Corey McFadden (12 page)

Giles let out a great guffaw at her speech, and she laughed with him, glad that the companionability of the night before had not been her imagination.

“I must compliment you again on your work, Miss Carpenter. That is an extraordinarily fine painting. Please feel free to have Hawton order whatever supplies you need from Penrith.”

“Thank you, Sir Giles. Actually, there are a few things I would like to order for the children, paint and sketch paper and some books, if it is permissible?” She looked up at him with a smile, eyes crinkling against the sun.

“Anything at all. I will leave word with Hawton. You won’t find Penrith terribly well stocked—it’s a small town, after all, but I’m sure we can acquire what you need.”

Joanna went on with her packing up. She was oddly pleased that he had praised her artwork. And with the prospect of a ride with Sir Giles out into the fells before her, she found her heart tripping rather oddly. Too much of being cooped up and brooding in that dark house, she thought, giving herself a mental shake.

“What time do the children nap?” he asked.

“In just a few minutes, sir. Shall I come to the stables when I get them settled?”

“Yes, and bring a cloak. The wind can be fierce in the fells even on a mild day.”

There was a shriek from Emma and another chase was on. This time it was Giles who caught the boy in mid-stride and pried the offending beastie from his hands. Their laughter echoed in the wind.

* * * *

Eleanor stood in the long window of her sitting room, holding back the heavy brocade drapery. The bright sun struck at her face like slivers of flying glass. Her mouth was a thin vermilion slit and her darkened eyes glittered with anger as they swept the seascape that lay before her. There they were. Just like last night. He was obviously sniffing around the simpering little bitch, and Eleanor was surprised how much it vexed her. She’d never given a damn whom Giles took to his bed. Once or twice she’d even obliquely tried to forward a dalliance between Giles and one of her smitten friends, but he’d brushed off all such suggestions and innuendos with scorn and anger, and she’d given up caring where or if he sought his pleasure.

But this girl—there was something unsettling about this idyllic picture—something about the girl herself that made Eleanor feel uneasy.

The light was hurting her eyes. She let the drapery fall back into place, and the room darkened to its usual state. Anger stabbed again through her. That was what was bothering her—the light. Last night she had come home to find the house blazing away like a royal ballroom, with her stepbrother and that little porcelain doll, pretty as a picture, dimpling and smiling at him. And now today, outside in the bright of the sun, there she was again, smiling up at him with her young, perfect face.

In the light.

Eleanor hadn’t let anyone but her maid see her in the light of day for years, or without her face paint, for that matter. But she would lay any odds that little Miss Carpenter wore no face paint and had no reason to hide from the light.

Years ago Eleanor had had a face like that. She had taken London by storm during her Season, had any number of young men swarming around her. But her antics had gotten her quickly into trouble; she had been indiscreet. And the faster the tongues wagged, the fewer grew the number of marriage prospects, until finally there had been no offer at all and Eleanor had finished the Season in disgrace, her mother angry and waspish, her father, as usual, too lost in his drink and cards to care. Then, three years later, came the final insult. With her newly widowed mother’s rather desperate remarriage, Eleanor had been packed away to this godforsaken country to molder ever since. And Giles would not even keep a London townhouse. He had no use for London, so he said, but Eleanor rather thought it was just to spite her.

Thank God she’d found a number of London acquaintances who were willing to forgo town from time to time for long jaunts in the country. She did not delude herself as to why, either. It had not escaped her notice that her crowd belonged to the fringe of the
ton
. Oh, they had credentials of sorts, distant, tenuous, vague connections, but few of them had any real money; enough to gamble for a living, perhaps, but not enough to keep up their own toney households. On the social fringe, they drifted from houseparty to houseparty, their malicious wits and gaming purses enough to give them continuing entree to the lesser houses. And Eleanor, trapped here beyond nowhere, was the glittering jewel in the diadem, the honest-to-God earl’s daughter, with a fancy house and a great deal more money than most could ever hope to see. They cut a swath throughout England, this crowd, traveling in one big party from house to house, from card game to card game, from bed to bed. It was all very amusing.

And she’d give it all to have a face like that again.

