Three Weeks With Lady X

by Eloisa James

  “In three weeks, if that will suit you.”

  “I shall look at my engagement calendar.” She looked as if she were bestowing a shilling on a vagabond.

  Lala could read his eyes without difficulty. He thought her mother horrible. She rose, guessing that her suitor had endured all the intimate time with Lady Rainsford that he could tolerate. “Mr. Dautry, it has been such a pleasure to see you.”

  Dautry sprang to his feet with the speed of a racehorse.

  “You must forgive me for not rising,” Lala’s mother told him. “My health is a constant concern to those who love me, and I do my best to conserve my energy in order to cause them less worry.”

  It wasn’t until after Dautry had departed that Lala realized she hadn’t uttered a word the entire time, other than “hello” and “goodbye.” Her heart sank. So much for being clever and funny.

  She’d done it again.

  “You’re such a pea-goose,” her mother said, confirming the thought. “How can a man be expected to spend a lifetime with a woman who doesn’t make an effort to entertain him? That’s the least a wife can do, you know. They feed us, clothe us, take care of us, and in return, we entertain them.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Lala said.

  “We charm them with our beauty and our conversation, soothing away the cares of the day.”

  Lala wished her father were there to hear this lecture. It might be the first thing he’d laughed at in weeks.

  “Yes, Mama,” she said.

  Dear Mr. Dautry,

  I have bought silk for the drawing room walls. The cost is approximately £300, but they will send the invoice to you directly.

  Lady Xenobia India St. Clair

  Dear Lady Xenobia,

  The invoice for silk arrived, asking for £350. I also received an invoice from an Italian painter by the name of Marconi, who is charging £150 for painting swallows. Where are these swallows? They must be formed from liquid gold, so I want to make sure I notice them.

  Thorn

  Dear Mr. Dautry,

  The swallows will be on the dining room walls. As you seem to be worried about costs, I had your statues assessed. You will be happy to know that the bronze was indeed sculpted by Benvenuto Cellini, and may be worth a great deal of money. I can arrange to sell the piece, if you wish.

  Lady Xenobia India St. Clair

  Dear Lady Xenobia,

  Offer it to the vicar. If for some strange reason he doesn’t want it, I might give it to you as a wedding present.

  Thorn

  Dear Mr. Dautry,

  The vicar would be gravely offended, and I shall not do such a thing. Nor do I desire a wedding present of that nature.

  Lady Xenobia

  Dear Lady Xenobia,

  I think I’ll call you Lady X. It has such an exotic sound to it; I feel as if I am writing to the madam of a prosperous brothel. (I’ve never done that before, in case you’re wondering.)

  Thorn

  Dear Mr. Dautry,

  I am named after a queen who conquered all of Egypt, not after a brothel owner. Had you paid attention to your history lessons, you would presumably know that.

  Lady Xenobia

  Dear Lady X,

  Please do remember that you are my temporary wife, in other words, at my beck and call for the next three weeks. I begin to see a spiritual purpose in all the money I’m spending to tame the Queen of Egypt. My first command is that you address me as Thorn.

  Thorn

  Dear Mr. Dautry,

  We all know you were born on the wrong side of the blanket, but you needn’t have called yourself after a bush. It seems unreasonably humble.

  Lady Xenobia

  Dear Lady X,

  You will have to imagine my response. I cannot put it in writing.

  My given name is Tobias, a self-effacing name that doesn’t suit. I was informed of it when I was twelve, at which point it was already inappropriate.

  Thorn

  Dear Mr. Dautry,

  I like Tobias. It has an intellectual ring. A man with that name should be able to recite ancient Greek poetry.

  Lady Xenobia

  I rest my case.

  Thorn

  Chapter Eleven

  June 27, 1799

  Evening

  Starberry Court

  India had never been so tired in her life. The house had been gutted and scoured, and the interior walls replastered, the hardest physical labor completed in record time by crews paid treble their usual wages.

  What was left now was the more nuanced work of making Starberry Court into a luxurious residence, with a patina of refinement and respectability. That would start tomorrow, when tradesmen would begin arriving with furnishings. But at the moment she could only think about a bath and her bed at the Horn & Stag.

  She was heading outside to summon her coachman when the sound of a carriage made her look up. Perhaps one of the tradesmen had decided to beat the crowd.

  But then she recognized Dautry’s glossy black coach and vaguely remembered that he had mentioned an inspection visit. Watching as he leapt from the carriage, she decided that he looked remarkably like the statue of the satyr. Maybe it was exhaustion making her hazy, but his shoulders seemed just as wide.

  The satyr’s hair was curlier; Dautry’s tumbled around his ears. Presumably, he didn’t have cloven feet, but one never knew. He might. There was something about his eyes that was just as naughty. Devilish, really.

  She corrected herself: Adelaide had explained that the satyr was not a devil, never mind the hooves and tail. In the back of her mind, she was aware that she wasn’t making sense.

  “Hell, you look awful,” Dautry said, by way of greeting.

