A Well Pleasured Lady (18 page)

#8220;She wasn't truly compromised.” Bubb held a glass of straight rum in his trembling hand and glared at the assemblage in his study. “They both had their clothes on.”

“Sebastian was in Mary's chamber—alone.” Lady Valéry held just as large a glass as Bubb, filled with brandy, and she held it without a quiver. “You know how improper that is.”

Mary sat in a chair, stared fixedly at the dreadful gargoyle carved into the huge desk, and wished she were anywhere but here where the ghost of her grandfather hung like a choking miasma.

“Apparently my uncle Oswald was in your bedchamber alone, and he's barely been able to stand since.” Bubb seemed uncertain whether to laugh or scold.

“That is not to the point. I have not been a maiden for…never mind how many years,” Lady Valéry said. “My reputation cannot be stained.”

“No, no.” Bubb waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. Forgive me. It is just I have never seen my uncles behaving with such—”

“Infatuation?” Lady Valéry relaxed and smiled. “Lovely gentlemen, both of them. But not well traveled, I assume.”

“What does that mean?” Bubb covered his eyes with his hand. “No, I don't want to know. The point of this conversation is my dear, dear cousin Mary, and if she says what passed between her and this base lord was innocent, who am I to disbelieve her? I would be the last man to force nuptials on my
unwilling cousin after her previous lamentable experience with the Fairchilds.” Bubb tried to sound pious.

“You were forced to wed,” Lady Valéry said. “Aren't you happy?”

“Eh, eh…” Bubb recognized his dilemma, but knew not how to escape unscathed. “Of course I'm happy. But like your virginity, my marriage is not germane to this discussion.”

Laughter cracked from Lady Valéry. “Good one, Lord Smithwick.”

Bubb wiped his sweaty palms against his breeches and smiled modestly.

“But Sebastian was unbuttoned,” Lady Valéry said relentlessly. “Good God, what more proof do you need?”

The debate had been going on for what seemed like hours as Lady Valéry argued for marriage, and Bubb glanced around helplessly. Alone, he hadn't a chance against Lady Valéry's brisk resolve.

If Nora were here, he might have succeeded, but she had come to the study and listened to the opening volleys of argument. She had examined first Mary, then Sebastian, from head to toe. She had smiled, with a rather sad and desperate expression, and she had walked from the chamber and not returned. Very odd, Mary thought, and in her absence Bubb had lost more and more ground to Lady Valéry.

Yet he struggled valiantly on. “Another solution exists which is preferable to this hurried and embarrassing union. Our cousin Ian has expressed a willingness to—”

Mary swung her gaze to Bubb. “Don't even say it,” she pronounced coldly.

Bubb didn't argue for her sake. No, he argued because he was desperately trying to keep a hand, however feeble, in the honey pot of her money. His attitude and words explained that incident in the hallway with Ian more clearly than Mary could have wished, and it hurt to think the handsome, affable Bubb had schemed to ruin her with her own cousin. It hurt more to discover Ian was a false idol.

Oh, yes, her grandfather lurked in his study, mocking her. She could scarcely draw breath as she remembered him saying, “I told you, you were like your father—allowing your lesser emotions rein and thus losing to a ruthless opponent.”

Mary glanced up at Sebastian. There was her ruthless opponent. He lolled against a bookshelf, looking relaxed and disgustingly satisfied. And why not? He'd gotten what he wanted from her, and he was well on his way to getting his way in this matter. In the matter of her marriage.

“Sebastian,” Lady Valéry called. “Do you desire to do the right thing by Mary?”

Mary had argued for the first hour after Sebastian had opened the door. Now that she had given up, they spoke in front of her as if she were unable to comprehend, and from Lady Valéry's tone, Mary might have been in the same predicament as a rapidly increasing, desperate belowstairs maid.

Worse, that was how everyone viewed the situation.

Everyone except Sebastian, that nasty devil who
stood smirking at her while he mouthed generous offers to rescue her stained reputation. “I will, of course, do the right thing by Miss Fairchild.”

