Absolute Pleasure (5 page)

Several maids cowered in the corner, white Mary faced the little despot, shoulders squared, pride intact. Elizabeth kept her indignant gaze locked on Charlotte's, not glancing in Mary's direction. "Mary, you're excused."

"I don't give her leave to—"

"Go, Mary," Elizabeth instructed. "The rest of you are dismissed, as well."

Their relief palpable, Mary and the other women slipped away. Elizabeth and Charlotte glared at one another, silent and unmoving, until the door clicked shut, then Charlotte leapt out from under the blankets.

"How dare you countermand me to the servants!" she hissed.

"How dare you treat Mary so despicably in front of them!"

The girl pointed an angry finger at Elizabeth's chest "I've apprised mat woman of her failings on countless occasions. She'll not continue in my employ."

"We'll see, won't we?”

"I intend to speak with the earl. She'll be terminated like that." Charlotte snapped her fingers dramatically.

"Be sure to let me know how it goes."

The juvenile woman's threats were tiresome, particularly when they were both aware that she couldn't discuss the incident with the earl. Even if she had the nerve—which she didn't—he would neither attend her nor care, and she'd look incompetent for broaching what he would deem to be a petty household affair.

"When I'm through," Charlotte blustered, "you'll be sorry."

"I can't wait to discover my fate," Elizabeth said sarcastically, as she turned to go, refusing to demean herself by fighting. Charlotte thrived on turmoil, so withdrawal was Elizabeth's foremost weapon. "In the meantime, if you expect your breakfast to be fixed correctly, perhaps you should drag your lazy behind out of bed and eat it before one in the afternoon."

"You will not disparage me in my own home!” Charlotte roared.

"Pull yourself together!" Elizabeth scolded. "You're making a spectacle of yourself. Even now, the servants are probably spreading the latest gossip about your uncontrollable temper. You'll be the talk of the neighborhood within the hour."

'They wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't they?"

As a parting remark, it wasn't bad. Appearances carried tremendous import for Charlotte. The notion that the servants weren't discreet, that they'd tattle and broadcast the family's ongoing strife, was one of the few methods Elizabeth had found that worked. Charlotte usually backed down when confronted with the prospect of public exposure.

She stepped into the corridor, firmly closed the door, then she sped up the stairs to Mary's room where she had to stave off further disaster. If Mary threw up her hands in defeat and left, who could predict what would happen? Mary's stabilizing influence was the sole factor that had averted absolute catastrophe thus far.

After this current debacle, Elizabeth couldn't blame her if she quit as she'd been intimating. Charlotte's abhorrent display had been one in an endless line that had persistently erupted during the six conflict-ridden months since she'd wed the earl. Mary had stoically braved every blasted episode, deflecting Charlotte's fury, intervening when she could, or accepting the culpability for many lapses that weren't her fault.

Elizabeth peeked in without knocking and, as she'd surmised, Mary was perched rigidly on the edge of her bed, engrossed in her knitting. The needles clicked in a quick rhythm that indicated her level of agitation. While outwardly she appeared cool and composed, there was a tense set to her chin, rage in her gaze, resignation in her demeanor.

"May I come in?"

Mary glowered but said nothing, so Elizabeth entered and shut the door. Leaning against it, she inspected her friend, wondering how she could ever make this right

She'd known Mary her whole life. The woman had been a combination mother, sister, and companion. Her wise counsel had guided Elizabeth from the nursery onward. Elizabeth's mother had died when she was just three, so Mary had become a surrogate parent even though she'd also just assumed the strenuous duties of head housekeeper.

Over the centuries, the job of housekeeper was inherited as systematically by the women of Mary's family as the rank of earl was inherited by the male heirs of Elizabeth's. Mary had practically been born to the position, no more capable of declining the dubious post than Elizabeth's father had been of being named Earl of Norwich when he'd turned sixteen.

At age forty-five, her blond hair had faded to silver, there were lines around her mouth, and her figure had filled out, but she wasn't happy anymore. Her blue eyes no longer glimmered with joy or surprise, her laughter no longer rang through the halls, and Elizabeth hated the changes her father's marriage had wrought.

"You can't let her get to you," Elizabeth gently asserted.

'Too late, me darlin' Beth." While Mary was a full-fledged English woman, she infrequently evinced the Irish brogue she'd acquired from her father, who'd been the stable master at Norwich. Only when she was most piqued did the slight accent emerge, and the fact that it was detectable now underscored the magnitude of her vexation.