  She smiled at him. “Why, thank you. How very kind of you to point it out.”

  “Show me around the place and then we’ll go to the inn for supper, because you are about to fall over. Did you sleep last night?”

  “Certainly,” she said, trying to remember whether she had. She’d been making yet more lists and had been surprised by the dawn. The day had been frantic as the last of the walls was replastered, the kitchen’s new slate floor was laid, the privies cleaned . . . All of that had to be completed before the new furniture could be brought in.

  Dautry walked through the rooms so quickly that India had difficulty keeping up. “Looks good,” he announced when he had seen all the plastering and the new floor in the kitchen. “We need some chairs and tables.”

  India explained about the tradesmen who would be arriving on the morrow with carts of furniture, rugs, and smaller objects. “I hope to be able to furnish the servants’ quarters and the bedrooms from what they bring.”

  He nodded. “Supper,” he said, taking her arm.

  She was tall for a woman, but he was taller. And very solid.

  “I really must go to bed,” she said, feeling instinctively that the less time she spent with her employer, the better.

  There was something disturbing about him, and the feeling was all the more intense after their exchange of letters. A taut awareness between them made her skin prickle.

  “Supper, followed by bed,” he stated.

  They left the house, but she came to an abrupt halt next to his carriage. “I can’t leave; my coachman won’t know where I am.”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “In the stables, of course.”

  Dautry jerked his head at his groom, who trotted away. “You’re in this house alone? Where’s your maid? And your coachman is in the stables?”

  “I don’t make people work all night long,” she said indignantly. Then she remembered the first night and added, “At least not without paying them a great deal of money.”

  “You should not be in the house alone,” Dautry said. Without warning he slid his arm behind her knees and lifted her.

  India started to protest, but in one clean motion he tossed her onto the carriage seat. He jumped in, swung the door shut, and thumped the ceiling.


  Their eyes kept tangling in an embarrassing way, so India tried looking out the window. The cows looked as sleepy as she did.

  “You ought to have footmen guarding you at all times,” Dautry said. “I’ll send a couple of mine out from London tomorrow.”

  “There’s no need,” she said, feeling dizzy. “My maid is with me all day, and once the servants’ quarters are furnished, I shall be able to hire proper staff. The registry service is sending candidates tomorrow afternoon.”

  As soon as they reached the inn, she could go to bed. Meanwhile, she kept her backbone straight with pure force of will.

  In a smooth blur of movement, Dautry moved to sit beside her. He propped himself in the corner, yanked her against his chest, and ordered, “Sleep.”

  She immediately tried to sit up again. “This is quite improper! And besides, I don’t nap.”

  “Stuff propriety,” he said, sounding impatient. “I don’t want to marry you, Lady X, and you don’t want to marry me, so who the hell will ever know—or care?”

  “I never nap,” India repeated.

  “Don’t nap, in that case.” But he didn’t loosen the arm holding her against him.

  It would be undignified to continue to struggle. And every bone and muscle in her body was grateful to not be sitting upright.

  Dautry didn’t seem uncomfortable. “Since I saw you last, Rose and I have been getting to know each other. She has added the study of French verbs in the imperfect tense to her Greek. Last night she walked round and round my library, reciting them in that odd voice of hers: ‘Nous venions, vous veniez.’ ”

  India could hear his heart beating quite slowly, like a melody played on a piano far away, in another part of the house. The carriage rocked gently beneath them. “I have no idea what that means,” she admitted.

  “No Frenchman would understand her either. She has an appalling accent; she sounds like an old dowager butchering the language. I’ve promised her a tutor, but I can already tell it won’t make any difference. I haven’t been able to find a governess I like yet, and she’s peeved at me.”

  India was thinking about that as she drifted off to sleep.

  When she woke, she was still lying down, no longer in the carriage but in a room with windows open to an evening breeze. The far-off rhythm of Dautry’s heartbeat was still there, under her ear. And there was a light pressure on her back from his warm hand simply resting there.

  Her heart pulsed momentarily with loneliness, because she couldn’t remember anyone ever before putting a hand on her while she slept.

  She sat up, peered at him, and said, “Hello.” They seemed to be in a room at the Horn & Stag, and something had happened to her hair; it was tumbling past her shoulders.

  “I like your hair,” he said.

  “It’s my mother’s,” India said, in a voice husky with sleep. “There’s too much of it.”

  “You could stuff a pillow with it someday.”

  She chose not to respond to that absurdity. “What are you reading?”

  “A book about Leonardo’s inventions.”

  India had no idea who Leonardo was, but she didn’t feel up to asking. The expression in Dautry’s eyes as he watched her rearrange her hair made her want to ask him what he was thinking—and run away to her room, both at the same time. Absurd.

  She took a deep breath and twisted all her hair around itself. Most of her hairpins seemed to be mysteriously missing.

  “I pulled them out in the carriage,” Dautry said, watching her fruitlessly pat her head.

  “Why on earth did you do that?”

  “I was bored.” He took a pin from his waistcoat pocket and gave it to her. “Do you know, I think I could make a better hairpin, one that bent in the middle.”

