A Wild Pursuit (22 page)

G
iving birth in the presence of two elderly ladies of the
ton
was without a doubt the most uncomfortable experience of Esme's life. Arabella stood at her right, bathing her forehead every time one of the pains ended. Esme emerged from a swooping black wave of pain to find that Lady Bonnington, standing to her left, was exhorting her to greater efforts, and Arabella, not to be outdone, was instructing the midwife to hurry things along.

“There's no need to hurry things along,” Mrs. Pluck, the midwife, responded with a glimmer of irritation. “The course of nature will do it. And Lady Rawlings has the hips for it, that she does.”

“A little less conversation about my niece's hips, if you please,” Arabella snapped. “There's no need to be vulgar.”

“Arabella, you're a fool,” Lady Bonnington announced with her usual politeness.

Esme took a breath, feeling the pain coming again. It was worse than she had ever imagined, rather like being scalded from the toes up. She struggled her way back out of the pain a moment later, dimly hearing Arabella's congratulations. Her aunt seemed to have decided that Esme needed applause after every contraction. And Esme definitely agreed with her. “Where…where's Helene?” she gasped at one point.

Lady Bonnington looked shocked. “Naturally, we sent her out of the room. The poor girl hasn't had a babe of her own, you know. This is enough to put her off for life.”

“Oh no,” Esme moaned. The next contraction was coming, sweeping up from her toes—

“Fortitude, darling, fortitude!” Arabella said, taking her hand even more firmly. Esme clutched her hand.

“You've got the hips for it,” Mrs. Pluck said from the bottom of the bed. And then, “We're almost there, my lady. I told you this would be a ride in the park, didn't I?”

A ride in the park it wasn't. But Esme couldn't summon up the breath to argue the point. Instead she let the pain wrench her bones from their sockets, or so it felt. Arabella was alternating between putting a cool cloth on Esme's head and wrapping it around her own hand.

“All right, my lady,” Mrs. Pluck said loudly. “Time to bring the little master into the world.”

Or daughter,
Esme thought, although she couldn't summon up the wherewithal to say so. But Mrs. Pluck was right.

Squealing, indignant, fat and belligerent, William Rawlings entered the world in a burst of rage. Esme propped herself on her elbows. There he was: dark red from pure anger, kicking jerkily, waving his fists in the air. Her heart turned over with a thump. “Oh, give him to me,” she cried, pushing herself into a half seated position and reaching out.

“He'll need a good bath, and after that I will check all his toes and make certain that he is presentable,” Mrs. Pluck replied, handing the baby to the waiting nursemaid.

“He seems to be a boy,” Arabella said, ogling the baby. “My goodness, Esme. He's remarkably well endowed!” She giggled. “It looks as if he has two turnips between his legs.”

“They're all like that,” Lady Bonnington said with a tinge of nostalgia in her voice. “My son was just the same. I thought he was going to be a satyr.”

“Just a minute, my lady,” Mrs. Pluck said. “Just one little push now.”

A few minutes later, Esme hoisted herself into a sitting position. “I'd like to hold my son, please,” she said hoarsely. “Please—now!”

Mrs. Pluck looked up. “Everything in good time, my lady. After we—”

Arabella reached over and snatched the baby out of the nursemaid's arms. “Lady Rawlings wants to hold her son.” She put him, rather awkwardly, in Esme's arms. He was still howling, fat little legs jerking out of the blanket.

“This isn't wise,” Mrs. Pluck scolded. “It's best if the baby is washed within the first five minutes of its birth. Cleanliness is essential to good health.”

“There's time for many a bath in his future,” Arabella said, bending over the bed. “He's so plumpy, isn't he, Esme? And look at his gorgeous little toes!”

Esme had never felt anything quite like it. It was as if the world had narrowed to a pinhole, the size of herself and the baby. He was so beautiful that her heart sang with it. And yet he was remarkably homely as well. “Why is his face so red?” she asked. “And why is his head this peculiar shape?”

“The course of nature,” Mrs. Pluck answered importantly. “They all look like that. Now you'll have to give up the baby, my lady. We have just a few more things to do here.”

But the baby had decided to open his eyes. Esme clutched him closer. “Hello there,” she whispered. “Hello, love.” He blinked and closed his mouth. His eyes were the pale blue of the sky on a very early morning, and he looked up at her, quite as if he were memorizing her face. “I know you think you're smiling at me,” Esme told him, kissing his nose and his forehead and his fat little cheeks. “You just forgot to smile, didn't you, sweet William?”

