A Well Pleasured Lady (9 page)

And once Sebastian had experienced the irresponsible Guinevere, he would mock Mary until all of her maturity and authority shriveled and died.

His head thrown back, his eyes closed, he looked like a man on the verge of ecstasy.

She stretched her arm toward the silver cover.

Now.

His hand found her garter and released it.

Now.

Her fingers slipped on the slick silver. She tried again, and caught the handle.

“Now.” His eyes opened, blazing with triumph.
His finger stroked her between the legs, unerringly finding that place.

She arched up, stars exploding in a tumult of fire and sparks, of passion and pleasure.

And frantic, she brought the cover around with a full swing of her arm. It clanged loudly against the back of his skull.

“What the…?” He clambered back, freeing her for another swing.

This one cracked against his cheek. With a roar of pain, he grabbed his face and rolled off onto the floor.

She leaned forward to swing again.

He backed away.

Furious, humiliated, aroused, she held the cover like a shield before her. “Get out!” she whispered, afraid that if she spoke aloud, she would shout. “Get out and don't come back.”

He took his hand away from his face and looked at the blood on the palm. Then he looked up at her.

Civilization? Control? What had possessed her to think he comprehended even the concepts? In the force of his dark gaze, she saw the savagery of an animal deprived of its right to mate. She saw the promise of future encounters. Fighting a mix of fear and excitement, she tried to duck behind the safe facade of Mary Fairchild—and failed.

He came back toward the bed.

She raised the cover.

“Put it down,” he said in his normal cold tones. His mastery had returned. “If I wanted to, I could take it, and take you. But this isn't the time.”

A knock sounded at the door. How long had someone been trying to get their attention? Stupidly she said, “There's someone outside.”

A particularly frantic pounding sounded through the room, and Lady Valéry's clear tones called, “Sebastian!”

He simply glanced at the door, indifferent to the concerns of propriety and society, and Mary clutched the cover tighter. She didn't care what he said. She didn't believe that he would care if the king himself knocked on the door, and she wasn't putting down that cover.

“You know now what's between us.” The skin on his cheek was bruising as he spoke, swelling, purpling, and blood trickled out of a cut. “I want you to remember, Mary, what happened on this bed. Tonight when you slip between the sheets, think of me. Think of what we almost did. Imagine how good it would have been.” He went to the door and pulled the chair away, then turned back and looked at her. “It'll be that good again. That good, and better.” He sketched a bow. “Until next time, Mary.”

Jill squealed. “Miss Rotten—I mean, Miss
Fairchild, you look fairy-bright.”

Mary forgave her maid the unflattering exhibition of amazement. Jill had viewed Mary as Lady Valéry's drab housekeeper for so many years, she couldn't contain her wonder now, when that same housekeeper was…Mary stared into the mirror. When she was dazzling.

She reined in her own incredulity.

Vanity. All this staring into the mirror fostered pride in her remaining beauty, and she knew well enough how fleeting youth had proved. Turning away from the reflection of a maiden dressed in white satin, diamonds, and gold glimmering at her ears, wrists, and neck, she said, “Beauty is as beauty does. And do remember, without your skill with the hairbrush, I would still be plain Miss Rottenson.”

Jill wrapped the now cool iron curler in the quilted
pad she used to protect her hands. “Nay, Miss Fairchild, 'tisn't true. We ladies' maids used to talk about it in the servants' quarters, saying as how we'd like to get our hands on you. We knew you'd dress out fine. I can't wait until I get back home and tell them we were right.” She shut the dampers on the brazier she'd used to heat the round steel bar. “And that one of
us
is a rich heiress!”

Silenced, Mary took the lacy handkerchief and put it in the purse that hung off her arm, then let Jill help her draw on the long, diamond-seeded gloves. She picked up her ivory fan. Jill pretended to busy herself, but Mary cleared her throat and held out her hand. Silently Jill handed over the shoulder scarf, disapproval implicit in her stance.

“I am not going out in public with a neckline as low as this,” Mary said.

“As you say, Miss Fairchild.”

Mary did say, and Jill would not have her way on this, at least.

Jill had refused to allow Mary to wear formal hoops, insisting instead on a cambric petticoat, for the newest mode demanded a tubular skirt. Jill had refused to allow Mary to wear a wig, for only those who clung to the old ways wore a wigs. Jill had dabbed her lightly with the subtle fragrance of damask rose, for fashion emphasized cleanliness with only a subtle fragrance.

When Mary had inquired with irritation why she must ignore custom, Jill had smiled wisely. Mary
needed to establish herself as a style leader from her first appearance.

And who was Mary to disagree? She had paid fashion little heed in the last ten years, and besides…she liked the lighter perfume. Her hair gleamed like polished gold, and she hated to cover it with a wig. And if she found the lack of hoops disconcerting, well, she could hide her blushes behind her fan, and her bosom beneath her lacy scarf.

