A Much Compromised Lady (22 page)

He knew the path before him.

But there was no place on that road for
Glynis.

Frowning, he glared at the
gaujo
. He
did not want to leave Glynis with this one. However, better for her
to stay than to follow him. As she had said, she could look after
herself. She would have to now.

He forced a smile for her. “
Ashen Devlesa,
Romale
.”

May you remain with God.

He swung out the door, his smile twisting as
he thought how this
gaujo
earl’s black devil of a horse was
a good one to take him to hell. And then he was gone.

Numb cold settled into Glynis as she watched
her brother leave. She did not like that Christo had said goodbye
in that fashion. She did not like the tone in his voice—one she had
never before heard. And she did not like the look in his eyes. He
had looked far too much like St. Albans in one of his dark
moods.

“I must go after him,” she said, smoothing
her gown.

Larger hands covered hers, stopping their
agitated movements, and she glanced at St. Albans, scowling. “I
must go! Christo is going to do something stupid.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “That, my
dear, is what hotheads such as your brother do best. However, he is
not likely to listen to reason just now.”

She frowned, but St. Albans was already
leading her to the brocade-covered couch and pulling her down next
to him. His put his arm over her shoulders, sheltering and secure,
tucked her close next to him.

She ought to get up. She had to find Christo.
She could pound some sense into him.

Instead, she lay her head on the shoulder so
temptingly near, burrowing into the smooth silk that smelled of
sandalwood and musky male essence. Her fingers tangled in the
silken cords of his robes, and her feelings tangled even more.

She ought to go.

But she wanted to stay.

Ah, but this
gaujo
stole the will from
her mind and the soul from her body.

A sigh—deep and exhausted—escaped from her
lips and she allowed her eyes to drift closed. Just for a moment,
she would rest. Just a moment.

“He is going to do something stupid,” she
repeated, worry for Christo nibbling at her.

A hand stroked her hair. “Allow him to be a
man, my dear. And to choose his own path.”

Pain and loss lanced into her chest. “What
path does he have now? I thought...Mother was so certain...she
dreamed about Father giving that box to her.”

St. Albans’s mouth twisted and his arm
tightened around his Glynis. “Some dreams are only dreams. And
there are decided benefits to being wide awake in this world.”

She made what sounded like a snort, but which
held enough of a choked sob that St. Albans grew impatient with
this absurd self-pity of hers. Rising, he pulled her to her feet
and led her to the mirror that hung above the mantle.

Standing behind her, he put his hands on her
shoulders. “Tell me about the woman you see reflected there?”

One shoulder hunched, then she said, hurt and
disgust mixing in her voice, “I see a penniless
poshrat
who
has nothing. Not even a father to name!”

“Look again. Look and see through my eyes. A
woman stares at me. Beautiful. Desirable. Deviously clever. She has
light fingers and passion enough that she could rule London if she
so chose.” His hands ran down her shoulders and strong fingers
encircled her wrists. “My sweet Gypsy, you saw how gentlemen
watched you at the Cyprian’s Ball. You have assets you have not
even begun to explore. With my introductions, you could dominate
any theater in London. Or you could be the most coveted courtesan
in Society. All you must do is wake to your own choices. You could
have the world at your feet. Have gentlemen ready to shower you
with jewels and riches beyond anything.”

His voice, low and seductive, teased her with
the image he painted. The red dress she had worn at that ball. The
way those gentlemen had treated her with deference, and with
interest. The elegant world in which St. Albans lived.

Ah, but could she be those things as he
said?

She stared at herself—at the pale face, the
enormous, shadowed eyes. She saw only herself. She was no actress.
She had spent her life learning skills of hiding, of stealth, not
of flamboyance. She could dance. But the thought of doing so on a
stage with others staring at her left her mouth dry and her stomach
empty. And what of selling her body?

She frowned.

He tempted her, right enough, but in truth
she could no more sell her body than she could sell her soul. She
could not without separating the two.

Gazing at their reflections, her stare locked
with his, and she knew then that what she wanted was not riches and
power and position.

What she wanted lay in his eyes. In the spark
of desire that stirred a craving inside her for more from him than
such looks. She longed to twist in his arms and turn her face up to
his for his kisses, and to forget herself, and to forget the
world.

What she wanted was him.

Ah, would it be so wrong to give into him? To
give into my own need?

Turning, she faced him. His hands fell away
from her wrists, but he stood so close to her that the heat from
him washed over her. His scent mixed with the faint fragrance of
summer that drifted in from the open window.

The tug between them pulled like the rush of
a river—only she stood on one bank, and he stood on the other. And
neither of them, she knew with soul-weariness, could cross.

Yes, she could have a night with him. Perhaps
even a few nights. And how many other nights would she spend
afterwards wishing for him? How long would she torture herself when
he left her, with thoughts of him and other woman in his bed? She
did not want her mother’s empty life. She did not want a love that
lasted but a short time and which left her alone for her
lifetime.

The heaviness of her choice weighted her
shoulders and her soul. But she lifted her chin, and met the look
in those gleaming eyes of his.

“None of those things would make me happy,”
she said.

He stared at her, his expression puzzled, as
if he had not quite understood her words. His frown vanished and
his mouth quirked. “I see what it is. You still worry about that
brother of yours—what will become of him. Why can you not think of
yourself for once?”

“I am! I am thinking how miserable I should
be, even if I rule the world, while those I love still travel
endlessly. And I think about how you use your money and your houses
and your power to please yourself. But you never seem happy. And
you want only what you cannot have!”

His mouth twisted even more. “If we are to
speak of chasing, then let us talk of your pursuit of illusion. You
are a bastard child, and the sooner you accept the truth, the
sooner you can have something more than this half-life of dreams
that are destined to be shattered again and again. How much pain do
you need to inflict on yourself?”