“Are you naming him William?” Lady Bonnington asked. “I suppose that must be an old name in Lord Rawlings's family—his father, you know,” she told the nursemaid, who looked blank.

William's eyes were sweet and solemn, trusting Esme to keep him safe, trusting her to nourish and protect him. For years and years to come. A chill of fear fell on Esme's heart. Benjamin, her own little baby brother, had died. Of course, it wasn't the same, but sweet William was so enchantingly dear. He frowned a little as a drop fell on his cheek.

“What is it, darling?” Arabella asked. “Oh no, the baby's getting wet. Shall I take him?”

“He's the most beautiful baby I ever saw,” Esme said, hiccuping. “I lo-love him so much. But he's so little! What if something happens to him? I couldn't bear it!”

“She's having some sort of reaction to the birth,” Lady Bonnington observed. “Takes some women that way. My second cousin twice removed went into a decline after her daughter was born. Mind you, that husband of hers was enough to send anyone into a decline.”

Esme swallowed and dried her eyes on the sheet. “He has Miles's eyes,” she said to Arabella, ignoring the marchioness. “See?” She turned William toward Arabella. “They have just that sweetness that Miles had. Miles's eyes were that same blue. And Miles is
dead
.”

“But his son isn't,” Arabella said, smiling down at her. “William is a fine, sturdy baby, with nothing fragile about him.”

“I agree,” Lady Bonnington said promptly. “I knew immediately that the baby was the image of your husband.”

Arabella threw her a look of potent dislike. “Why don't you go transmit this happy news to your son, Honoratia?”

“I shall,” the marchioness said, “I shall. And may I say, Lady Rawlings, that I am impressed by your handling of this entire delicate matter?”

Whether Lady Bonnington meant to refer to the process of giving birth, or that of identifying Esme's child's father, no one could tell. Mrs. Pluck took the baby, who promptly started crying again.

“He wants to be with me,” Esme said, struggling to sit upright.

“He has a good healthy voice,” Mrs. Pluck said, handing him to the wet nurse. “But the course of nature must take its course, my lady,” she said, rather obscurely.

Helene had come in and was peering at the baby as the wet nurse wrapped him in a warm cloth. “Oh, Esme, he's absolutely lovely,” she said.

“Does he look healthy to you?” Esme asked the nursemaid.

“Fat as a suckling pig,” the wet nurse said promptly. “Now shall we see if he'd like some breakfast?”

She sat down and pulled open the neck of her gown. Esme watched as William turned to the nurse and made a little grunting noise. He had those great blue eyes open, and he was looking up at the nursemaid. From Esme's point of view, it looked as if he were giving the woman the very same blinking, thoughtful glance he had given her.

White-hot jealousy stabbed her in the chest. That was
her
baby, her own sweet William. “Give him to me!” she said sharply.

The wet nurse looked up, confused. She had William's head in position and was about to offer him her breast.

“Don't you
dare
nurse my baby!” Esme said, her hands instinctively clenched into fists. “Give me William this instant!”

“Well, my goodness,” the wet nurse said. “You hired me, my lady.”

“I changed my mind,” Esme snapped. She was not going to have William think that anyone else was his mother. She would do everything for him that needed to be done, including feeding.

The wet nurse pursed her lips, but she brought over the child. “It doesn't come easily, nursing a child,” she said. “It's quite painful at the beginning, and there's many a woman who can't master the art of it. And ladies don't have the breasts for it, to tell the truth.”

“I have the breasts for it,” Esme said with all the authority she could command. “Now, if you'll just tell us how to do this, I'd like to give William his breakfast.”

“If you don't mind my being blunt,” Lady Bonnington announced, “that very idea makes me feel squeamish. A lady is more than a milch cow, Lady Rawlings!”

“Oh do go on, Honoratia,” Arabella said impatiently. “Don't you have something important to tell your son?”

Lady Bonnington left the bedchamber feeling a bit piqued. After all, Lady Rawlings was no relative of
hers,
and yet there she'd stayed, for all of three hours, counseling her to greater efforts. It was quite likely due to her efforts that Lady Rawlings had managed to get through the birth so quickly. But, on the other hand, she couldn't have hoped for a better outcome. Lady Rawlings herself had identified the child's father, and that was all there was to it. Sebastian would have to acknowledge himself free of responsibility now.

