The Duke's Wager (20 page)

So why had this been different? She’d had no real prospects, no connections, no family. She was of common birth, with only that mushroom of an aunt and that simpleton cousin. He had expected her to turn to him, there in the coach, eyes sparkling, and accept his terms with pleasure. What better could she have done with herself? Why had she gone, so desirable, available, and unchaperoned to that blasted Opera, if she had not been looking for such an accommodation? And if she had lost courage then, had he not made it that much easier for her? She had responded to his kisses, he knew. She must know of his fortune, where was the impediment? What woman had he known in the last decade who would not settle for money and pleasure? But no, she had turned on him. She had repulsed him and had given him a stern little lecture on morality instead. Almost as if she were Pickett, transformed, young and lovely.

She disturbed him. She fit no pattern. He had not meant to speak to her again until the game was up, but had gone to meet her there then, in that freezing meadow, out of a desire to understand where the impediment lay. And she had been a delight. They had talked the afternoon away. There were times in that strange, cold afternoon when he had forgotten he was conversing with a woman, so far did her interests range, so quick was her clever tongue. And so each time, when he had refocused upon her appearance, her loveliness had come to him with breath-catching shock. And still she had prosed on about honor, and friendship, and morality, as if she were some sort of odd, seductive little deacon. Yet he swore her eyes had hinted at less pious delights. And almost she had him convinced of that impossible innocence when she had risen to go back. Back to St. John, and his protection. And what sort of innocence would lie undisturbed in St. John’s house, in his very bed? Did she believe he would continue his exemplary behavior once beyond his sister’s and Lady Burden’s watchful eyes? That, indeed, would be innocence to boggle the mind.

He did not know why he disliked the Marquis with such violence. It was, after all, rare for him to dislike anyone with like intensity, for to dislike someone was to indulge in some form of passion, and he had thought that he had used up his passion in mere passion long since.

Perhaps it was because that strong, tall, socially impeccable young man nightly wallowed in his same sewer, and daily walked the road of righteousness, raising his eyebrows in distaste at tales of the Black Duke’s misadventures. Perhaps, he admitted, it was that in St. John’s eyes he saw reflected his own past, and his own sure future. Or perhaps, he thought, with the clarity that only solitary, exhausted late-night thought delivers, it was that St. John so often, as if by reason of some malevolent fate, had seen him at his worst, had seen him in situations that he himself shrank from remembering in the cold daylight.

That night, for example, that he only allowed himself to remember on nights such as these. The night when he had gone around to Madame Sylvestre’s select establishment for an evening’s diversion, and had discovered what his world’s estimate of himself was. In recent years he did not care to patronize such establishments. He much preferred to have some light creature in his own keeping, some female who would, at least, pretend to look up at him with some semblance of recognition and delight when he opened the door. But at that time, for some reason he could not remember even now, he was by way of being a frequent customer there.

He had been greeted graciously and, taking his cloak, they had led him to a gilded room. Entering, he had found a lovely young woman within. She had taken his coat and prattled softly, laughed deliciously, and given him glimpses of the delights that lay in store for him. She had looked to be exquisite, a prime, healthy young creature, and after a few embraces he had been sure of a pleasant evening. But first he had had to order and partake of a quantity of wine, a thing he often had to do in such arrangements, to deaden a certain relentlessly critical portion of his mind, to free another segment of his brain to unhesitatingly appreciate such a treat.

But some time during the preliminary tangle, in the wine-soaked explorations and preparations, the door had opened and another female had come in. He had been, in that moment, amused at the proprietress’s estimate of his needs. But then, even though fully fogged with wine, the appearance of the second female had stopped the play and he drew back with difficulty and gaped. She was not the sort of woman one expected to find at an establishment such as Madame Sylvestre’s. She looked like Covent Garden gutter ware. Ageing, overblown, overpainted, not overly clean, with impossibly hennaed hair, she simpered and began to remover her tawdry finery.

“C’mon lovey,” she had cajoled, reaching for him and revealing a gap-toothed smile. “It’ll be lovely, it will. The two of us for the one of you. There’s a lot I know.”

