Pleasure For Pleasure (21 page)

“He was accused of murder,” Darlington said. “But he didn't do it, I assure you.”

Griselda opened her mouth, but then they were in Darlington's bedchamber, and she suddenly realized that—that—

“There's no use in complaining,” he said.

“You can put me down,” she said with dignity.

“As long as you promise not to turn around and trot down the stairs.”

“I
never
trot.”

So he let her down, but the moment her feet touched the ground he caught up her face in both his hands and kissed her. One minute they were talking, and the next he was taking her mouth with a kind of savage desperation that had nothing to do with light conversation about butlers and murders. Because that must have been a joke, Griselda thought dimly, but thoughts were sliding away now, and a sort of delicious fog descended on her mind in which the only things that mattered were the taste of him, the smell of him, and the sound of his breathing.

It took her maid at least fifteen minutes to disrobe Lady
Griselda Willoughby. It took Darlington approximately fifteen seconds. The hooks seemed to fly apart at his fingers and he kept kissing her all the while, kissing her so that she didn't think about what was happening. It was as if Griselda threw away the “lady” part of her with every garment that fell to the ground. By the time he took her chemise, she felt as wild as any thoroughly debauched concubine. Her hair swirled around her shoulders, and she didn't feel like a maiden aunt any more. Not seeing the way that his fingers trembled when he touched her. Or the way he stood still when she touched him, his breath quick, eyes dark.

“God, you're beautiful,” he said.

Griselda felt beautiful.

J
osie crept down the ladder about half an hour after Mayne and Sylvie left. She'd found a grain sack to wear over her shoulders so the rip in her gown didn't show. Her plan was to wait for one of Mayne's stablehands and ask him to show her a back way out so that she could find a hackney.

She came down as hurriedly as she could and then hid in the front corner of Gigue's stall, where she couldn't be seen from the aisle. People kept strolling by, even though the races were over, until at last the trickle of feet stopped. She stood, shivering, overcome by exhaustion, fear and distress. Her mind was revolving in unhappy circles.

Finally, she heard footsteps coming that stopped before the stall; that must be one of Mayne's stablehands. Gigue had
been bending her neck and nosing her trough, as if hopeful that food had somehow landed there since she searched the last time. Josie had formed a very low opinion of her intelligence.

Sure enough, the stocky figure of Mayne's stablemaster, Billy, pushed open the door to Gigue's stall. “Good evening,” she said, as quietly as possible, so as not to startle the man. But he jumped anyway. “I must look a sight,” she said, trying a little smile.

“Aye, and you do, miss,” the man said, blinking at her. “What in the love of God happened to ye, then?”

Josie bit her lip before it could start trembling again. “I should like you to find me a hackney,” she said, “if you please. And then bring me to it. I must go home.”

His eyes skittered up and down, from her face to her gown, to the brown burlap clutched over her shoulders.

“I know I look awful. Please help me get home. I shall be glad to pay handsomely for your aid.”

“I won't need any payment. Sit down, miss. You look as if you're about to fall down. I'll fetch you a carriage, but it will take a moment, as there's a mite of traffic.”

Josie looked down at the straw around her feet. Of course, she could sit down. She was terribly tired. “Don't you think someone might see my knees from the aisle? I cannot be seen.”

“Not a bit of it. I'll just fetch a few more burlaps from next door, and throw them over your knees and there's naught a thing to see.”

Gratefully, Josie slid down until she was sitting in the corner, and a second later Billy piled a few more burlaps about her. They smelled like grain. She opened her eyes a little blearily. “You didn't feed the horses with this grain, did you? It smells green.”

He stared at her with an odd frown. “You're right about
that, miss. We had three sacks that were tossed for being too green.”

Josie closed her eyes again.

 

By the time Mayne appeared at the door, she was fast asleep. He stood for a second, looking down at her and feeling a swell of rage in his throat such as he had never experienced before. Billy was right. Even from here he could tell that Josie had been violated. Her face was dead white and all streaked with tears. Her hair was falling around her shoulders, and her gown was splattered with brown mud, as if she'd been pushed down and tried to fight back. For a second he couldn't breathe.

Billy stood at his shoulder. “You've got to get her home,” he said.

That made his limbs move.