"You know how obstinate Charlotte is."

"This was more than a tantrum. This was personal." After a disconcerting delay, she added, "Maybe she suspects."

Elizabeth nudged, "Suspects what?"

"Nothing." She sighed ponderously. " ‘Tis nothing a'tall." Setting her knitting aside, she stood. "I've decided to tender my resignation. I'll seek your father's permission tonight"

"Don't be absurd." Elizabeth was frightened that Mary might actually follow through. "We could never get along without you. Especially with her acting so horridly."

"I can't take the strain or the incessant upheaval."

"I'll talk to Father."

"You've tried before; it won't help." She laughed halfheartedly. "He's made his bed, as they say. There's naught for him to do but lie in it."

"There's got to be a better resolution than your quitting."

"I can't think of a single one.”

"But where would you go? How would you support yourself?" Mary had never resided anywhere but with the Harcourt family, she'd never held any other employment. The notion of her departure was ludicrous. Elizabeth put an arm around her. "You're upset, so you're spewing rubbish."

"I
am
upset, but I know what I must do."

Belowstairs, there was another crash, and even from their secluded spot on the fourth floor, they could hear a quarrel ensuing. Needing to arbitrate, Mary started toward the door, but Elizabeth stopped her. "You've been through enough for one afternoon. You stay here. I'll deal with her."

Mary looked relieved, as Elizabeth hurried out She ran down, only to encounter Charlotte berating a servant in the foyer. After tolerating a bout of vitriolic antagonism, Elizabeth soothed the situation, sent the flustered maid on her way, then threatened Charlotte anew.

Morose, discouraged, she trudged up to her bedchamber, mulling over just how much more conflict she could withstand. With no funds of her own, and no ability to provide for herself, she was as much at the earl's mercy as Mary. The immediate future was so bleak! If only she could change her life! But the choices were limited, the acceptable opportunities obscure.

How long could she persevere in such wretched conditions? If only there was some mode of delivering an illusion of sunshine into her otherwise dreary existence!

She sat at her vanity, once again. Across from her was the card she'd received from Gabriel Cristofore. Overly despondent she picked it up and rubbed her thumb along the black ink.

Chapter Three

Gabriel silently stepped to the door of his parlor, which was slightly ajar. He peeked through the crack and couldn't help but gloat. He'd known she'd come! And so quickly, too. How he relished a victory—even a small one!

Lady Elizabeth Harcourt was perched on one of the sofas, accompanied by a memorable silver-haired woman in her mid-forties who, from her conservative dress and deportment, was likely a lady's maid or chaperone.

His father was present, chatting amiably and, with Lady Elizabeth's exalted status in mind, he'd outdone himself. A handsome fellow at age fifty, he'd, primped and preened. His suit was vigilantly brushed, his cravat starched white and intricately tied, his shoes buffed to a brilliant shine.

He wore several tasteful rings and, with his manicured nails neatly trimmed, his expressive fingers were notably seductive as he motioned to the tea tray. As he talked, he gestured flamboyantly, and the ladies couldn't stop watching his fluid movements.

Gabriel had inherited his artistic talent from his long-deceased Italian mother. He'd received her astute appreciation for coloration, substance, and form, but he was convinced that the grace in his father's hands had liberally contributed to his remarkable ability. The man's flair was a joy to behold.

Lady Elizabeth's concentration flitted from John to her surroundings, and Gabriel focused on her. The single ladies who came for a session were always apprehensive, and Lady Elizabeth was no exception. Furtively, she glanced about, checking the decor, as if trying to deduce whether Gabriel's request to paint her was real or part of some depraved scheme.

There
was
a definite licentious bent to his plans, so she was wise to be wary, but he'd been through this exercise on dozens of occasions. If he manipulated her with his usual skill, at the juncture where she realized she'd been ensnared in more than a simple portraiture contract, she wouldn't be overly concerned by any ulterior motives he might have possessed at the outset

On nimble feet, he strolled into the room, and simultaneously, the two women started to rise in welcome, but he waved them to their seats as he moved across the floor to stand in front of Lady Elizabeth.

In his eagerness, he'd forgotten how pretty she was, and surprisingly, he was tongue-tied, incompetent to do anything but stare like a dumbfounded, lovestruck boy.