There was a soft knock at the door, then it opened and shut again quickly with a quiet whisk. She turned to face the steward. He had better have a good explanation for making her leave a particularly nice party last night. There had been a new young pup up from London and she’d been having much amusement with a slow seduction....

* * * *

“You wished to see me, my lady?” Hawton asked in stilted tones. It galled him that in spite of their intimacies she insisted upon the haughty formalities of title and distance even when they were alone. She could grind over him like a two-shilling whore at night, then demand all the ‘my lady’s’ due her the next morning. And he had learned immediately never to initiate intimacy with her, nor even voice an endearment, outside of the crudities he was free to utter in bed. He was her stud and nothing more, and whatever pleasure he had once taken in futtering the high-and-mighty Sir Giles Chapman’s stepsister right under his roof had long since faded under the man’s obvious indifference.

“I wished to see you last night, Hawton. You gave me a peremptory summons, as if I were your chambermaid, then you were nowhere to be found.” Eleanor’s tone was icy and her eyes were no warmer. She was not in good form this afternoon, he noted. She had barely repaired last night’s makeup; it was still somewhat smudged from her pillow, and she had not yet bothered to don her wig. Her hair hung lank and greasy, pinned in a desultory fashion upon her head. There were dark circles under her eyes and tight lines around her too-red mouth. She was angry, and he’d have to soothe her. But he’d known this would happen when he’d panicked and sent for her yesterday, and he was ready with a truthful answer.

“I was in my cottage last night, my lady. When Sir Giles arrived unexpectedly, he was in a beast of a temper and he demanded to see the books. Fortunately, he got sidetracked and I had all evening to fix them up.” He finished, expecting to hear her relief that he had saved her petty thievery from discovery. He was wrong.

“What do you mean, sidetracked?” she asked sharply.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Eleanor?” Hawton asked, confused.

“You just said Giles got sidetracked, man,” she snapped. “What do you mean?”

At a loss as to why they were off on this tangent when discovery threatened, Hawton took a deep breath and willed himself not to snap back. “I meant that he visited with the new governess, madame, and I’ve seen nothing of him since.”

Eleanor muttered an unladylike curse and threw herself into the large upholstered chair a few steps away.

“Tell me about this governess you’ve hired, Hawton. I’ve met her, and I’m not at all sure she will do.” She glared up at him, an imperious, cold look on her tight face.

Now Hawton was truly at sea. Since when did this woman give a damn who or what the governess was? He stood, still at ramrod attention, trying to figure out what to say.

“I met her the first morning, my lady, and again at the end of that day. She is quiet, unprepossessing. Rather timid, actually. I don’t think she’ll give any trouble. Wasn’t horrified about the boy, apparently...” he trailed off, watching the scowl deepen on her face. He could see the cracks in the paint even in this dim light.

“Look out the window there, Hawton, and tell me what you see.” Eleanor gestured peremptorily toward the draperies. Not for the world would she stand up and walk over to the light with him. She slouched down in the chair, facing away from the window.

Hawton walked to the window in some alarm. He had no idea what was going on inside the woman’s head. Clearly she was agitated and angry, but he could not fathom why. He pulled back one of the draperies and peered out into the brightness. It took some time for his eyes to adjust. At first he could make out what seemed to be black specks against the light, then these resolved themselves into figures. His vision at a distance was not terribly good, but he was too vain to get spectacles, so he squinted as tightly as he could to get a clearer picture. Yes, now he could see, and he drew in an audible breath. The sight was rather remarkable, given the climate in this house since he’d lived here. There were Sir Giles and Miss Carpenter standing rather cozily together while the children danced around them. They were all laughing. As he watched, Miss Carpenter’s bonnet, dislodged apparently by a sudden gust, blew off her head. Sir Giles made a lunge and retrieved it. There was something in the way he looked at her as he handed it back, something that spoke of joy.

Quickly, Hawton lowered the curtain and turned back to Lady Eleanor. The contrast struck him now in full force, and he wondered that he had not seen it before. In all his months here he had never seen Sir Giles and Lady Eleanor exchange a pleasantry, not even a meaningless good morning. The atmosphere in this house when the two of them were here together was thick enough to cut with a knife. After a while he had ceased to notice it, since the master and mistress’s disaffection with each other suited his needs just fine. But here was the man cavorting like a schoolboy with the fresh-faced and innocent Miss Carpenter while his aging jade of a stepsister snarled and spat within her darkened chamber, ignored and alone.

