"Why?" she mused aloud, circling him. "Why marry your father's mistress?"
Ah, the crux of her pique. He looked indulgently at her. "We both know you were not my father's mistress." She was too kindhearted not to forgive him for making a natural assumption.
She shook her head in disappointment. "You lied to me." She raised her arms and gesticulated at the heavens. "You placated me with sweet flattery and lies while you carried forth your seduction."
"Nothing so devious or dramatic," he said, refusing to be painted as the vile scoundrel who seduced her. Fayne took her by the shoulders and pushed her back down on the bench. "My father had a well-earned reputation for bedding any miss who caught his eye."
"As does the son," she said, lifting her right brow knowingly.
His palm itched to turn her over and paddle her for her insolent remark, but now was not the occasion for play. "What should matter to you is that I do not care whether or not you were my father's mistress. I want you."
Kilby was not appeased. "That is your misfortune. You cannot always have what you want." She tossed her head back haughtily.
There was a challenge in her gleaming gaze, which Fayne eagerly embraced. "Too late. I already have. And I will again," he said intensely.
The candid nature of their conversation had Kilby glancing warily at the terrace to make certain no one was paying attention to them. "If you are referring to what transpired on the sofa three nights ago, you are sadly mistaken."
Fayne wanted to growl in frustration. Kilby was punishing him. She was not upset about his hasty lovemaking. The breaching of her maidenhead had caused her only some minor discomfort. What she found unforgivable was that he had not believed her. A lady's pride, he broodingly mused. How was he to know when he first met her that she had not merely been playing flirtatious games with him? It was not as if he went about despoiling virgins each season.
He knelt in front of her. "Heed me well, my little wolf. I will have you again—soon and often. So our first union was a trifle clumsy—"
Kilby gave an unladylike snort of disdain.
Fayne pinned her with a resolute green stare. "Largely, I am to blame. We will improve with practice, I assure you."
He was tempted to drag her out into the gardens this instant and show her how pleasurable lovemaking could be. Regrettably, he had to concentrate on more practical matters.
"Your answer, Lady Kilby," Fayne curtly said. "And it better be yes. Will you marry me?"
"I can't believe the lady rejected your offer of marriage."
Fayne glowered at Cadd for reminding him of his humiliating defeat. Two days had passed since Kilby had thanked him politely, and then refused his marriage proposal. He had not lost his temper or created an incident the gossips would have relished. Instead, he had mockingly bowed in false gallantry, and departed.
Everod affectionately punched Fayne on the arm. "What I can't believe is that Carlisle actually made an honorable proposal to a lady."
He accepted his friend's teasing graciously. Ramscar, Cadd, and Everod had cajoled him into joining them this evening at the theater. None of them believed Fayne was truly despondent over Kilby's rejection. Years earlier, he had drunkenly boasted to all of them that he would not bind himself to a wife until he was forty. There was no point wasting his best years being leg-shackled. Fayne was only twenty-five. According to his original plan, he had fifteen years to indulge every decadent whim and vice. A man would have to be mad or in love to toss away his freedom.
Was he in love with the stubborn Lady Kilby Fitchwolf?
Madness was a kinder fate.
Ramscar stepped in between Everod and Fayne, placing a companionable hand on each friend's shoulder. “The fact remains, our dear friend behaved gallantly toward the lady and was rebuffed. Honestly, Solitea, you have astounding luck. Perhaps we should have taken you directly to Moirai's Lust."
"Later, if the hunting is poor," Cadd promised, as they strolled through the lobby of the theater.
The hunt for which the marquess was eager had nothing to do with finding a good theater box. Les sauvages nobles were seeking friendly companions for the evening. Fayne privately acknowledged they were an impressive group. Heads turned and the crowd parted, deferring to the four breathtakingly handsome males. They reeked of arrogance, wealth, and mischief. Very few ladies resisted the combination for long.
Except for Kilby.
