessary when—through my own headstrong nature—certain things went into me that should not have done so and which she wished to retrieve.”

  “Pippa.”

  “Mmm. One doesn’t tend to forget such moments. Anyway, in order to ensure that my fiancé and his friends were completely—er—emptied of anything undesirable they might have partaken of last evening, I added the appropriate substances to their final four bottles of hock. And to the two bottles of cognac with which they completed their revelry. How fortunate for them that I had the foresight to save them from the dreadful headaches they would have suffered today.”

  “Oh, Pippa. Oh, my, they are so…unwell.”

  “I should imagine they are unwell,” Pippa said matter-of-factly. “I should imagine they hardly know which end is up, so to speak.”

  Charmed Nine

  “If this don’t beat all,” Struan said in a low tone. He elbowed Calu
m, who sat beside him on one of the damnably uncomfortable benches in Christie’s auction rooms.

  “Not now,” Calum said. London’s premier auction house had never paid particular mind to the comfort of its patrons. A small fire spitting to one side of the large room did little to soften Spartan surroundings. Calum moved forward on the bench. “The Reynolds should be up next. Arran’s been lusting for this piece. If we get it, he’ll have to hide it. Grace will say it’s a boring waste of money.”

  A wave of muttering arose around them, and more than a few exclamations of awe went up.

  “Calum—”

  “There it is,” Calum said as one of Reynolds’s distinctively rococo-style portraits was hoisted onto a high easel for the edification of the well-heeled crowd. Light from the square, glassed-in dome overhead lent a golden glow to the subject’s painted face. Calum leaned forward for a better view. “I must say I’m glad Arran decided to return to Scotland—not that I don’t enjoy his company, of course.”

  Struan’s strong fingers, digging into his arm, finally captured Calum’s attention. “Don’t look now,” Struan whispered, “but London’s most celebrated coward is, as we speak, approaching. And the boy in green is on his arm.”

  “Don’t mention that,” Calum said through barely parted lips. “Ever.”

  “Damn me,” Struan said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s actually hunting you down, old chap.”

  “Can’t be.” Not turning to look at Pippa—and Franchot—tested Calum’s will beyond endurance. He had been unable to keep those intelligent, dark blue eyes, or the touch of full, tremblingly soft lips, from his mind for anything but brief periods in the four days that had passed since the “duel.”

  “He is, I tell you. He’s coming this way. He must have gone to Hanover Square and been told you were here. Boy—sorry—lady-in-green is on his arm, with La Hoarville bringing up the rear in the company of one Henri St. Luc, if memory serves.”

  “Face the auctioneer,” Calum commanded. “For my sake.”

  Dutifully, Struan did as he was asked and said, “As you will,” in a tone that left no doubt as to his reluctance. “This is a good time to mention that I returned to Whitechapel last night.”

  “You what?” Calum turned sharply sideways on the bench—and looked into the troubled, dark blue eyes of Lady Philipa Chauncey. Instantly he leaped to his feet. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, avoiding acknowledging Franchot.

  The memory of their last meeting was instantly between them—and the knowledge that he had asked her to leave Franchot for him but that she had refused. She lowered her eyes and allowed him to take her hand. He bent to touch his lips to her fingers and felt her tremble. Surely Franchot must feel that quaking in the woman on his arm.

  “You’re a difficult man to confront, Innes,” Franchot said. “I’ve been sending messages for days.”

  This time Calum looked the man in the face. “I am a difficult man to confront, Your Grace?” He heard the offering for the Reynolds begin.

  “It is absolutely imperative that we speak,” the duke said. His face was not quite as Calum remembered. He appeared haggard, with purple smudges beneath his eyes, and his clothes might almost have been intended for a slightly larger person. “It was not…I was too incapacitated to come myself before today. Please, Mr. Innes. This is a very delicate matter. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me fiancée and meself—and our companions—for a short promenade along the Mall?”

  “Viscount Hunsingore and I are engaged in a piece of business for his brother, the Marquess of Stonehaven.” Even as he spoke, Calum heard the auctioneer finish his impassioned description of the portrait and open the floor for bids.

  Lady Hoarville clung to a cadaverously thin and definitely demonic-looking man whose French blood showed through his skin. She dimpled at Calum and drew her companion forward. “Have you met Henri St. Luc, Mr. Innes?” To her companions she said, “Mr. Innes and I have made a prior acquaintance, haven’t we, Mr. Innes?”

  “Good day to you, Lady Hoarville,” Calum said stiffly. “And to you, Monsieur St. Luc.”

  “A pleasure,” St. Luc said in flawless English.

  “Henri is a connoisseur,” Lady Hoarville warbled with apparent rich appreciation for her companion. “He has the most exquisite taste in everything. Furnishings, paintings, sculpture, garden arrangements—and dress. Henri’s taste in the matter of dress is incomparable.” Today the lady’s own taste was revealed in the cunningly situated circle, cut from the bodice of her garnet-colored pelisse, that allowed her white breasts to press into view.

  “Really?” Calum spared the most fleeting glance for La Hoarville’s connoisseur and summarily dismissed him as a self-consciously affected man bent on proving his discriminating flair by wearing outlandish garb and a bored expression.