Once more she tugged her neckline up, then tied the scarf in a loose knot over her chest. “I'm ready.”

“Aye.” Jill picked up the discarded hoops and stacked them in the bottom of the wardrobe. “Just remember—don't let Lord Whitfield take you into the garden. Grass stains are monstrously hard to remove.”

Mary drew herself up to her full height, which was only a little greater than Jill's. “Are you being insolent?”

Jill looked surprised. “No, Miss Fairchild.”

Deflated, Mary reflected Jill probably was being truthful. It was Mary's fault she'd tamely allowed Sebastian to remain in her bedchamber with no chaperone. She had foolishly thought she could handle him, that his discipline never slipped, that he despised the Fairchilds too much to wish to couple with one.

She knew better now. She knew, too, he would be at the party tonight and she would have to face him for the first time since that magnificent—no, that
humiliating
scene yesterday. She never would have guessed his revenge would take this form.

What would he say? What would he do? And how would she respond? Never had she dreamed she would allow a man to be so familiar.

Allow?
She mocked herself.
Encourage
would be a better word. She'd let him kiss her, fondle her, and she'd kissed and fondled him in return, searing the tang and taste of him deep into her very being. Just as he'd instructed, she'd awakened last night and thought of what they'd almost done, imagined how good it would have been.

And she, of all people, knew the results of such heedless dreaming. She knew the trouble imagination could create. She'd taken that pillow, the one with his scent, and thrown it as far as she could from the bed.

Such precipitous behavior hadn't helped, but she felt better for it nonetheless.

“Miss Fairchild, it's time to go to the ballroom.” Jill held the door for her. “But you haven't been out of your chamber since you arrived, and I fear you will get lost. Would you like me to walk you down?”

Jill tactfully hinted that she'd noticed Mary's anxiety. Jill thought it was shyness; Mary knew it was the lingering fear of being identified.

Ten years ago she'd been a governess, protected by the cloak of anonymity that covered all servants. Unfortunately, silly Guinevere Fairchild had been young, beautiful, impetuous, and by her behavior had called attention to herself. If one person recognized
her as the governess who had fled after the earl of Besseborough's murder…She shook herself. Such imaginings were futile. If someone recognized her, then she would deny it. Or better still, laugh it off. Or dare her accuser to prove it. Or crumple…No.

Housekeepers do not crumple in the face of adversity.

Nor did heiresses. “I'll go myself. If I lose my way, I will certainly ask one of the servants or the other guests for directions.”

“Aye, Miss Fairchild.” Jill smiled at her, her eyes agleam. “I'll be waiting up for you when you come back, and you can tell me how you're the belle of the ball.”

“I'm sure I will be,” Mary said austerely. “After all, how many other heiresses will be attending?”

She sailed into the corridor, but she heard Jill's protestation anyway.

“ 'Twill not be the money that'll first turn their heads, Miss Fairchild, but the sight of those bosoms—if you'd be wise enough to let the gentlemen see!”

Mary walked slowly in the direction of the formal chambers, not knowing whether to hope she met someone or hope she didn't, and when a door opened beside her, she wished she could blend into the woodwork.

Uncle Calvin stepped out into the passageway. He held his wig in his hand, and uneven fluffs of hair stuck out in all directions on his head. His waistcoat
was buttoned crookedly, his cosmetics were smeared, and Mary guessed by his girth he'd lost his corset.

He didn't seem aware of her. From the dazed expression on his face, she wasn't sure he was aware of anything. He stared into the darkened chamber behind him and in a trembling voice said, “My dear, that was a transfiguring experience. Might I assume we will repeat it soon?”

Mary pressed herself against the wall.

A woman's voice called from within. “You are assuming we were both transfigured, Calvin.”

“B-but…” Calvin stammered.

“If you're good and make yourself pleasant to my godson, then perhaps I'll dance with you tonight.”

Mary recognized the voice, but she could scarcely credit it, and she didn't know whether to be shocked or amused.

“Do you promise?” Calvin begged.

A plump, bejeweled hand came out of the darkness and pushed him by his shoulder. “I make no
promises.
I told you that last night. Now, be a good boy and go back where you came from. I must get ready for the ball.”

The door snapped shut, leaving Calvin staring helplessly at the painted panels, and Mary staring in amazement at Calvin. With the air of a man who had wrestled with fate and lost, he trudged down the hallway.

Mary followed at a discreet distance, pondering what devious plan Lady Valéry had hatched. The
news that Lady Valéry had virtually controlled the English government for years had come both as a surprise and a confirmation. Seeing Calvin in his turmoil only gave credence to Mary's suspicion. Lady Valéry would try to recover the diary on her own. Working without Sebastian's consent, she had begun to test the suspects.