  India didn’t see how that would improve the design, but it seemed impolite to say so, especially after he’d presumably carried her inside. “I must apologize, Mr. Dautry, for falling asleep in such an unladylike manner.”

  “Thorn.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re to address me as Thorn, remember? I already issued a command to that effect. I’m tired of ‘Lady X.’ I shall call you India, as your godmother does. ‘Lady X’ sounds like a woman with a repertoire of exotic sexual services to offer. You haven’t, have you?”

  She gave him a look. “If you’ll excuse me, I will retire to my chamber. I will, of course, continue to inform you of my progress.”

  “You haven’t said much about progress,” he observed. “Instead, you’ve sent me bills so large that I could have wallpapered half the East End.” He reached over and tugged on the bell.

  The innkeeper immediately opened the door. “We’re ready for supper,” Thorn told him. The man bowed and withdrew again.

  “I couldn’t,” India said, just as her hair uncurled and fell down her back again. Though it was true that her stomach felt as if it were pressing against her backbone.

  “If you’re going to say some idiotic thing about how you can’t eat dinner because a lady shouldn’t eat with a man, or some damned thing along those lines, just don’t. I’m starving. You’re hungry and tired. Furthermore, you’re not a lady right now, but in my employ, and I could eat with my butler if I wanted to.”

  Before she decided whether she was more hungry than tired, or more tired than hungry, the innkeeper bustled in with a large covered salver, followed by two maids with china and cutlery.

  After they laid the table, India didn’t think about it any longer. She and Thorn sat at the table and ate oyster stew, followed by roast beef, French beans, peas, and a very good cheese pie. She ate more than she’d eaten in days. She drank two glasses of wine, then sipped a third glass more slowly, as she watched Thorn eat more of everything.

  “You have an impressive appetite,” she said, somewhat awed.

  “As have you,” he said, working on another helping of peas. “I like a woman who doesn’t nibble like a goat.”

  “Lala has a very charming figure,” she offered.

  He looked up and grinned. He had lovely white teeth. “I know.”

  She was beginning to feel owlish and drowsily content, so she put her elbows on the table. Even not having had a governess, she knew it was deeply improper. Actually, worse than that: maybe it was criminal.

  Thorn wouldn’t care.

  “I think you’ll be quite happy together.” She poured more wine for him, thought about it, and poured more for herself as well. “Will you tell me about growing up in East London?” she asked, propping up her head with one hand.

  “It wasn’t fun,” he said. His voice dropped in register.

  “I didn’t suppose it was fun. I imagined it was terrible. But I don’t know, which is why I asked.”

  He had curious eyes, a gray that looked almost green in the lamplight. With a thick fringe of black lashes. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why not?” She took a sip of wine, feeling heat pool in her stomach. It was his fault for being so damned handsome. She pushed the thought away. “I am curious about any number of things. Almost every moment, I realize something else I don’t know. For example, I don’t know who Leonardo was, any more than I understood Rose’s French verbs.”

  “No particular reason why you should know about Leonardo,” Thorn said. “He was an artist, though I don’t care about that. I’m interested in his inventions.”

  He was looking down at what remained of the cheese pie as if he were about to take another piece, even though he’d already eaten three. India reached across and took it away. “You’ve eaten enough. You will grow fat.”

  “I won’t get fat.” He growled it.

  “You’ve probably grown a paunch from all the food you’ve just eaten,” she said, enjoying herself.

  His eyes narrowed and he stood up wordlessly, pulled his shirt from his breeches, and bared his stomach.

  India barely stopped her mouth from falling open. He looked like . . . like something. Like no man she’d ever seen. Not that
she’d seen many men. But she knew they were soft around the middle, the same as she was. Thorn wasn’t. His torso was rippled with muscle under taut skin. Rather than white, it was sun-browned, and a little line of hair led straight into his waistband.

  “I trust I have made my point,” he said, sitting down again. “Now I shall have a slice of strawberry tart with cream.” He cut the tart and took half for himself. He cut another quarter and put it before her. And then he poured thick cream on top of both plates.

  India never ate sweets because she figured that there was about the right amount of her. Besides, Adelaide was convinced that dessert went straight to one’s breasts, and India was wary of becoming more bosomy than she already was. Speaking of which—speaking of whom?—her godmother must have gone to sleep wondering why she hadn’t returned for supper.

  “Eat,” he commanded.

  She ate. He poured more wine and she drank that too.

  “You appeared astonished at the sight of my stomach,” he remarked, glancing at her from under his eyelashes. There was something sinful in his voice that made her feel muddled.

  “If you look at the satyr’s waist from the side, very carefully, his torso is almost as rippled as yours,” India said.

  Thorn burst out laughing.

  “Most gentlemen’s stomachs are quite different. Lord Dibbleshire’s, for example,” she confided.

  “Who the hell is that?” He had finished his tart, but he leaned forward and stole a forkful from the plate, even though it was the public dish and his fork should never have touched it.