A Wild Pursuit (28 page)

S
ince Bea had never allowed a gentleman to repeat the experience of bedding her, she had no idea whether she was expected to articulate a further invitation, or whether Stephen would take it for granted that he could knock at her bedchamber door. He had given no sign of his intentions over dinner. But fairness led her to admit that there was little he could have done, since he was seated between Arabella and Fanny. The two ladies spent dinner hissing insults around his shoulders, and ignoring his attempts at polite conversation. Bea's own enjoyment in the meal was dimmed when she distinctly heard Esme's mother reproach Arabella for allowing Bea to live in the same house with the
pure little soul in the nursery.

Bea clenched her fists at the memory. Could she possibly marry Stephen? She, with her tarnished reputation and a malevolent influence that apparently extended to babes in the nursery? She dismissed the thought for the four hundredth time. Tonight was just another seduction, not a wooing. And she had dressed for that seduction—or undressed, howsoever one wished to put it. After all, her flimsy negligée was, well, flimsy. And she was painted, and perfumed, and curled to within an inch of her life. The only thing that seemed to calm her was applying another layer of kohl to her eyelashes, or adjusting the candles so that they fell on the bed
just so.
For a while she lay on the bed in a posture that displayed her entire body to its best advantage, but her stomach was jumping so much that she had to hop off the bed and pace.

There was nothing to worry about. The candles were lit, and she was perfumed in every conceivable spot that he might wish to kiss. She'd even placed a glass of water next to the bed, as she'd felt appallingly thirsty after their encounter in the goat pasture. But should she have arranged two glasses of water there, offering him one? Or would that look too rehearsed?

By the time the knock came on her door, Bea was more overwrought than she'd ever been in her entire life. “One moment!” she croaked, flinging herself toward the center of the bed. To her horror, the edge of her trailing sleeves caught the glass of water. It arched through the air, splashing water as it flew, and ended up on the bed next to her hip.

“Damnation!”
Bea cried, under her breath. There was another discreet knock on the door. Of course Stephen didn't want to stand about in the corridor: what if he were seen by Helene, Esme or—a rather more terrifying possibility—Esme's mother?

“Enter!” she called hoarsely, rolling on top of the wet spot and positioning herself on her side with a hand propping up her head. Her hair was falling in the right direction to be enhanced by the pearl blue of her negligée, but she was uncomfortably aware of dampness soaking through the said garment.

He walked through the door looking as urbane and composed as if he often conducted this sort of excursion. Which, of course, he
did,
Bea reminded herself. Stephen was the man with two mistresses and a fiancée, after all.

“Good evening, lovely Bea,” he said, closing the door and walking over to the bed.

Bea cleared her throat. “Good evening,” she managed, with reasonable serenity. She looked surreptitiously down her body and was horrified to see that the silk of her negligée was apparently soaking up the water from her coverlet. Just at her hip there was a spreading patch of dark greenish–looking silk. Quickly she pulled the silk behind her and rolled onto her back so that her bottom covered the spilled water.

“And how are you, sir?” she said, smiling up at Stephen. He had seated himself on the side of the bed and was looking at her with a rather quizzical expression.

“The better for seeing you,” he said.

What was that in his eyes? Bea wiggled a little. Her bottom was growing distinctly damp. Who would have thought there could be that much water in one glass?

He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “My word, that's a very elegant perfume you're wearing,” he whispered against her cheek.

He was hovering above her. Perhaps she should give him a kiss? She brushed her lips over his, but he pulled back suddenly and sneezed. Bea sat up, realizing as she did so that she was now damp all the way to the small of her back. If she didn't change clothing, she would be sneezing as well.

“Excuse me,” he said, bracing a hand on the bed and reaching into his pocket, presumably for a handkerchief.

Bea shivered. His shoulders…and the way his neck rose out of his shirt. Who would have thought Stephen Fairfax-Lacy was a symphony of muscle under all that linen? She was trembling, literally trembling, to take off his clothes again. She leaned toward him. “I missed you during dinner,” she said. The naked longing in her voice was rather embarrassing. Why hadn't he given her a proper kiss?

He frowned, held up his hand and said, “Bea, your coverlet appears to be rather damp.”

Bea bit her lip. “I spilled a glass of water.”