When he'd opened her bedchamber door, hell had spilled in. It seemed every servant and guest had entered, led by Lady Valéry and the perfidious maid, Jill. The old lady had had a spring to her step and a gleam of triumph in her eyes; she could not have been more indiscreet in her “discovery.”

Sebastian himself had lent fuel to the fire that consumed Mary's good name. He hadn't even had the good taste to claim he'd forgotten to button his breeches.

But Mary was not a belowstairs maid. She was a Fairchild, and a Fairchild who had not only killed when she had to, but had given up her youth to support herself and her brother. She might have yielded her virginity, but this housekeeper did not easily yield her hard-won control over her life.

She had to try again. “I do not wish—”

Lady Valéry pointed a crooked finger at her. “You keep quiet, gel. We're arranging your future here.”

“My lady, I don't need anyone to arrange my future.” Mary kept her voice polite, her demeanor reasonable. “I have done an exemplary job of taking care of myself these last ten years.”

“Tut, child,” Bubb said. “A woman can scarcely be expected to know what's best for her. Witness your lack of discretion.”

Lady Valéry cackled at Bubb's inadvertent admission.

He added hastily, “Innocent though those actions may have been. You just sit and be quiet like a good girl, and let your elders settle your future.”

“Say what you will, I won't marry him.”

They weren't listening. Bubb and Lady Valéry had their noses in each other's faces again, arguing her future.

Mary stared at Sebastian. This was all
his
fault. Everyone at the house party now deemed her giddy and reckless, when really she was calm and stable. At least, that's what she had been until she'd met him for the first time in ten years.

Moving closer to her, he said softly, “Don't glare so evilly.” He dropped a hand on her shoulder and rubbed the knot of tension that had gathered there. “Rebelling will do you no good, you know. You're going to marry me. You're too sensible not to.”

Sensible. Yes, she was sensible—until he touched her, as he was doing now. Until his palm massaged the muscles beneath and her treacherous body forgot the pain he'd caused her. She forgot that someone lurked within the corridors of Fairchild Manor who knew the truth of her past and demanded money for his silence. When Sebastian's fingers grazed her skin, this detestable room blurred before her eyes, the other voices faded, and moisture gathered low in her belly again. Then Mary lost her domination and Guinevere, that imp of emotion, emerged triumphant.

Sebastian always brought Guinevere out of hiding.
That
was why Mary couldn't marry him.

“Think of it,” he urged. “You'll be secure.”

“I'm secure now,” she muttered, and wished he would move his hand to her other shoulder.

He did. “Be logical, Mary. You're an heiress. Even in our enlightened age, it's not uncommon for men to take heiresses to wife any way they can, and now that you're ruined, the men would not even bother with the niceties of courtship. If you married me, you'd be safe from all that.”

He was right, Mary thought.

I don't want to,
Guinevere wailed.

Mary was startled. Guinevere didn't want to wed him? Not even to experience once more those shattering elevations of passion and satiation?

Both hands enclosed the back of her neck now, and he tilted her head forward to work the tightly clenched cords. “I can do much for Hadden, too. I can get him into Oxford if he desires, or send him on a grand tour.”

“I have money—money I would have no control over if I married you.”

“I don't want control of your money. It is your grandfather's money, and I want no truck with him or his wealth.”

Money easily scorned, she thought, when more is available.

“When we wed,” he continued, “it will be yours to do with as you will.”

She snorted. “Readily said.” But she was speaking into her chest, her eyes half-closed as he used his thumbs to knead each side of her spine.

“As of this moment, I swear to relinquish all
control of your fortune. You may do as you wish with your moneys.” He seemed to think that promise enough, for he continued, “But you have no connections that would help Hadden, and you're not likely to get them.”

She stiffened and tried to raise her head. “Because of my reputation, do you mean?”