"Ah," his father interjected, "here's Mr. Cristofore now."

He and John never introduced themselves as father and son. In honor of his mother, Gabriel used his Italian surname, and they both believed it enhanced his mystery and allure with the ladies. An added benefit, with John portraying himself as a secretary, it precluded questions about Gabriel's background or birth status.

John was positive that Gabriel's chances in England would be wrecked if those from John's past learned he'd traveled home with an adult, illegitimate son in tow. John's contention—that his reputation still hounded him after thirty years—was funny but true. In his day, he'd been an absolute terror.

"Lady Elizabeth," John said, gracefully smoothing over the awkward moment, "you met Mr. Cristofore the other night."

"So I did," she answered, an engaging blush reddening her glossy cheeks. "It's very nice to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine."

Apparently, she was unaware of the staggering effect her proximity had on him. When he was within ten feet of her, his body surged to a state of profound alacrity. His pulse increased, his skin heated, his senses soared. He could hear the slightest noise, smell the faintest odor. The afternoon seemed brighter, the air fresher, just from being in her company.

He took her hand in his, but touching her was a mistake. Even though she was wearing a glove, the scanty connection jolted him, originating at his fingertips, then rushing up his arm and down his chest, to lodge in the vicinity of his loins, making him hot and uncomfortable, his trousers suddenly too tight.

Kissing her hand, he lingered, inhaling her unique scent. The particular aroma was matchless, mesmerizing. If he'd been blindfolded in a crowded room, he could have picked her out by the distinctive fragrance. It tickled his fancy, reinforcing his certitude that they were entirely in accord, and meant to be together in a physical way.

As he straightened, he was unnerved to discover Lady Elizabeth intently assessing him. Obviously, she'd also been stung by the transitory impact, but there was something more in her gaze, something challenging and inquisitive, as though she knew more about him than she suitably ought. He suffered a pang of cognizance—as well as an unwonted tug at his conscience—that she understood exactly the sort of bounder he was and that she'd visited him anyway.

Could it be? Could she have heard rumors or, God forbid, have talked to one of his prior paramours?

Rigorously, he shook off the nightmarish notion. The women with whom he dallied were selected because they could never tell anyone what they'd been about. As for himself, he was exceptionally discreet. There was no one who could have informed her as to his aberrant nature. Still...

John cleared his throat, jerking him to his senses. He persisted in holding the lady's hand, while peering at her like an entranced dolt, so he stepped away, putting a polite distance between them and covering his gaffe by studying her associate.

Most of his female clients brought a colleague along for an appointment or two, and it paid to reassure the lady's companion. The more comfortable the partner felt about the situation, the more expeditiously the client grew at ease, and the sooner she would decide to attend by herself.

With an amicable smile firmly affixed, he converged on the other woman. "And who is your charming friend?”

"Miss Mary Smith," Lady Elizabeth advised.

"Delighted, Miss Smith." He made an impressive bow, just as he'd done with Lady Elizabeth, though he decorously retreated. "Will we be painting you, as well?"

"Heavens, no." She was blushing, too. "I'm simply here to accompany Lady Elizabeth."

"My great loss, then." He meant it. She had a fine, absorbing face, the path of years scrupulously imprinted.

Miss Smith turned to John and said, "You mentioned that he was awfully good at portraiture, but you didn't say that he was an unmitigated flatterer."

"It's the Italian in him," John stated affably, and both women laughed.

"Are the two of you related?"

"Why, no." It was John's chance to be flustered. "What makes you ask?"

"You look so much alike, I just assumed—" She halted, embarrassed by the personal tenor of her inquiry. "My apologies."

"None necessary," John hastily chimed in. In the two years they'd been back on British soil, the astute Miss Smith was the first to notice a resemblance, one they constantly sought to hide, and her perspicaciousness was disturbing. "I'm merely his man of affairs," John insisted, and he pointedly glared at Gabriel. "As a matter of fact, I was just discussing the contracts, explaining the prices you charge and—"

As they'd practiced, Gabriel cut him off. "You know how I hate being burdened with the business side of the arrangement." His adept attention centered on Lady Elizabeth. "Especially when there are so many other intriguing subjects to consider."

With rehearsed dexterity, John tried again. "But we do need to decide on—"

"No, no. I'm sure mat whatever Lady Elizabeth consents to pay will be more man fair."

"What can I say?" John shrugged, pretending magnanimous defeat. "He possesses the soul of an artist. He's never been interested in finance."