He pushed open the gate and entered the stalls, crouching down before her. All her beautiful brandy-colored hair was falling to the side. Her dress had been torn off; he could see a bit of creamy white shoulder through the fabric. And her gown was covered with brown splotches of mud. She must have been thrown onto the ground. He pulled his cloak off his shoulders and draped it over her so she couldn't be recognized when he carried her out, and then in one swift movement he scooped her up and stood.

One moment he was holding her, and the next she had slugged him so hard in the eye that he dropped her unceremoniously.

“It's his lordship,” he heard Billy say.

But with the one eye that was still open, Mayne was staring at Josie's dress, which was literally ripped from her back. He almost retched. “How did this happen to you?” he said hoarsely, his voice coming out with the growl of a dog.
“Who?”

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “You put that cloak over my eyes and I thought—”

“Who?”

“I—I—” Her eyes filled with tears. Billy pulled the cloak back over her shoulders and pushed her gently to the side of the stall at the sound of footsteps.

“Better to talk later,” he said to Mayne.

But Mayne didn't think he could talk. He'd just realized that there was blood on Josie's skirts. Not much, but enough. The world literally blackened in front of him, and he swayed for a moment. He didn't think he could do anything. Then he wrenched his eyes away and forced his stomach to calm.

“Mayne?” Josie said rather uncertainly. “Could you please take me home? Is Sylvie waiting for you?”

He swung around. “Put the cloak over your head,” he ordered. She pulled it up obediently.

“There's no one in the corridor,” Billy reported.

Mayne didn't breathe until she was in his carriage. Even there, he couldn't find words, other than one:
“Who?”

Josie was huddled in the corner, looking like a girl of fourteen. Mayne felt his gorge rising again. She showed no signs of answering him.

“Oh God,” he said slowly. “It wasn't—Josie, was there more than one?”

She shook her head, and now he saw a tear sliding down her cheek.

He came to his knees beside her and took her hands. They were wet with tears and felt tiny and cold. “Just tell me his name, Josie. I'll take care of you.” And him, he added to himself silently.

She shook her head again. “I will not marry him.”

“Of course you won't!” The words choked from his throat. He almost said that whoever the man was, he wouldn't be alive for a wedding, but caught it back.

“If I say who it was, I'll have to marry him,” Josie whispered, pulling one of her hands free so that she could scrub the tears from her cheeks. “I can't.”

“I'll kill him first.”

An odd little smile trembled on her lips. “And eat his heart in the marketplace?”

Mayne got off his knees and sat on the seat, pulling her into his lap. It was all improper, but she was ravished, and she was quoting Shakespeare, and she was so much Josie that his heart was full. “Beatrice wished that she were a man; I am that man,” he said into her hair. “I'll kill him first, and we'll worry about the disposal of his organs after.”

She leaned against him. But: “I'd rather no one knew about it, not even you, Mayne.”

Mayne stopped himself from shaking her. She'd been through an ordeal. “You must tell me his name.”

“Killing is a stiff penalty,” she said. “I shall have to think about it.” And that was the most she would say, except that halfway through his tirade she began to cry, and so he shut his mouth and thought about death by hot oil.

When they reached Tess's house, he carried her in. The butler took a look at his rapidly swelling eye and opened his mouth to say something, but Mayne pushed by him. A second later he put Josie down, and she ran to her sister. The cloak fell off and he met Felton's eyes over the embracing women. Josie was crying again, and Tess was saying frantic, incoherent things and tracing Josie's back with unsteady hands.

Felton was beside him in one stride, his eyes as cold as a viper's. “Who,” he stated.

Mayne shook his head. “She wouldn't tell me. There wasn't”—he said it with difficulty—“more than one. I found her in the stables.”

Felton looked over his shoulder. Tess had drawn Josie
onto the settee and was talking fast, in a low voice. “How did she become separated from you?”

“I don't know. Griselda felt faint and left the grounds. Josie was just behind me, and then she wasn't. We searched everywhere; Sylvie and I even went to the stables.”

Josie was shaking her head.

“She will never tell,” Mayne said. “She's afraid we'll make her marry him.” Lucius Felton moved suddenly, and Mayne read the movement. “She doesn't understand that.” Their eyes met with the truth of murder between them.

“Tess will find out who did it,” Lucius said.

“How do you know?”

“I'm married to her.”

Mayne nodded. “I'll go home and fetch Griselda.” Between them, Tess and Griselda would take care of Josie. If that were possible.