“That's a handicap, too.” He slipped his fingers under the mobcap she'd hastily slapped on and rubbed her scalp right behind her ears. “But I was speaking of your femininity. The deacons of the colleges have no respect for a woman's opinion. But if I should use my influence to have Hadden recommended by…say…William Pitt, I'm sure they'd listen.”

“Bribing me with my own brother's welfare.” She meant to ridicule him. She feared she sounded wistful.

And she must have, for he stopped massaging and came to kneel at her feet. She didn't want to look at him; he was temptation incarnate.

But he spoke softly, not demanding or commanding as he usually did, but coaxing like a suitor. “
Why
don't you want to marry me? I can't apologize for what I did, at least with any measure of sincerity. It was too magnificent an experience for that.”

His voice might sound contrite, but his words proved him to be his usual self. “You are such an ass.”

“You have told me so often, I now fear it is true.
But I was wrong to do what I did. I was wrong about your character.”

He smoothed her cheek with his palm and lifted her face until she had to look at him. At his sharp features. The hair she'd rumpled with her hands. The broad shoulders and strong body. God, she ached from the strength of his body. But she'd been sitting here, thinking about the scene in her bedchamber, and now she asked, “Did you think I knew where the diary was?”

He flinched. Visibly flinched. “I am an ass, a guilty, judgmental ass.”

He did look guilty. That didn't assuage her distress. “Have you thought that ever since we left Scotland?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No. It was just a momentary madness, brought on by the memory of the old feud.”

By the knowledge she had killed a man, too? Surely not. Surely he would scorn to marry a murderess. Briefly she shivered as she remembered the note and despaired of what to do.

“Are you cold?” He rubbed her arms.

“No, I was just wondering…if we married, and if you heard something about me that was so dreadful—”

“I wouldn't believe it!” Still he rubbed her arms, as if he wished to warm her. “You are a Fairchild, but mostly you are Guinevere Mary, and I've learned much about you. You could be accused of any crime,
and I would know you justified in your actions.” He looked at her steadily. “Is there something else about you I should know?”

She almost told him. She opened her mouth. The words were there.
I murdered a man.

But she couldn't. She should, but she couldn't. And her hesitation wasn't even because of Hadden's future of Lady Valéry's shock. She hesitated because she couldn't bear to see the indulgence on his face turn to shock and disdain. She couldn't bear to have Sebastian despise her.

She shut her mouth. She shook her head.

“No?”

She shook her head again, and thought that his fleeting expression of disappointment must have been in her imagination.

“No matter. Even if you had broken every commandment, I would still wish very much to wed you.”

“You don't know what you're saying. No.”

“Why not?”

She closed her eyes. “You're a Durant.”

He chuckled. “You don't care about the feud. You don't even know what caused it.”

She opened her eyes again. “Then tell me.”

“It has nothing to do with us. You're hiding. You're stalling. And that doesn't sound like the Mary I know.” He peered at her. “Is this the Guinevere you fear? For I can see that she
is
illogical.”

Mary looked up and saw Bubb and Lady Valéry watching the scene play out before them with open
fascination. She glanced around the study and noted how firmly her grandfather's presence remained entrenched. But neither Bubb nor Lady Valéry nor her grandfather had ever comprehended her, or even cared enough to try.

Sebastian had cared enough, and it was too mortifying to realize how well he succeeded.

Mary
was
firmly in control again, thinking clearly and doing what had to be done, and that, she supposed, included marriage. He didn't ever have to know about the murder. She'd get the money and pay off that valet somehow. And she was ruined, and she would be a good wife to Sebastian.

Yet that other part of her, that
Guinevere,
was whining,
I don't want to, I don't want to. Guinevere
cast around desperately for rescue, and why? Why? Mary knew very well why, although she could scarcely bear to admit the truth.

Guinevere Mary Fairchild had been hanging on to the dream of giving herself to a man who loved and respected her.

And hadn't she seen often enough that dreams were for simpletons?