“Well?” she snapped at him, breaking into his thoughts.

“It would appear Sir Giles has developed some sort of affection for the children, my lady,” he ventured, deliberately misstating his actual conclusions. Odd, how old she looked this afternoon. Eleanor was a handsome woman, no doubt, but now he was more conscious that hers was the memory of beauty, rather than the beauty itself. No wonder she was feeling so threatened. And well she should. Miss Carpenter was as delectable a virgin morsel as he had come upon in some time, and he had rather hoped to be the first one across that threshold. Now he wondered whether the stuffy, over-principled Sir Giles had stolen a march on him.

“You know perfectly well it has nothing to do with those sniveling brats. It’s that girl. What do you know of her?” There was something in Eleanor’s voice that he had not heard before from her. Her tone was usually so haughty, so self-assured, so dominant. Now there was an edge of desperation. He could see it in her eyes—the fear that she was losing a war.

Suddenly he felt more buoyant than he had felt in a long time. Perhaps here was the opportunity he had despaired of—the chance to make Lady Eleanor dependent on him. Never before, in all his dealings with women, had he been forced to adopt the subservient role he was forced to play with Eleanor. It did not sit well with him. His women had always been his to control. He enjoyed his dominant role, and it had chafed beyond measure to have this sneering woman take her pleasure from him, then dismiss him as the servant he was. Now, perhaps....

“If you think there is something between Sir Giles and that whey-faced chit, Lady Eleanor, I can only assume you are mistaken, or that the man has lost his mind.” The smell of control made him daring. Never before had he spoken with such familiarity to her, outside of the mutterings in bed. He waited and watched her. He was rewarded with the slight look of confusion that crossed her face. Now, if she lashed out at him for daring to contradict her, he had misread the situation, but if she....

“What do you mean, ‘whey-faced’?” Eleanor asked uncertainly. “I thought she was rather pretty last night.”

You are mine now, you bitch!
he crowed to himself. Allowing his eyes to linger warmly on her form, he hesitated a moment, as if mustering the audacity to speak.

“My lady, the girl is drab and plain. She is a parson’s daughter. She reads Latin. She stammers when she is uncertain of herself. I checked my office floor for a puddle after she left, she was so nervous.” It was working. Eleanor curled her feet up cozily in the chair and gave a little giggle at his words.

“And although I overstep myself, Lady Eleanor, I must tell you that you would be more beautiful than she if you went out and covered yourself in mud.” He paused. So far, so good. She was smiling up at him. Now for the kill. He put out his hand, slowly, as if hesitant. Gently he traced a line down her whitened cheek. He could feel the coarseness of the dried and cracked paint.

“And more desirable,” he whispered softly. He let his eyes smolder at her. “If Sir Giles is poking around at that pale, puny puss, it’s because he’s frightened of a real woman...like you.” His hand tightened around her chin. Sharply, he twisted her face up to his. He licked his lips slowly. Her eyes were hot now and half-lidded, riveted on his. She raised her arms and locked them around his neck, pulling him down. Their lips touched and he plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, probing hot and hard. She moaned as he slid his hand into her dressing gown and fondled her breast. He wrenched his mouth from hers and slid his lips down her throat. The powder tasted awful, flaking into his mouth, and he resisted the urge to pull away and spit.

“Hard, you’re so hard, Hawton,” she moaned, fumbling at his crotch. Indeed, he was. Like a rock. It felt good, having this arrogant bitch at his mercy. Now she needed him, and he would see to it that she continued to need him.

She was twisting at the fastenings on his breeches and as she pulled them open, his swollen shaft thrust out. She grabbed him in her hand and began to rub him up and down, fast and hard. Feeling his control slipping away, he pulled her dressing gown apart at her waist and slid his hand between her legs, probing her sheath with his fingers. She was slick and ready for him. Pushing her legs apart, he mounted her swiftly, jabbing deep and hard.