“Ah.” He bent close to her again and—sneezed. “I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I'm terribly sorry to say that I—
achoo!
”

“You caught a chill in the pasture,” Bea said, her heart sinking.

“Not I.” He looked at her and smiled. For the first time since he entered the room Bea felt a rush of confidence. His smile said volumes about the cut of her bodice. She shifted slightly, just enough so the neckline fell off her shoulder.

The look in his eyes was dark and seductive. Bea quivered all over. Her knees suddenly felt weak, and her breath disappeared. A strong hand rounded her ankle, and the melting sensation crept up to her middle. He was on the bed now, leaning over her; Bea raised her arms to pull that hard body down on hers and—

He sneezed again.

“You
are
ill!” Bea said with anguish as he pulled away again.

Stephen almost wished he were. But there was no way he was leaving the room without tasting Bea's perfect little body. “It's the perfume,” he admitted.

Bea's eyes widened. “
My
perfume?”

He nodded.

“One moment. I shall—” She scrambled off the bed and headed toward her dressing table and the pitcher of water that stood there. She began pouring water into a bowl.

Stephen swallowed. The backside of her negligée was drenched. The wet silk clung to the middle of her back, clung to the round curve of her ass, to a secret curve that turned inward, drawing a man's eye. He was off the bed in a moment, splaying his hand across that sweet bottom, eyes meeting hers in the mirror.

“Stephen!” she cried, shocked.

“Yes, Bea?” he said with a grin, his fingers slipping over the wet silk, letting the cool fabric rumple against his fingers, against the smooth skin of her bottom as he curved his fingers in and under. Silk met silky flesh and her head fell back against his shoulder. Stephen reached around her with his free hand and scooped water from the bowl.

“This may be chilly,” he murmured, opening his hand on the smooth column of her neck. Her eyes flew open and she began to protest, but he had her now, wet silk over one breast, and wet silk below, and both hands slipping and rubbing. Her head fell back again and she made that little throaty moan he loved. It sounded different in a bedchamber than it had in the pasture: less thin, more deep with womanly delight. She was liquid in his arms, and the chilly silk was taking heat from her burning skin.

She turned in his arms, and her curious eyes, always so vigilant, so watchful, so wicked, were dazed. He kissed her fiercely and she begged him without words, so he cupped her bottom and pulled her hard against him.

But he couldn't concentrate because of the damn perfume, so he pulled the negligée over her head in a moment, took more water, and used his fingers as a facecloth. He started at her neck, at the smooth skin just under her ears, water dripping from his fingers, shaping her body, singing over her skin, licking kisses from his fingers. Over her collarbone, down her arms, back to her breasts, further down…. He was on his knees, and the water came with him, cooling her burning skin until he worked his way up her legs and there, then and there, his control snapped.

Bea was throbbing so much that she felt unable to speak or move. She hardly noticed when he picked her up and put her down on the wet part of the bed. She scarcely realized that he had shed his clothing. She was too busy twisting toward him. But then he was pushing her legs apart, and that dark head was there, and she was quivering, crying, pleading….

Then he cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers, and she opened to him as gladly as she wound her legs around him, as joyously as she surged against him, with as much urgency as she shattered around him, waves of pleasure flooding to the very tips of her fingers.

The following afternoon

M
archioness Bonnington was having a most unusual sensation. It took Honoratia quite a while to identify precisely what it was: not an incipient warning of gout, not an attack of indigestion, not a premonition that rain would soon fall. It wasn't until the gentlemen had retired to take port and the ladies to take tea in Lady Rawlings's private sitting room that Sebastian's mother knew exactly why she had a queasy feeling in the back of her stomach. There was a chance—a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless—that she was Making a Mistake.

An odd sensation, Honoratia considered. One with which she, for obvious reasons, had very little familiarity.

Mistakes seemed to generate an oddly bilious sensation in her middle section. She had it every time she looked at Lady Rawlings, who had joined them for supper on the first occasion since her child was born. She was astonishingly beautiful, that girl. Her skin had a magnolia creaminess to it. The ripeness on those lips didn't come from a bottle. Overall, though, the marchioness thought that Esme Rawlings probably gained most of her appeal from her nature, from those clever, laughing remarks of hers. From the way her eyes lit up with pleasure when she mentioned her baby.