From the corner of his eye, a flash of violet caught his notice. Glancing left, he met the curious stares of three very attractive ladies. The tall one in the middle clutched an open fan the exact hue of Kilby's eyes. The ladies preened and whispered to each other at his candid perusal. Fayne smiled, and the trio collapsed into one another in a fit of giggles.
"One or all," Everod whispered in Fayne's ear. "You could fuck each one in turn and they would weep with gratitude."
Perhaps it was time to find a willing lady who did not make him feel like a clumsy arse whenever he was around her. He owed no fidelity to Lady Kilby Fitchwolf. They had had a very brief affair, nothing more. There were at least a dozen ladies of whom he could make a similar claim. What had clouded the issue was her apparent innocence. Well, he had tried to make amends, had he not? The lady had firmly rejected his offer.
"The night is full of possibilities," Fayne agreed.
"Lyssa, I am not good company tonight," Kilby complained, sitting down next to her friend in their rented box.
She was not even certain how her friend had talked her into attending the theater, especially since she had resisted Priddy's invitation to watch the fireworks display at Vaux-hall, followed by a very late supper at Lady Carsell's town house. Kilby had lied by excusing herself from the festivities due to a disagreeable stomach. She did not have the heart to spend the evening flirting with the potential suitors Priddy would have insisted that she meet. If she had accepted, there was the strong possibility that she might have come across Fayne. She was not ready to face him yet.
"Rubbish. There is nothing wrong with you. It is the weather that is making you melancholy," Lyssa assured her. She leaned forward and waved to a friend five boxes to their left.
Kilby sighed. Unlike her friend, she knew the real cause of her low spirits. "I hope the rain will hold off until after the fireworks. The viscountess was looking forward to them."
Lyssa sat back and smiled. "Do not fret about Lady Quennell. It would take more than a little rain to distress her." Her expression brightened at something she noticed beyond Kilby's shoulder.
Kilby turned around and saw Lord Darknell at the threshold. She looked askance at Lyssa. Her friend's scarlet features revealed she had set up this accidental meeting to give Kilby and Darknell a chance to settle their differences.
The viscount bowed formally. "Perhaps you have a spare seat for an old friend."
Everod and Cadd took the lead in their casual pursuit of muslin. Fayne was content to follow. Ramscar divided his attention between the activity being carried out on the stage, and a careful perusal of the theater boxes. Instead of remaining in their rented boxes, the foursome spent the next several hours socializing from theater box to theater box. Throughout it all, Everod and Cadd bickered over which sort of female made the best mistress.
"I disagree, Everod," Cadd said to no one's surprise, as they departed a private box. "A courtesan makes a more amenable mistress than a married lady. A lady tutored in the trade has too many benefits to simply dismiss." He began ticking off the advantages with his fingers. "They are highly skilled lovers, their sole purpose in life is to pleasure their lover, and when the affair has ended, a respectable congé sends them searching for a new protector. There are no regrets."
No regrets. Fayne dug his fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed his watch. Fayne checked the time. He knew he was suffering over his parting with Kilby when Cadd's arguments seemed valid.
Everod made a rude sound. "I grant you, Cadd, a courtesan is skil
led. She has manipulation down to an art. The lady teases your cock until you are willing to offer her anything."
"I can afford it," the marquess smoothly countered.
Ramscar cuffed Cadd on the back of his head. "Puppy," he muttered, before walking away and disappearing through the curtain of the next box they had planned to visit.
"Hey!" Cadd called after him. He scowled at Fayne. "What did I do to offend him?"
Fayne shrugged. Ramscar was quieter, more introspective than the rest of them. It was difficult to guess at what point Cadd's diatribe had offended him. The earl had a deep affection for women. He tended to see beyond the superficial. The ladies he selected as lovers were not necessarily renowned beauties; however, they possessed an intellect that equaled his own. It was probably why his liaisons lasted longer than the others'.