Realizing that she had been such a simpleton made up Mary's mind. She nodded once, firmly, in assent. “Lord Whitfield, I will marry you.”

Ian lurched through the stable. “Hadd, my old
friend, where are you?” Straw dust coated the fine polish of his boots. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything. “Hadd…Oh, there you are.” He leaned into one of the stalls and spoke to a young, broad-shouldered blond man who curried one of the geldings. “Didn't you hear me calling you?”

The stableboy stood up, and light from the afternoon sun struck his face.

“You're not Hadd,” Ian said accusingly. “Stop pretending to be and tell me where he is.”

The stableboy pulled his forelock and, like all good English servants, didn't protest Ian's injustice. “ 'E's workin' with that stallion. Ye'll find him behind in the pen.”

Ian groaned. He didn't want to face the sunlight, but he badly wanted to speak to Hadd. He felt a kinship with the other Fairchild bastard, and they'd
drunk with each other more than once in the past week. Hadd never made judgmental remarks about Ian's background, and Ian, after a few delicate attempts, never tried to find out about Hadd's.

They talked about horses, which they both revered. They talked about English society, which they decided neither of them could ever comprehend. Infrequently Ian answered Hadd's questions about being half-Selkie, and what he remembered of his mother's stories. Hadd's interest in the old ways never faltered. Ian knew he wasn't just a curiosity for Hadd, but a friend.

The blue glow around Hadd betrayed his regard. As Ian had said, he was a difficult man to lie to.

As he feared, the sunlight blinded him as he tramped out to the fenced enclosure, but he grinned when he saw Hadd coaxing Quick to accept a ride. Ian thought Hadd focused on the triumph of the moment, until he heard Hadd ask, “Isn't he a beauty?”

“He is indeed,” Ian said.

One of the Fairchilds' finest, a remnant of the days when the uncles had dreamed of making money by breeding horses. They could have, too. They'd had the stock. But breeding horses took concentration over a long period of time, and none of the uncles could sustain such interest. The chance to renew the Fairchild fortune had faded away.

Now Ian's chance to grab the Fairchild fortune had faded away, too, and it was his own fault. His own damn fault.

Hadd rode toward the fence and made to dismount. “Help me,” he invited.

Ian hesitated not at all. He was foxed, true, but with animals he never made a wrong step. So he climbed through the rails and came to the stallion's head. Gently he held out his hands and allowed Quick to sniff them. He took hold of the bridle while Hadd slid out of the saddle.

Hadd patted the stallion and praised him, then said to Ian, “It's early to be drunk as a piper.”

Ian squinted up at the westering sun. “No, it's not. It's a good time to be drunk. Join me. I'm going to the tavern in the village. We can remain there all night.”

Hadd looked him over. “I have work to do.”

Reckless, determined to have company, Ian said, “I can get you out of it.” And immediately knew he'd made a mistake.

Hadd stiffened, and his lips thinned. Sarcastically he said, “No, I thank you, my lord. Most men have to work occasionally. Most men even enjoy it.”

Maybe it was the excessive amount of brandy Ian had consumed. Maybe it was his own self-disgust. But the wrong thing to say came out of him without his even thinking. “B'God, you're a Fairchild! You have no need to work.”

Hadd swung toward Ian, his fist up, and Ian thought the only thing that saved him from a thrashing was Quick's restless protest. Hadd glanced at the stallion, then turned back to Ian. “You didn't hear
me, then. I enjoy working, not chasing young women for their fortunes.”

Ian snorted. “That's not my employment.” He flung out his arms, and the stallion stumbled back, snorting, too. “That part of my life is over.”

“You're engaged?” Hadd made the word a mockery.

A mockery that meant nothing beside the mockery Ian had just suffered from Leslie. “Worse. I'm a failure. A failure, I tell you!”

“So the young lady decided to marry the man she loved.”

“Yes. Yes, damn it, she did. And it was my fault.”

Hadd seemed a little less piqued with Ian. “I can't see you as a matchmaker.”