“He doesn't look a bit like you,” the marchioness told her son with more than a twinge of satisfaction. “He's bald as a belfry, just like his father.”

“Miles Rawlings had hair until a few years ago,” Sebastian pointed out.

“You wait until you see that child,” his mother said, rather gleefully. “He's the image of his father. You needn't feel a moment's anxiety about whether you have a responsibility to him. You haven't. Lady Rawlings started weeping the moment she saw him, because the child has her husband's eyes. There's no doubt about it. Miles Rawlings has a posthumous son.”

Lady Bonnington paused and looked at her son. He seemed a little pale. “You're free,” she said, rather more gently.

He looked at her, and the expression in his eyes shocked her to the toes. “I don't suppose she asked for me?”

“No,” his mother said, shaken. “No, she didn't.”

She bit her lip as Sebastian turned about without another word and walked from the room. Could it be that he was more entangled with this woman than she thought? No. But it seemed that she had underestimated the amount to which Sebastian had hoped the child would be his own. I'll have to get the boy married off as soon as possible, the marchioness decided. To a girl from a large family, a woman who wouldn't be loathe to have more than one child herself. Although if my future daughter-in-law shows the faintest interest in turning herself into a milk cow, I'll have to set her straight.

There are some things that would
never
happen in the Bonnington family. And that sort of ludicrously ill bred behavior was one of them.

B
eatrix Lennox had made up her mind. She had dillydallied enough over the question of Stephen Fairfax-Lacy. In fact, she had given him far too much importance in her life. She had never had the faintest wish to invite a man to her bed twice; actually inviting one into her chamber was the best way she knew of to utterly blot out any future desire for his company.

Dressing to seduce Stephen took her all afternoon. At the end, she was certain that she was utterly delectable. She was scented and polished and curled and colored…every inch of her. She wore no corset, and no cotton padding; instead she chose a gown that offered everything she had to the world in a burst of pagan enthusiasm. It was of French silk, shaded in a subdued blue-green color that turned her hair to flame. It was daringly low, and ornamented with ribbons of a slightly darker shade.

There were very few covers at the table for dinner, of course. Esme apparently would not even rise from her bed for a matter of days or weeks. Bea paid Stephen almost no attention during the meal, allowing him to flirt as he wished with Helene while Earl Godwin watched with a sardonic expression. She had no wish to engage in a noticeable competition with Helene. After all, just the previous evening Helene had lavishly thanked Bea for her help in gaining Stephen's friendship. She would likely be somewhat startled if Bea snatched him back before her very eyes.

When she sauntered into the salon after supper, the earl and countess were, naturally enough, already hammering away at the piano. Stephen's eyes darkened when he registered her gown. No matter how censorious the man might be about her face painting, he liked that dress. There wasn't a man alive who wouldn't like it.

“You look delicious!” Arabella cried, holding out her hands. “Trust my own Bea to keep us from falling into country doldrums. If we spend too much time here, we're likely to stop dressing for dinner at all!”

Bea gave a faint shudder. The idea of wearing the same clothing through an entire day was intolerable.

“Bea,” Helene called, looking up from the piano, “would you very much mind trying my waltz again? I would like to demonstrate it to Rees.”

Perfect.

Bea turned around to find that Stephen was already at her side. His eyes were almost black, and she felt a surge of female triumph. Why
shouldn't
she woo if she wanted? Men had their way far too often in life, as it was. She dropped into a low curtsy, putting out her hand to Stephen. He bowed and straightened, kissing her hand. Then he paused for one second, gazing at her arm. Bea looked down. There was nothing odd about her arm. “Are you quite all right?” she asked.

“I had a sudden recollection of dancing with a young lady who shall remain unnamed,” he said. “She left marks of white powder all over my coat.”

Bea raised an eyebrow. “This white is all my own.”

Their eyes caught for a second, and she let her smile tell him that the rest of her was just as white, and just as unpowdered.

Then the music began. Helene had curbed the waltz's frenzied pace somewhat. It still rollicked, though. Bea was shivering with excitement. Now that she'd finally got herself to this point, she couldn't imagine why she'd ever wasted the previous fortnight thinking about it. Wooing—wooing was like breathing, for her. Why hadn't she seen that? She smiled at him and let just a hint of the desire that was pounding through her body show. Just a hint.