"Your idiocy offends him, Cadd," Everod taunted, shoving the marquess forward toward the curtains. "Ramscar understands the risks a gentleman takes when dallying with these courtesans. While she plays the devoted mistress for you, she is bedding two or three other gentlemen to plump up her purse. Egad, you are damned fortunate your rod isn't festering in your breeches from one of those cunning bitches."
Fayne stepped through the curtain after them. What he saw had him turning away and clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Lost in their argument, Cadd and Everod had not considered that the occupants of the box might overhear their conversation. Ramscar abruptly straightened at their arrival. His sweeping glare encompassed them all. The ladies he had been quietly conversing with were the very conservative Duke of Hadnott's wife, her fifteen-year-old twin daughters, and the duke's eighty-year-old mother. The varying degrees of astonishment on the ladies' faces was priceless. The duke's mother raised her quizzing glass to her eye and pointedly examined the marquess's crotch.
Cadd snarled, shoved Everod away with a muffled curse, and marched off. Sneering at Ramscar for not warning them, Everod hastily followed after his friend.
Fayne could not stop laughing. He fought to keep his face sober, while the earl eloquently apologized to the ladies. His friends' antics had been highly amusing. He could not recall the last time he had been so highly entertained in the theater.
Bringing the back of his hand to his lips to hide his smile, he bowed respectfully to the ladies. As he turned to leave, he noticed something that swiftly quelled his good humor.
Across the circular expanse of the auditorium, Lord Darknell was cozily sitting next to Kilby.
Kilby sensed the viscount's gaze on her face as she watched the ballet performance on stage. Matters between them had become confusing since her arrival in London. She longed for the simplicity of life at Ealkin, the life she had had before her parents' deaths. Lyssa was winding and unwinding one of the ribbons of her reticule around her first finger, a definite sign her friend was fretting about her meddling. She could have reassured her friend that she was not angry, but decided Lyssa deserved to share a little of the uneasiness Kilby was feeling.
"Fitchwolf, are you so vexed you cannot bear to look at me?"
She shifted her gaze from the energetic dancers below to the viscount's beseeching expression. The apprehension tightening her face lessened with the affection born of years of friendship.
"There. You see?" Kilby said lightly, staring into his familiar brown eyes. "Not vexed in the least."
"You forgive too easily," Darknell chided. He clasped her unencumbered hand on her lap. "I have been deserving of your anger. The spiteful burden Archer has placed on your slender shoulders has caused you great angst. Instead of being the friend you needed, I have been sarcastic, judgmental, and overall nasty in disposition." He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. "I offer my deepest apologies and pray you will forgive me."
"I forgave you the instant I saw you." Kilby leaned over and laid her cheek on his shoulder. "You are one of my dearest friends. We may not always agree, my lord, but I have no desire to toss away our friendship because of those differences."
Kilby straightened and squeezed his hand. She turned to Lyssa, intending to tell her friend that her meddling had had a happy ending. It was then she noticed a matron frowning at her from the next theater box. Gently she released Darknell's hand on the pretense of searching for an item in her reticule. A prickly warmth crept up her neck and face. Kilby silently chastised herself. How many people had observed her demonstrative exchange with the viscount? She had forgotten how closely the other patrons watched the activity in the boxes.
Tugging on the strings of her reticule, she discreetly looked about, fearing she and Darknell had become more fascinating than the spectacle on stage. Kilby visibly sagged in relief as she realized those concerns were unfounded. No one was paying them the slightest attention, well, with the exception of the nosy matron in the next box. She leaned back in her chair. It was then her roaming gaze paused on a box one tier down and almost directly across from theirs. Four elegantly dressed ladies were holding court in the box, while six to eight gentlemen vied for their exclusive regard. Kilby thought several of them seemed familiar to her, but she could not recall where she had met them.
"My lord, do you recognize the ladies yonder one tier below?"
Darknell peered down at the box Kilby had directed him to. "Yes, though I daresay it is best if you avoid them."