“An inadvertent one, I assure you.” Ian fell into step as Hadd led the stallion toward the stable. He didn't know why he insisted on telling Hadd these things. It wasn't making him feel any better. Nor was he finding sympathy in the bottom of his bottle, and he certainly wasn't going to get it in the manor. “I tried to compromise her, but she got angry.”

“Angry?”

“She didn't like my kisses.” That still stung. “She treated me as if I were her little brother who needed a good slap.”

“Oo.” Hadd seemed a little more sympathetic now. “I'm familiar with that feeling.”

“Then she went back to her bedchamber, and who should be waiting for her but Sebastian Durant, Viscount Whitfield.”

Hadd stopped so abruptly, Ian had to shove him aside or Quick would have stepped on him.

“Careful, cousin.” Ian staggered and almost stumbled into Quick's path in his turn. “Hurts when a horse crushes your foot, you know.”

“Viscount Whitfield?” Hadd said.

Ian grabbed a fence rail and steadied himself. Only a little farther to the barn, where at least he'd be out of this blasted sun. He was beginning to feel rather ill, as if all the bottles he'd consumed in the past week were taking this moment to make their stand.

“Answer me, damn you!”

“Wha…oh, yes. Viscount Whitfield.” Ian's sense of ill usage took dominance again. “Yes, that cretin, that
barbarian,
decided to compromise her, too. And he did it where I couldn't. He actually did the deed.” He kept saying it, hoping the repetition would bring the reality home. Unfortunately, it did, and he barely realized how ominous his companion's silence seemed. “They'll be wed before the sun sets if Lady Valéry has anything to say about it.” He wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead. “And she does. She knows the archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Before the sun sets?” Hadd glanced at the clouds turning orange and red in the sun's last rays.

“Or sooner. B'God, they're probably already wed. Yesterday Lady Valéry sent a messenger to her friend the archbishop to request special permission to marry, and she received the license this morning.” He sneered as he thought of having such influence—a
small defiance of the envy he felt. “How fortuitous that Canterbury is so near.”

Hadd took Quick's reins and looped them around one of the fence rails. Then he reached over, grabbed Ian's neckcloth, and dragged him forward. “Tell me the name of the woman who is going to marry Viscount Whitfield.”

“Old man, be careful.” Ian tried to shove Hadd away. “You'll crumple my—”

“Tell me!”

Hadd directed his question in the manner of a man demanding his rights, and for the first time an inkling of the truth niggled at Ian's mind. Slowly he said, “My cousin Mary Fairchild.” He watched Hadd's face, and saw the flare of raw fury that lit the young man's eyes.

Hadd tightened his grip on the cravat until Ian could scarcely breathe. “And she was who you tried to compromise?”

“You said you knew who your father was,” Ian whispered. “Who was he?”

Hadd showed his strong white teeth in a snarl. “Guess.”

“Could it be Charles Fairchild?” Ian gulped when Hadd nodded. “And Mary is…?”

“My sister.” Hadd pulled his big fist back. “You're not the first man I've thrashed for trying to seduce my sister—and you won't be the last.”

Cane in hand, Lady Valéry moved through the gloriously decorated ballroom, eavesdropping on the wedding guests with so much wicked delight, she thought she must go straight to hell when she died.

Stopping behind a column, she heard one of Bubb's daughters wail, “But, Daddy, he was in
my
bedchamber.”

“Well, your cousin had him in her bedchamber
with his breeches unbuttoned,
” Bubb said tersely. “Now they've wed, and we're happy. Happy, I tell you, so smile.”

Lady Valéry strolled past and turned to see which one of the girls had thought to trap Sebastian. That jade, Daisy, dabbed her handkerchief to the corners of her eyes while she smiled, as instructed—until she caught sight of Lady Valéry. Then she tossed her head and walked away.

Everyone was smiling, Lady Valéry noted, although some smiles were more genuine than others. Bubb's daughters smiled dutifully. Mary's suitors smiled with gritted teeth, especially Mr. Mouatt, who, rumor had it, needed a quick infusion of cash or he would find himself without a feather to fly with.