  “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” St. Luc said with the merest downward flicker of heavy eyelids. A purple velvet cravat drooped in a manner that matched its owner’s apparent ennui, and the man’s deep green coat sagged at pockets from which large, lace-trimmed kerchiefs trailed.

  Calum decided that Byron had yet another slavish imitator and returned his attention to Pippa—who stared back at him with anxious eyes that made him want to take her into his arms and kiss away her fears.

  From behind Calum, the auctioneer shouted, “You insult us all, sir! The bidding opened at a thousand guineas.”

  “I must ask your leave,” Calum said to Franchot. He cast another look at Pippa. She was more striking than merely pretty, more memorable than simply beautiful, and the insipid spring green of her muslin gown and silk spencer annoyed Calum. Her drama would be well served by brilliant hues and daring designs. With difficulty, he shifted his attention from Pippa to Franchot. “Arran—the marquess desperately wants this painting, Your Grace. So if you will excuse me…”

  Franchot, visibly hunching, glanced toward the offering and made a sign.

  “Now that’s more like it,” the auctioneer roared. “His Grace the Duke of Franchot bids five thousand guineas.”

  Calum swung around and met Struan’s questioning gaze. A hush had fallen on the crowd.

  The hush stretched on and on, broken only by the occasional tutting of florid Lady Ernestine Sebbel, who was famous for her magnificent disapproval of most things.

  Struan, suddenly furiously intent upon the proceedings, made a discreet motion.

  “Six thousand guineas,” the auctioneer announced with relish. “Do I hear seven?”

  “Seven!” he roared a moment later as another bid came from somewhere on the floor. Then: “Nine from the gentleman in puce.”

  “Gad,” Calum muttered. Arran would never forgive them if he didn’t get his wretched portrait. Calum raised his program a fraction.

  “I have ten.” The auctioneer rocked on his podium as if about to be transported to a higher plane.

  The bidding from other interested parties heated in earnest, and within minutes the plump, smiling face of an undoubtedly dead lady commanded a promise of twelve thousand guineas.

  “This is unheard of,” Struan said to Calum. “I don’t even like the thing.”

  “You are not the one who has to like it.”

  “Grace will have Arran’s ears if we pay this kind of sum for something she will undoubtedly consider worthless.”

  Calum smiled. “Grace is very singular in her tastes, but she would not do other than see Arran happy.”

  “Nevertheless, she will not fail to mention how much good such a little fortune could accomplish for the tenants of Kirkcaldy,” Struan reminded him.

  “The tenants of Kirkcaldy want for nothing,” Calum said truthfully.

  “We are at thirteen thousand guineas.” The man on the podium seemed close to swooning from joy. “Thirteen, once. Thirteen, twice. Thirteen—”

  “I have twenty thousand guineas!” Absolute silence descended in the big room. “The Duke of Franchot bids twenty thousand guineas. This
is indeed a most singular day.”

  After a few seconds of observing the faintly shocked faces of the assembly, the auctioneer pronounced, “Twenty thousand, once…twenty thousand, twice…”

  Calum barely heard the man announce, “Sold!” before facing Franchot again, the full force of his own hatred so powerful he feared he might take the wretch by the throat here and now.

  The duke signaled an auction boy to come close. “My man will deal with the details,” he told the runner. “Kindly arrange for the painting to be transported to the Marquess of Stonehaven. At…?” He raised a brow at Struan.

  “Castle Kirkcaldy.” Struan responded like a man whose mouth was operated by strings. “Scotland.”

  “Just so,” the duke said.

  Calum glanced about him and slowly the uproar that had followed Franchot’s outrageous exhibition came to life for him. “What was that for?” he asked Franchot. “Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?”

  “A gesture of friendship.” Franchot, whose face now shone slightly with perspiration, shrugged weakly. “It seemed appropriate. You had a mission you had to dispatch. I need to talk to you at once. I bought something to show my esteem for you and your close friends, and dispatched your mission at the same time. Now I assume you will accompany me, sir.”

  “Oh, do come along, Mr. Innes,” Lady Hoarville cajoled. “Etienne has come to throw himself upon your mercy, haven’t you, darling Etienne?”

  Darling Etienne cast Lady Hoarville a stare that would have destroyed a less self-absorbed creature.

  “I’d be much obliged, Innes,” Franchot said.

  Struan moved forward suddenly. “My brother will not accept a gift from you, Franchot. Kindly arrange for the painting to be delivered to your own accommodations.”

  Franchot waved carelessly. “That is a matter for a later moment.” He concentrated on Calum and said in low, urgent tones, “In God’s name, man, I’m pleading with you. They’re all watching us. All of Society’s agog. Walk out with me now and show some sign of comradeship, I beg you.”

  A moment made in heaven—for a man bent on throwing another into hell—shimmered before Calum. Blessedly, reason was fast upon the heels of revenge’s lure. “As you will,” he said, smiling thinly and ushering the duke ahead of him toward the doors. “Keep me company, if you will, Struan. Never let it be said that I am a man without sufficient honor to be merciful.”