At first, he had been amused, and for one mad moment had wondered at how it might be, a night of textures, an opportunity to explore textures and differences and shapes. But then, even in his castaway state, he had recoiled.

“Awww Aggie,” the younger woman had laughed. “You’ve gone and lost your golden guinea. I told you to wait a bit, but you rushed in too soon. You see,” she explained anxiously, unsure of his reaction as he sat staring, “Lord Barrymore, he’s outside, and he payed Madame a sum, and he brought Aggie here and promised her even more to entertain you. He’s wagered a sum, he said, with another gentleman. He wagered that you’d throw no female creature out of your bed, so long as she’s willing. Ah, but look you, Aggie, he wants no part of you.”

Nervously, the older woman backed away, holding her wrapper closed around her ample breasts. “You’re not mad at poor old Aggie, now are you, sir?” she cringed, whining. “I only did it cause they told me as to how you’d like it. I’d like it fine,” she said encouragingly. “And they all said as how you’d think it a rare jest and go along.”

Of course, it has come to this, he remembered thinking as he rose to pour himself more wine with a shaking hand. It is, after all, only a natural progression. And in some strange fashion, he’d felt a small satisfaction at his own aghast reaction. Why should they not think it, haven’t you worked diligently toward this? They believe there is nothing you are not capable of. Even attempting a poxy Billingsgate whore. And what shall you do now? What a comedy it would be for the blackest of them all to go raging out of here crying his discretion, his taste, his honor. All, everything, except this, then? You dare ask them to believe that? Then let them believe what they will, he swore, for no matter what the protest, they will.

“No Aggie,” he had finally said when he could control his voice. “No, I’m not angry. And you shall have your golden guinea, for you may tell Lord Barrymore anything you like. But,” he said smiling, holding up his hands in mock horror, “there’s an extra coin in it for both of you if you swear not to tell a soul that I have imbibed so much this night that I truly fear I cannot please either one of you and am best off retiring like a monk to my own cell.”

And after fending off their concerned attempts to reassure him as to his capabilities, he gave them both some silver and led them to the door, an arm about each of them. And then, there in the doorway he saw St. John, the lofty Marquis of Bessacarr, regarding him with loathing. And in the throes of his own strange exultant humiliation, his own soul wincing, he had whispered fiercely to the Marquis, “What? Distaste, Sinjin? But wait a few years, my dear boy, and you will find yourself pursuing the same sport. Unless you care to join me now? I’m sure Aggie has room in her heart for both of us.”

And later, standing alone, his hands stretched out stiffly against the table to forbid them from trembling, and staring down at the bottle of wine he scarcely believed that he had drunk, so sober was he now, he had thought, yes soon, at this rate it would not be long. Soon there will undoubtedly come the day when I will no longer care. And all will be lost in the endless search for textures and pleasures.

All what? What was there left to lose, he thought now in fury. What was that last vestige he feared losing? That remnant he guarded as jealously as that green-eyed wench protected her virginity? Her favorite word, Honor?

Honor, he thought wearily, as dawn bleached the sky, no matter, soon she will come to me, on my terms, and without honor, and I will take her without honor, and whatever honor there will be in it, will be that I was right again. And there will be the end of it.

And knowing that sleep was gone, for he had often spent similar nights, being used to uneasiness in his own company, he rose and pulled on his boots, and dashed some water against his face, and swirled some in his mouth to take the taste of the bitter night away.

He opened the door that led out into the hall and soundlessly began to pad toward the stairs when he saw a small shape outlined against the tall windows at the head of the stairs. Knowing that he moved silently, he brushed against the wall to warn her so that he would not startle her too much.

“Really, Pickett,” he said softly, “if you are going to wander at this ungodly hour, allow us to provide you with some chains to rattle so that your perambulations do not go to waste. The house needs a spectacular ghost to give it some pretensions.”