Mary wanted to help; no one desired the return of that diary more urgently than she. Every day she remained here on display was a day she might be identified. But Lady Valéry's involvement filled her with unease. Obviously Lady Valéry felt no compunction in bedding the enemy, and she'd watched Mary and Sebastian react to each other with something that looked like delight. So would she think twice about manipulating Mary and Sebastian into a similar situation? Mary didn't think so, and swore to watch not only her enemies, but her patroness.

With grim determination Mary walked toward the ballroom, and the farther she walked, the more people she met, until she felt like a raindrop that had merged with the stream. A rather unimportant raindrop, at that.

Slipping into the ballroom, she almost trod on the train of a lady wearing hoops. Had she created a social disaster for herself by listening to Jill's fashion advice?

Then she looked around her, and fashion no longer mattered.

The chamber had been transformed into a fairyland.
The entire room was draped in midnight blue silk. The delicate material fluttered in the breeze from the open doorways, moving sinuously and catching the light. Golden ornaments hung from the ceiling like stars in the night sky, and the brilliance of a thousand candles created magic. Behind the polished expanse of dance floor, an orchestra played a romantic piece by Thomas Linley.

Smiling, lost in luxury, Mary stared. She hadn't allowed herself dreams of this, her unofficial debut, but if she had, she couldn't have imagined anything so grand.

The brilliantly clad nobles didn't speak to her. Instead, they looked at her. They observed her unpowdered hair and her informal petticoats and they leaned close to sniff her perfume. The men smiled insolently, and the powder-wigged women commented on her innovative dressing in tones that revealed their conviction that if they didn't know her, she must be a nobody.

And she wasn't, of course. She was only a governess-turned-housekeeper, with a brief stint as murderess in between.

But as she went forward, she took the time to examine the faces that examined her. She recognized none of them, and none appeared to recognize her.

“Here's our new heiress.” Bubb's voice boomed over the buzz of many voices. “Mary! Come and stand with us as we greet our guests. You are our honored Fairchild, you know.”

The Fairchilds stood in a row. As the marquess of Smithwick, Bubb was at the head, his blond handsomeness drawing the eye. Beside him, Nora appeared slight and insignificant, although she was clothed in a shimmery pink silk. The uncles were next in line—except the drained Calvin—and the daughters. Each man and woman was dressed in the finest of materials. None of the Fairchilds, nor their servants nor their home, showed the least sign of poverty. Mary wondered if they were truly on the brink of ruin, and even more whether any of them even understood the concept encapsulated in the word
economy.

“Gracious, didn't anyone tell you, you must wear formal court wear for evening occasions?” Daisy snapped. “You look silly with your natural hair hanging loose.”

“I think she looks magnificent.” Drusilla shut her eyes and screwed up her mouth like a child about to throw a tantrum. “It's not fair.”

“You must have spied out our design, you naughty girl.” Lilith smiled with sickly enthusiasm.

And Mary understood at last why Jill had insisted she wear white and gold.

Lilith wore azure. Wilda wore glimmering silver. The twins, who were too young to be there at all, wore matching gowns of saffron, and Daisy was splendid in cloth of gold. Each gown glittered like one of the ornamental stars, but no one shone more brightly against the cobalt setting than Mary.

“You really should discard that scarf.” Radella
pulled her skirt aside as Mary passed her. “Modesty is for peasants.”

If Radella thought that, Mary knew she was right to conceal herself, and she pulled the tie tighter.

“I think you look pretty,” Wilda said timidly.

Mary gave her a grateful glance.

“Stand next to me.” Nora held out her hand. “We'll introduce you to the ton in a manner appropriate to the Fairchild heiress.”

Mary moved to the place between Nora and Uncle Leslie, wondering all the time if Lilith and Daisy and Drusilla and Radella hid daggers somewhere on their tight-laced, ruffled persons. She saw the venomous gaze Leslie cast toward her, and she knew herself surrounded. With the possible exception of Bubb and Nora, none of the Fairchilds wanted her here.

If only they realized how little she wished to be here.

Bubb introduced her to the guests already in line, and Nora expressed her joy at having recovered their dear niece and heiress. As each guest moved on and another took his place, Mary smiled until her jaw ached. The noise in the ballroom rose as the tale was repeated time and again.

Nora lifted her fan and spoke to Mary from behind it. “Look, at the back of the line, it's the earl of Shaw and his son. The son is unmarried and in hopes of making a good match.”

Mary looked at the pimple-faced boy. “I must be ten years older than he is.”

“No more than eight.” Nora sounded matter-of-fact. “But you're an heiress, and a beauty at that. That's a rarity which can't be ignored.”

With a mounting sense of relief, Mary said, “I'm betrothed.”

Bubb had apparently been listening, for he ignored the viscount whose hand he shook and leaned behind Nora. “Your fiancé hasn't arrived yet, Mary. Perhaps he's feeling a little embarrassed about exhibiting that black eye you gave him.”

Mary groaned softly. “I gave him a black eye?”

“It's not the eye so much as his cheek.” Nora's smile was more than a little implacable. “Are you less fond of him than you'd led us to believe?”