He didn't respond, which was a little disappointing. All he did was swirl her into another series of long circles that carried them down the long length of the Rose Salon. Bea couldn't help it; the very feeling of his hand on her waist made her feel greedy. She edged closer. He seemed to push her away. Her heart was beating so fast that she could hardly hear the music.

“Have you joined the adoring hordes in the nursery?” Stephen asked.

And what would be the point of
that?
Bea wanted to shriek. Ladies such as herself never had children! They had men…not babies. She didn't want one anyway. William looked like a buttery little blob to her. The moment she peered at him, he started to cry, and the very sound put her teeth on edge. “I'm not very maternal,” she said.

Stephen drew her into a sweeping circle. “I don't seem to be developing a paternal side either,” he said, once they were straight again. “Helene is agog over that child.”

Bea didn't want to talk about Helene. She had to get this done. “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said, and stopped.

He bent his head, that dark head that was so beautifully shaped. “Yes?”

“If you would join me in the library, I should like to discuss a poem with you.”

His eyes were inscrutable. Yet surely he knew what she was saying!
He'd
told her to woo, after all. She managed to smile, but it was hardly a seductive triumph. Then she just waited, heart in her throat.

“I would very much like to finish reading you a poem,” she said steadily, when he didn't respond.

He raised an eyebrow. He looked ages older and more worldly than she. Perhaps he didn't feel the same sort of ravishing longing that she did. “The Barnfield poem,” she clarified.

“Ah.”

So when the waltz was over, she bid everyone good night and left the Rose Salon. She didn't look to see whether he followed. Because if he didn't follow, she was going to cry, and then she was going to pretend that none of this had ever happened. In fact, she'd probably go to London the next morning and stay with friends.

But he did follow.

She walked into the library, Stephen behind her. He was mesmerized by the way Bea's hips swayed. It seemed to promise everything, that little swing and sway. “Did you practice that walk?” he asked, lighting the lamp with a candle from the mantelpiece. He had the oddest feeling of disappointment. She had invited him to an impromptu seduction. What else had he expected when he'd told her to woo? She was, after all, just what she appeared to be: remarkably available.

He turned around and she was smiling, nestled into the arm of a high-backed settee like a wanton. “What do you think?”

“I think you're too damned practiced,” he said bluntly.

Her smile disappeared, and there was something uncertain in her eyes. Almost diffident. He walked over. “You needn't look like a little girl denied a sweet. You can have any man you please.”

“At the moment, I would like you.” Trust Bea to go straight to the point.

Her hair had the sheen of a feverish rose. Stephen had never felt anything like the lust he had at the moment. And yet every civilized bone he had in his body fought it. She was a young, unmarried woman. He didn't succumb to such wiles. In fact, he realized with an almost visible start, he'd never
been
seduced. He had only seduced. It was a great deal more uncomfortable the other way around.

She turned from him and picked up the small leather book on the table. “Shall I start with the poem which gave everyone so much excitement?” she asked. There was a satin thread in her voice that made Stephen's entire body stiffen.

He couldn't stop himself. He drifted over to the settee. His will was strong enough that he didn't sit down, but he found himself leaning over the tall back, standing just at her shoulder. She looked up at him, a sparkling glance, and he found to his torment that this position merely gave him an excellent view of her breasts. They were a perfect white that had nothing to do with powder, not that snowy perfection.

Stephen could just make out the outline of Bea's nipples, puckered under the frail silk of her bodice. He gave in, reached a hand over her shoulder, and wantonly, deliberately, took one of her breasts in his hand. There was a gasp, and she stopped reading.

But she didn't jump away or protest. That was disappointing too. What a fool I am, he thought. Why not just enjoy what is being offered?

Her breast was perfect. Somehow he'd thought it would be larger, fleshier. But it was flawlessly tender, an unsteady weight in his fingers.

“‘Full of honey-berries,'”
he prompted. His voice was rough and unsteady. He supposed dimly that her other lovers had been more debonair, probably, less—

He couldn't pretend this was normal behavior for him. Or normal desire, for that matter.

“‘Then would I leade thee to my pleasant Bower,'”
she said, and the quaver had moved from his to her voice.
“‘Filled full of grapes, of mulberries and cherries. Then shouldst thou be my Wasp, or else my Bee, I would be thy hive, and thou my honey bee.'”