“It is not an ungodly hour of the night,” she countered. “It is, rather, an extremely godly hour of the morning. Old bones do not care for long rest, knowing that a longer one awaits. But you are up early, Jason. Are you so eager to attend matins?”

“No, my love,” he smiled. “Have you forgotten? I am away today. I shall leave my house and my child in your capable hands. I trust you will keep them both free of small insects and large problems. Come, break bread with me, and I will give you my direction, and complete written authority to do as you wish.”

“I would wish,” she said, seeing in the increasing light the scars the long night had left beneath his eyes, “that you might give me the same license with your own person.”

“Ah love,” he said, bending and placing his hand along her cheek. “I do believe that when his Infernal Highness comes around at last to claim me, and lays his fiery collar about my neck, my own dear fierce Pickett will be there to challenge him, and swear, against the damnation of her own soul, that her poor misunderstood nursling has been wrongly accused, and stands innocent of all wrongdoing.”

“I think you wrong yourself the most,” she said sadly. “And look hourly for that gentleman to come and release you from yourself. And I do not think he could do half so good a job at torment as you have done.”

“Torment?” He paused on the stair and threw his golden head back and roared with laughter. When he had recovered, he said merrily, “Pickett, you observe a gentleman in haste to be on the way to a gala ball, and on the way to collect on an important wager surely soon to be won, on the way to triumph, in fact.”

She followed him silently down the long stairs, but in the hall she paused, and lay her hand upon his sleeve.

“When you were a boy,” she said, watching him with troubled eyes, “we two had an important wager once. Do you remember? It was a picnic we were to go on, half a day’s drive away. Oh, you were so excited, for we had your mama’s permission to take a luncheon, we had an invitation to see some fine horses you had admired. We were to be allowed to be away until nightfall. For a week, you watched the skies, and noted the winds, and daily you wagered it would rain that day and cancel our trip. And I swore the sun would shine. And on that morning it poured rain, I believed it was the beginning of the flood. And you came to me, with tears in your eyes, and said, ‘Pickett, at least congratulate me, for I’ve won.’ Is it to be another such triumph?”

He stared down at her, his face gray as the uncertain light. “What matter?” he spoke softly. “It will be a wager won. And,” he continued, “surely you do not begrudge me victory?”

And so I do, my lad, she thought silently as he gave her his arm to lead her in to breakfast. I begrudge you all such triumph, and all your bitter victories.

XII

The carriage moved almost silently through the night toward the broad entrance of the drive to Squire Hadley’s manor house, but three of the occupants of the carriage were as silent as their conveyance. The only voice that chatted happily on was that of Lady Mary, who blissfully and without interruption prattled on about the forthcoming delights of the evening. The others sat quietly, each wrapped in their own silence of thought and speculation.

There had been a brief flurry of light chatter when they had all met in the hallway before they had left Fairleigh, Regina had been complimented fulsomely by both of the other ladies. She had been dressed with care, and Lady Burden’s green satin ball gown had suited her unique coloring to perfection. Although she had been shocked, and then worried about the extremely low neck of the gown, low enough, she realized with some fear, to show the swelling rise of her breasts, her maid had assured her that contrary to her expectations, it would be considered a modest gown, and all the crack this season. When she had descended the stairs, she had seen that even the gown that the swollen Lady Mary wore had a more daring cut, and then her fears had been allayed completely by the slow and lingering smile that St. John had briefly worn when he had gazed upon her.

There was a brief roundelay of mutual compliments, Regina being quite careful to phrase her admiration for Lady Mary’s quite inappropriately pink and white draped gown, and her very real esteem for Amelia’s elegant amber velvet dress. St. John, she noticed, was looking so handsome in his severe black evening dress that she felt shy of turning a word of praise to him. Somehow, dressed as he was, she felt he was even more unapproachable than usual and his tightened expression as they entered the coach chased any lingering thought of easy conversation with him from her mind. Again, however, she mused, as she half listened to Mary’s incessant chatter, she had caught the vestiges of a feeling of something she had forgotten, when she had first seen St. John this evening. But now her foremost worry was how she was to behave this evening.