Overhearing his comment, Lyssa inclined her posture closer to them. "Are they paphians?" she asked in hushed excitement. Her friend studied the audience in search of the intriguing ladies who had caught Kilby's interest.
"Not exactly, Nunn." Darknell seemed reluctant to pursue the conversation further. “To do so would credit them with more import than they deserve."
"Who are they? They seem very popular," Kilby said, observing one of the gentlemen offering his hand to the lady adorned in a bronze-colored dress. There was something vaguely familiar about the gentleman, she mused, as she studied him from the back. The distance and dim lighting made it nearly impossible to guess his identity.
"Ladies of the ton," Darknell said, trying to sound bored. "On the right, there is Lady Silver. Next to her is Mrs. Du Toy, followed by Lady Talemon." He paused and cleared his throat. Giving Kilby a sympathetic look, he said, "And the lady your new friend the Duke of Solitea is trying to coax into a more intimate setting is Lady Spryng. If I recall, the countess was once reputed to have been the duke's mistress. It appears Solitea plans on rekindling their intimate connection."
Kilby merely blinked at the sudden sound of applause and catcalls emanating from the pit. The ballet piece had ended and a lone woman with a guitar advanced to the center of the stage.
As if sensing her regard, Fayne turned and looked directly into her startled gaze. The bastard had the impudence to smile. Lady Spryng caressed his arm and spoke to him. Kilby's heart twisted painfully in her chest as she watched them disappear into the shadows.
"I have missed you, Carlisle," Velouette Whall, Countess of Spryng, said throatily. Her lightly accented inflections were exotic, never failing to arouse Fayne.
As they entered the private parlor that connected to the theater box, she gestured at her personal maid, who was stitching silently in one of the chairs. "Isold, take your work outside the door where there is better light."
Without looking at either one of them, the maid solemnly stuffed her sewing into a fabric bag and left the room.
Fayne trailed after the countess, who slipped off her Indian shawl. The dress she wore revealed the appreciative curves of breasts and shoulders. "I'll have you know the light in those passageways is abysmal."
Velouette faced him, her face sparkling with mirth. "I know, darling. I thought you preferred your entertainments without an audience."
Fayne knew what the countess was anticipating. While he had knelt beside her in the box, the minx had whispered the naughty details in his ear. There was something about the theater that aroused Velouette. With one of his friends guarding the curta
in and a servant outside the door, how many times during their brief affair had he taken the countess on the sofa she was reclining on now?
She beckoned him with one finger. "Share your thoughts with me."
He sat down sideways on the cushion, facing her. "I was thinking about you," he answered honestly. "And the things we did to each other on this sofa."
Fayne was also thinking about Kilby. Seeing her with Lord Darknell had enraged him. The viscount plainly desired Kilby. From their intimate pose, Fayne suspected the gentleman had grown weary of just being a close friend. Fuming and jealous, he had sought out a woman who was a balm to his tattered pride.
The countess purred in delight. "Oh, those were grand times, were they not?"
“The best," he agreed, smiling slightly as she reached for his cravat. He stopped her hands before she could ruin the knot. "If we were so grand together, Velouette, why did we part ways?"
The countess shrugged. "It is the way of things, I suppose." She moved forward, literally crawling into his lap. Gazing up at him with liquid brown eyes, she said, "What does it matter? You are here and we are together again."
Fayne curled his arm around her waist. The countess was everything he had once desired in a mistress. She was an enthusiastic, exotic beauty who was not afraid of her body or the pleasure he could give her. He had never trembled in her arms, been too hasty or clumsy. Velouette saw the advantages of being his lover, the power and wealth behind the title.
Kilby had just wanted him.
After witnessing the tragic death of his father and his family's assumptions about her questionable character, she had been reluctant to be connected with any Carlisle. His wealth and position in society had not swayed her into his bed. Once he had coaxed her there, he had lost all semblance of control. She had run from him, wary and unsatisfied.
Barbara Pierce - Sinful Between the Sheets Page 14