“What I seek is not an illusion. I believe in
my father’s honor. He loved my mother. He married her! Christo and
I will prove that someday.”

St. Albans scowled at her, exasperated. He
had thought this box would be an end to it, but she would not
relent. Bloody all, but he had just offered to lay London at her
feet—something he had offered no other woman, and she had said it
would make her miserable. Miserable!

Well, he was done with the game. He would
have her, and that would honestly be an end to it. He would have
her in his bed, and would he would satisfy both his own interests,
and he would awaken that passion of hers so that she saw the world
differently afterwards.

Circling her wrists again with his fingers,
he captured her hands behind her back and pulled her closer.

She stiffened. That martyr face closed her
expression, shuttering the fire in her eyes, masking her feelings.
Closing her eyes, she set her mouth into a line.

With a low, frustrated growl, he pinned both
her hands in one of his, and brought his other hand around to cup
her chin. This trick would not save her. Not this time.

He bent over her, lowered his mouth to hers,
pressing her body against his, heat and need and longing mixing in
a dangerous combination inside him.

And then one tear trickled from her eye.

For an instant, he could not move. He watched
the crystal drop trace her cheek. The track of it cut into him as
if it were etching a line through his own skin, cutting into him
like an acid, carrying her anguish into him.

He could not bear it.

Releasing her, he turned and strode for the
door. He did not look back. He dared not. He did not want to see
her staring at him with wounded eyes. He did not want to see
himself reflected in those dark depths.

What the hell was happening to him?

Glynis’s eyes flew open and she watched St.
Albans stride out the door. Wrapping her arms around herself, she
caught her lower lip between her teeth and shivered.

She had come so close to losing herself. So
very close.

Her body still burned from his touch. Her
heart still pounded. If he had kissed her, she would have
surrendered. She would have given herself to him. And it shamed her
to realize her own weakness.

But he had released her.

Why? She had been desperate for him to loosen
his hold, but the moment he had, a sense of abandonment had swept
over her, and now she wondered if she had somehow disgusted
him.

He slammed the door behind him, and Glynis
jumped at the sound of it.

Was that it? Had her lack of response wounded
his pride? Another tear leaked from her eye and she dashed it away.
Ah, but this was probably part of his game to make her want him—and
it worked far too well. He wanted her to call for him again—to
bring him back. He was counting on her to give-in, was he not?

Well, she had pride, too. She would be glad
that he had left her. She would not follow after him and beg him to
hold her again.

She would not.

Hugging herself, she made her way to her bed.
She curled up with her knees press against her chest and the bed
clothing pulled to her chin.

Yes, she was delighted he had left. She had
made the wise choice. She was not made for the likes of him, or for
the life that he would lead her into, where she passed from his
hands to those of another man. And then yet another. And another.
She knew that. She would not sell herself, and she would not become
a hard woman who saw only gain in ever man’s arms.

And he did not really want her—he simply
wanted to prove he could have her.

Almost he had.

She rested her cheek on one knee.

But why, if this was the right choice, did it
leave her aching and empty, with the longing to go to him and give
him her heart, body, and soul?

* * *

St. Albans threw off his dressing gown,
considered ringing for his valet, and discarded that option. He did
not want company. Striding to his wardrobe, he threw open the doors
and stared at the neatly hung coats, the tidy row of boot and the
drawers with folded shirts and underclothes tucked away. With a
snarl, he slammed it closed. He paced to the window and stood with
his arms folded for a moment. But nothing outside in the dark
caught his interest. Turning, he went to the wing chair beside the
fireplace and dropped into its soft leather.

Propping his elbows on his knees, he lowered
his face into his hands. He dragged his fingers through his hair
and stared at the carpet.

He was mad.

That had to be the explanation.

Either that or his Gypsy had bewitched him,
but he did not believe in such nonsense.

No, he must be going mad.

Why else had he let her go? Why? Oh, why, oh
why?

God, but he wanted to break something.

He forced himself to lean back in his chair.
He was a rational, sensible being. He would control himself, and he
would stop acting like a lovesick...

Frowning, he stopped that thought.
Distasteful as it was, he also turned his thoughts inward to carve
apart his feelings.

Could he actually be...No, it was not
possible. These feelings—the frustration, the desire, the
irritation, the need, the anger, the longing—they were nothing like
the sentiments he had once felt for Alaine. So, what in blazes was
this?

There was lust, oh, yes. But something else
lay within. Something remarkably close to caring.

Was he starting to like his Gypsy?

He claimed one person as friend. Dozens
claimed him, of course, hoping to benefit from his title and
wealth, as was the way of Society. And he had acquaintances by the
cartload. But few had ever dared look beyond his title—and his
reputation. Only Terrance had, in fact, when they had argued their
different paths through Eton and then into Cambridge. They still
argued philosophy, politics, and life. Two opposites who had found
a commonality of respect.

And now there seem to be his Gypsy to add to
that short list one other friend.

His Glynis.

But was she really such a thing to him?

Frowning, St. Albans steepled his fingers. He
studied them as he flexed and straightened them.

Blazes, no wonder everything had become far
too complex. One did not seduce a friend, did one? And his
liking—his caring—did nothing to lessen his desire to have her in
his bed.

But what use did he have for her as a
friend?

With a muffled curse, he rose. He could not
think straight. He needed a gallop to shake the fidgets out of his
body and ease its demands so that he actually might use his mind
again.

Striding back to his wardrobe, he changed
rapidly into breeches and boots. He threw a greatcoat over his
open-necked shirt, didn’t bother with so much as a scarf around his
neck. He left his room, striding down the hall and stairs and out
the back of the house.