F
or the fourth time, Griselda said that she must leave. She didn't want to. The problem was Darlington. How dare he look at her with that rapt expression, as if he found what she said—no matter how inane—madly interesting? And how dare he make a sheet look so elegant?

“Just imagine if all your lady friends could see you now!”

She shuddered at the thought. “Don't even mention it,” she implored.

A shadow crossed his eyes. “It's not so bad, is it?”

She rolled to her side as well, and then up on one elbow, so they lay facing each other. The sheet had slipped to his waist, leaving a broad chest and broader shoulders, tousled blond hair, and those arrogant cheekbones. Every inch of his ancient lineage spoke in those cheekbones.

“You look like a sugarplum,” Darlington said. “I could eat you for breakfast, and every meal after that.”

Griselda laughed, and her hair slid across her chest. It felt wickedly decadent lying in bed with the sheet at her waist, her breasts not pinned in, or corseted, or even covered…just there. And his eyes devouring them.

“How can you stand being so beautiful? I think I'd be like Narcissus and just admire myself all day long.”

“You are quite lovely yourself,” she said, memorizing his face.

He shrugged. “The better to buy myself a wife, I suppose.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“I can't think about such a disheartening subject when I have you with me.”

“What about Miss Mary Parish?” she asked.

“The girl with spots?”

“She only has a few, and they won't last over a year.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You mustn't be so attached to physical beauty.” She reached out to trace a path across the muscles of his chest. His skin felt warm and slightly roughened with hair. “Lady Cecily Severy. The daughter of a duke.”

“And since it's her third—or is it fourth?—season, she can't be choosy about marrying a penniless third son,” he said.

She heard the faintest ring of sarcasm in his voice and flattened her palm into a caress. “You have a great deal to offer.”

“In reality, no. I have a clever way with a phrase, but when
I lose my temper I'm a veritable bastard. I have few skills, thanks to my father's errant belief that I would go into the Church, all evidence to the contrary.”

“They must maintain some standards,” Griselda said, smiling at him.

But he didn't smile back. “Once my father accepted that the Church would likely never have me, he began bringing home lists of debutantes. Young girls of an appropriate family, with a large dowry. Of course, they couldn't be of the very best quality, or they would never wish to marry one such as I. It had to be a nicely calculated mix: a girl with means, but one whose parents would be sufficiently dazzled by their new son-in-law's relation to the Duke of Bedrock that they would overlook his impoverished status, his lack of skills, and his general uselessness.”

Griselda's hand went to her mouth. “The Wooly Breeder,” she breathed.

His eyes were bleak with self-dislike. “That poor girl ended up without a match for a whole season.”

“But she did marry happily last year,” Griselda said.

“She would not have been happy married to me, for all that her father and mine thought they had sewed it up beautifully.”

Griselda was staring at him. “You weren't only making yourself known with clever phrases. You were getting rid of your father's choices. I suppose that Josie was unlucky enough to attract your father's attention.”

“A perfect choice, from his point of view. Miss Essex's birth is impeccable. Her dowry was also known to be quite large. At the same time, she was fatherless and reputed to be rather less than perfect in form. Just the sort of young woman who might be persuaded to accept me.”

“He didn't say that!”

“Actually, he did.”

“You should never have called Josie a sausage, even so.”

“I am telling you only so that you despise me as much as I despise myself,” he said, his voice steady. “I ruined those girls' lives—your ward among them—merely so that my father could not promote them as appropriate brides.”

There was no point in pretense. “That was shabby of you,” Griselda said, “if understandable.” She hesitated. “But you're not going to do it again…you are planning to marry now, aren't you?”

“Marry a debutante?”

“Yes.”

“I shall not.”

“But I thought—”

“I changed my mind. Recently.”

Griselda's heart was beating to the tune of all the questions she had. Why—why—why. She said nothing. It was not her business why—

“Don't you want to ask me any questions?” He lay before her, a golden symphony of muscle and silken hair.

Absolutely not.

“Do I wish to talk about your future nuptials?” she said, feeling a smile curve on her lips that was as old as Cleopatra herself. “I do not. But I can think of some very important questions…I'll ask you those instead, shall I?”

He was grinning at her through the hair over his eyes, so she brushed it back.

“First question,” she said, “and pay close attention, if you please. What do you like best about
this
part of my body?”

Darlington's answer involved a demonstration of friction and physics…and somehow she never reached her second question.