He brought his other arm around her neck and took both breasts in his hands. She moaned, a throaty little sound, and dropped the book, arching her head back into the curve of his neck. He let his mouth play along her cheek. She smelled like lemons, clean and sweet, an English smell. Her ear was small and neatly placed against her head. In fact, her ear was like the rest of her: small, perfectly shaped, rounded, beautiful. He nipped it in anguish. Why did she have to be so—so beautiful and so available?

Her arms were tangling in his hair, pulling his head closer to her mouth. The small gasps that fell from her lips didn't seem practiced. They sounded wrenched from her throat. God knows the hoarse sounds he kept swallowing were wrenched from his own chest.

Her breasts seemed to swell in his hands, and he hadn't even allowed himself to move his hands. “Bea.” His voice was hoarse and embarrassingly gruff. It sounded like an old man's voice.

This time he managed to speak clearly. “Bea, we cannot do this.”

Her eyes closed, and her arms fell from his hair. He lifted his hands from her breasts—what if someone walked into the library? He waited a second, but she didn't open her eyes.

“Bea?” he asked. He was standing straight now, as straight as possible given the strain in his pantaloons.

“You may leave,” she said. She didn't open her eyes.

“What?”

“I'm going to sit here and pretend that you aren't a stick-in-the-mud Puritan,” she said. “I'm going to pretend that you actually had the courtesy to go through with the invitation that you ordered me to issue, if I remember correctly. Or is it a lack of guts that's the issue?”

“That's incredibly vulgar,” he said slowly.

She opened her eyes. “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, listen to me carefully.”

She seemed to be waiting for a response, so he nodded curtly.

“I can be far more vulgar than this. I am a vulgar woman, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy.” Her eyes were flashing, for all her voice was even. She was in a rage, and Stephen didn't know why that would make him feel better, but it did.

“Look at this, Mr. Puritan-Lacy!” she said, grabbing her bodice and pulling it down. Two perfectly shaped breasts, satin smooth, white velvet, fell free of her bodice. “I-am-a-vulgar-woman,” she said, emphasizing every word. “I am the sort of woman who allows herself to be handled in the library by—”

He was at her side. “No, you are not.” His voice was dry, authoritative and utterly commanding. In one split second he hauled her bodice so high over her breasts that it almost touched her collarbone.

She narrowed her eyes. “How dare you say what I am or am not?”

“I know you,” he said calmly, although his hands were shaking. “You are no vulgar woman, Bea.”

“Well—,” she said, obviously about to rush into a hundred examples, but he stopped her with a kiss. They drank each other as if manna had fallen between them, as if kisses were the bread of life.

“You're worse,” he said against her lips, a moment later. He felt them curve beneath his mouth, and he wanted her so fiercely that his entire body throbbed. “It must be tiring being so much worse than vulgar day and night.”

She could not answer because his lips were crushing hers. And somehow his hands were back at her breasts. He brushed her nipple through the silk of her bodice, and she gasped.

“These must be your
honey-berries,
” he said in her ear.

“That's so vulgar,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice.

He yanked down her bodice, the mere inch that kept her nipple from the evening air, and flicked his tongue over it. She stiffened and clutched his shoulders so hard that he would likely have bruises. He did it again. And again.

“Stephen,” she whispered. Her voice didn't sound so practiced now. It was ragged and hoarse.

Finally his mouth closed over her breast. She arched against him, shaking all over. He felt a stab of pure arrogance. She may have slept with other men, but he couldn't believe that she reacted to them like this.

Of course, that's exactly what every other man thought.

“I want to be
courted,
” he said fiercely.

“What's the difference?” she said. She sounded genuinely perplexed.

“I am not wooing you at this moment,” Stephen said. “I am seducing you.” He ran a hand up her leg, past the sleek silk stocking and the slight bump of her garter. “You need to learn the difference, Bea.” His voice was rough with lust. His fingers trembled as they danced over the skin of her inner thighs, closer, closer—

She reached forward, pulling his hair toward her. “Kiss me!” she said, and her voice had an unsteadiness that sent his blood in a dizzying swirl.

So he kissed her, took her mouth with an untamed exuberance, at the very moment his fingers slipped into her warmth, pressed up and in with a strength that made her arch helplessly against him. She was ripe and plump, and it took every bit of strength he had to let his fingers drift where his body longed to be. To drive her mad, make her shudder under his hand even as he drank her cries with his mouth.