Mr. Everett Brindley smiled at the newlyweds with a sharp gleam in his eye. He might have been the matchmaker, rather than Lady Valéry, for all the pride he showed in their union, and Lady Valéry wondered if he wasn't a bit dotty.

But there were a lot of dotty old men smiling here tonight.

Leslie smiled as if his rear hurt, which it certainly
should. She had, after all, been wearing a particularly sharp set of heels when she'd kicked him. Calvin smiled at her, trying to look suave and alluring, and not succeeding. Oswald smiled with weepy-eyed infatuation—well, really, how was she to know he'd never been to the Orient? And Burgess…ah, Burgess was untried. Burgess showed potential. Burgess smiled hopefully, and Lady Valéry thought perhaps she would fulfill his dreams tonight.

Had he ever, she wondered, been to Italy?

Bubb smiled dutifully, and Nora…wasn't there.

She hadn't been there since Sebastian had been discovered in Mary's bedchamber, and Lady Valéry would desperately like to know why. The Fairchild fortune had been removed forever from their jurisdiction today, and the woman who clearly directed the Fairchilds' every move had disappeared. Inquiries as to her health produced smiles and shrugs from Bubb, and when he thought himself unseen, looks of consternation.

He was lost without his wife, and he hadn't been able to do more than babble when Mary had stood up and announced her intention to wed Sebastian. Nora would at least have had something intelligent to say, but not even the wedding had flushed her out of hiding. Where would the Fairchild hostess be in the middle of an important house party?

Of course, Lady Valéry had admitted to a good deal of relief that Nora hadn't appeared to lend her support to the beleaguered Mary. Better than anyone,
she knew Mary's strength of mind, and Lady Valéry applauded whatever Sebastian had said—or done—to convince her to wed him.

Now the newlyweds stood together, formally posed beneath an arch where they could be congratulated by the assemblage. No bride had ever looked lovelier than Mary in her light green gown with the wreath of broom in her hair. No groom had ever looked more handsome than Sebastian, dressed in his usual severe black, but wearing such a triumphant smile, Lady Valéry thought Mary must want to slap him.

Certainly his expression made Lady Valéry's hand itch. Didn't he know
she
had planned this?
She
had trapped him? He had no business looking so pleased, and she made up her mind to tell him so the first chance she had.

But Bubb was standing beside the musicians, calling for everyone's attention, and the laughing guests quieted. “Once again,” he said in a hearty voice, “the Fairchilds have taken into the family a prize of a bridegroom. Lord Whitfield brings not only a title and a fortune—”

Lady Valéry winced.

“—our cousin's marriage to him has also brought an end to a long-lasting and infamous feud. Speaking as the head of the Fairchild family, I sincerely welcome Lord Whitfield.”

A polite round of applause accompanied the speech, although Lady Valéry knew most of the guests preferred the entertainment of open rancor to artificial harmony. Sebastian bowed to Bubb. As
Bubb bowed back, Mary looked happier than she had all evening.

Then Leslie spoke up. “Well said, nephew. Too much has been made of a youthful prank done many years ago.”

Sebastian's smile disappeared.

“But my brothers and I wish to show we hold no grudge against the Whitfields—”

“Grudge!” Sebastian exclaimed.

“—and so we offer our wedding bequest to the newlywed couple.” Leslie smiled sweetly at the indignant Durant, and gestured to someone outside of the ballroom.

Lady Valéry was reminded of an evil elf presenting a gift to ruin the festive occasion.

Four men carried the large, heavy object concealed with a blanket. They set it on the floor and stepped away, and Leslie jerked off the covering.

A fine bronze of a rearing stallion stood almost waist-high. The workmanship was exquisite. Lady Valéry could see each muscle and vein on its body. The lifted hooves shone from polish, and rising from its belly was its organ, proudly rendered.