Fanny clearly did not approve of her daughter's nature. She visibly stiffened every time Lady Rawlings laughed. “Modulate your voice, my dear,” Honoratia had heard her snap during dinner. “A lady finds little to laugh at in a strident fashion.”

“I'm sorry, Mother,” Lady Rawlings had said instantly. She was trying so hard to make this reconciliation a success. But Honoratia thought the chances were slim.

“I find that dress rather unappealingly low in the chest,” Fanny announced as soon as the ladies seated themselves.

Lady Rawlings gave the bodice of her gown an uneasy little tug. “It's only because my bosom is enhanced by the situation.”

“Yes, you have gained some flesh,” Fanny said, eyeing her up and down. “Perhaps a brisk walk every morning. A diet of cucumbers and vinegar can be efficacious. Dear Mr. Brummell confided in me that even he has occasionally undertaken a slimming project.”

“Oh, I couldn't do that,” her daughter said with a smile. “Mama, may I give you a lemon tartlet?”

“Absolutely not. I never partake of sweets in the evening. And I certainly hope you won't take one yourself.”

Honoratia swallowed a smile as Lady Rawlings quickly transferred the tartlet she was about to put on her own plate to that of Lady Godwin.

“Why should you not try a cucumber diet?” Fanny insisted. “I judge you to be in rather desperate need of a slimming plan.”

“It's not advisable for nursing mothers to undertake such a drastic step.”

Lady Bonnington had always counted herself dear friends with Fanny, but as it happened, this was the first time they had encountered each other at the same house party. It was a bit demoralizing to realize that after a mere two days, she already recognized the thin white lines that were appearing next to Fanny's mouth as a sign of temper.

“Helene, did I understand you to say that you are leaving us?” Lady Rawlings said, turning to Lady Godwin.

“I'm afraid I must,” Lady Godwin said quickly, demonstrating that she too had come to understand the signs that indicated Fanny's impending attack of temper. “Gina, the Duchess of Girton, writes me that she is expecting a child and she would be grateful for companionship. I am planning to take a carriage in two days, if you have no immediate need for my presence.”

“Nursing mother? That must be some sort of witticism you thought up to horrify me,” Fanny said acidly, ignoring her daughter's diversionary tactics. “My stomach is positively turning at the very thought.” And she looked it. Honoratia thought there was a fair chance that Fanny would lose her supper.

“Mama, perhaps we could discuss this at a later time,” Lady Rawlings said pleadingly, putting her arm on her mother's sleeve.

She shook it off. “I shall not be fobbed off. And I am certain that these ladies are as repulsed by what you said as I am!”

Honoratia took a sip of her tea. When Lady Rawlings first demanded to nurse her baby, she had been repulsed, certainly. The very idea of allowing a child to munch from one's private parts was instinctively revolting. But then she had been in the nursery yesterday while Esme nursed William, and it was hard to reconcile that experience with her own repulsion.

“While I am quite glad to have utilized a nursemaid myself,” she announced, “I do not find Lady Rawlings's actions distasteful.”

Fanny flashed her a hostile look that had Honoratia stiffening. Didn't Fanny realize that she was of far lower rank than she, Marchioness Bonnington? Why, it was pure kindness on her part that kept the friendship intact.

“Be that as it may,” Fanny said with frigid severity, “the majority of the polite world agrees with me. Are you telling me that the fleshy expanse of chest that you are exposing to the world is due to this unsavory practice, Esme?”

Lady Rawlings sipped her tea quietly. “Yes it is, Mama.”

Honoratia had to admit, Esme Rawlings had backbone.

“Had I ever been blessed by a child, I hope I would have had the courage to be as excellent a mother as is Esme,” Arabella put in.

Her sister turned to her with the lowering look of a striking serpent. “It was the will of God that you not be given children, and no more than you deserve!”

Arabella went pure white, rose from her chair and walked out. There was no sound other than a faint swish of silk and then the click of the door shutting behind her.

“That was most unkind,” Lady Rawlings said, looking straight at her mother. “It was unworthy of you.”

“I spoke the truth as I saw it.”

“I would urge you to apologize to Aunt Arabella. She has a forgiving soul, and if you make haste, she may overlook your unkindness.”

Fanny merely took a sip of tea. There was a suppressed air of triumph about her. “Now,” she said brightly, “you must all forgive us for this unwarranted display of poor judgement. I assure you that our family is not generally so rag-mannered!”

But her daughter was standing up. “You will have to forgive me,” she said to the company at large. “Mama, I know you will act as a hostess in my absence. I shall speak to my aunt.” And she was gone.

Fanny turned to Lady Beatrix Lennox. “As my sister's
dame de compagnie,
” she said with a sapient smile, “perhaps you would like to join her, given that my daughter seems to think that Lady Withers might be distressed?”

Lady Beatrix gave her a stony look and stood up, curtsying. “I can think of little that would give me greater pleasure.”

“Now we can be cozy,” Fanny said, once the door closed again. “I find the presence of impure women to be extremely trying on my nerves. One has such an impulse to help, and yet no help is ever enough. Once lost, a woman's reputation can never be recovered.” She shook her head. “I fear it is all a question of nature. Clearly, my daughter inherited my sister's disposition.”

That was the moment when Lady Bonnington discovered what it felt like to have Made a Mistake. She accepted a tart from Fanny while she thought about it.

Countess Godwin was a lovely, if rather pale, woman. Yet when she leaned forward, Honoratia caught her breath. In profile, the countess looked like an accusing angel, a stone statue of Saint Michael standing at the gates of Paradise with a sword. “I wish you to be the first to know,” she said, speaking with great precision.

“Oh?” Fanny said, looking a bit uneasy.

“I am having an affair with your daughter's fiancé, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy. We enjoy each other in ecstastic union every night.”

Fanny gasped. “What a thing to say to me!” she said shrilly.

“If it be sin to love Mr. Fairfax-Lacy…well, then sin I!” retorted Lady Godwin. She stood up. “I expect my presence will make you uncomfortable, so I shall leave.”

Honoratia raised her eyebrows. There was something distinctly odd about the phrasing of Lady Godwin's parting shot. And as someone who'd watched many a marriage and many a sinful union, she doubted that Lady Godwin had ever experienced
ecstatic union
. Still, loyalty was an admirable quality, and Lady Godwin had it in spades.

Fanny had stopped looking horror-struck and was eating one of those lemon tartlets that she never consumed in the evening. They were left alone, two hardened old harridans with shining reputations and naught much else. Neither of them had had an illicit proposal in years.

Fanny patted her mouth delicately. “I wonder that you chose
this
house to retire from the season, dear Honoratia,” she said. “I leave tomorrow at dawn to return to Lady Pindlethorp's house. I told Esme as much this morning, and now my mind is made up. You would be more than welcome to join me.”

“Wouldn't you rather stay and make further acquaintance with your grandson?”

“It's far, far too painful. My daughter has no understanding of the grief I still bear every time I think of my dear departed son. And I am very much afraid that my initial qualms about my daughter's rehabilitation are entirely correct. I admire your generous nature, my dear, but you are far too optimistic. Are you aware that my daughter has no real idea whose child she birthed?”

“Certainly not!” Honoratia replied in her most quelling tone of voice. Surely—
surely
—Esme's own mother wouldn't repeat such a vicious piece of gossip about her own daughter.

Fanny took a bite of tartlet. “I queried her on the matter, most discreetly, you understand, through the post. She did not respond to my query, which speaks for itself, does it not? This tea is quite cold.” She rang the bell. “As I said, I would be more than welcome for your company tomorrow morning.”

Honoratia stood up. Fanny looked up, startled. Honoratia thumped her stick, and, sure enough, Fanny quailed with as much fear as any lazy housemaid. “You will
not
say a word to anyone about your grandson's patrimony,” she ordered.

“Well, naturally, I—” Fanny said, flustered. “I only tell you as you are a very close friend!”

“From this moment, we are not close friends,” Honoratia said, pulling herself even straighter. “In fact, we are not friends at all. If I ever hear a breath of scandal about your daughter or your grandson that has begun at your lips, Fanny, I shall ruin you.”

Fanny stared up at her, faded eyes wide.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Fanny jumped but said nothing.

“Do I make myself clear?” Honoratia said, with the snap of a carnivorous turtle.

Fanny twittered. “I can't imagine why you would think that I would ever do something as ill-bred as gossip about my daughter's debased circumstances.” Then she faltered, seeing Honoratia's expression. “I shall not!” she said shrilly.

Honoratia didn't bother with a reply. She just stumped over to the door and left Fanny there among the crumbs of lemon tarts and cooling cups of tea.