"I'm fortunate I have you to watch over me."

"Yes, you are," John concurred. As though tendering a precious secret, he leaned toward the ladies. "Painting is his passion. Some days, he's so immersed in his work that I have to remind him to eat and sleep."

As Gabriel had anticipated, the women chuckled. He proceeded to appraise Lady Elizabeth, as if transfixed, which wasn't too far from the truth. "There's nothing quite so rewarding as creating great art."

Lady Elizabeth shamelessly met his bold stare, and he was overcome, once again, by the discomfiting impression that she knew exactly what he was up to and was prepared to beat him at his own game.

"I've often been apprised"—she ran the pink tip of her dainty tongue across her full bottom lip, delicately wetting it so that it glistened—"that intense dedication is essential in order to garner a reputation as an artisan of merit."

"Precisely."

Gabriel wondered if that bit of lip-moistening hadn't been calculated to incite his masculine sensibilities. The ostensibly innocent act was what a trained coquette might do, and it had drawn his unwavering focus to her mouth. He couldn't concentrate on anything else.

Her mouth was impeccable. It hinted at wickedness and provoked a man to carnal ruination. With extraordinary relish, he could visualize her kneeling down, unfastening his pants, baring him. She'd reach inside to find him erect and ready, her fingers would stroke him, then her adorable tongue would flick against the crown. He'd tremble and moan as she sucked at him and...

Gabriel wrenched upright, sternly plucking himself out of his libidinous reverie. Disconcerted by the potent effect she had on his person, he couldn't remember ever being so thoroughly titillated merely from being in a woman's presence. Gad, but he was in deep, and he hadn't yet had the opportunity to be sequestered with her!
 
What would his condition be after a few hours? After a few days?

He shuddered to think!

Composing himself, he compelled himself to stick with the routine he and John had established. If they'd been reading from a script, it couldn't have been simpler.

"You'll be a impressive model, milady. I'm terribly anxious to get started." Impudently, he balanced a finger on her chin, raising her face so that he could better examine her. With slight pressure, he rotated her head back and forth as if hunting for incomparability, and she didn't flinch. "What a portrait we'll produce! Such flawless skin. Such marvelous eyes. Such striking bone structure."

"Honestly, Mr. Cristofore," she scolded. "You do go on about nonsense."

"You have a distinct beauty, and it will shine through on the canvas. With such magnificent features, perfection is the only possible result."

She gazed up at him, beseeching with those stunning green eyes, and her thoughts seemed to connect with his. Oddly—for just the briefest instant—he could peer to the spot where her loneliness and despair quietly rested.

Her isolation called out to him, appealing for recognition and empathy from his conniving, corrupt black heart, and he was annoyed. He'd erected a shell around his battered sense of right and wrong. It was the exclusive method by which he could persevere through those occasions when his battle-scarred conscience endeavored to swim to the surface.

He couldn't let her get to him. If he wasn't prudent, he'd start to feel sorry for her, and he'd end up acting chivalrously. He'd paint her for the joy of it, instead of for the enhanced wealth it would inevitably convey.

How ridiculous! She was a woman to whom he'd only spoken a sparse number of words, yet she was causing his protective instincts to blossom. He couldn't permit her personal problems to affect his behavior!

Obviously, she wished his compliments to be genuine— for doubtless they'd been seldom offered in her life even though she'd deserved many—and he felt like the consummate scoundrel he really was. She desperately needed authentic friendship, and it would be wrong to take advantage of her, but his pattern of trickery and deception was so entrenched that he couldn't fathom proceeding in any other fashion.

His finger was still on her chin, and she pulled away, severing the fragile contact. Immediately, their intense link vanished, and he speculated as to why he'd been foolish enough to infer it existed.

Her emotions shuttered, she glanced over at John. "I agree with Mary: he's an incurable flatterer."

"That he is," John good-naturedly acceded.

Gabriel struggled to restore his equilibrium, to carry on with the ruse. "Would you ladies like to view some samples of my work?"

"Actually"—Lady Elizabeth stood—"I'm curious about your studio, and I was hoping we could begin our project today."

He was flummoxed by her pronouncement. His female clients never wished to commence at once! They required crucial wooing until they were more relaxed. A good deal of his initial energy was spent on allaying their misgivings.

'Today?" he queried, baffled.

"Yes." She dazzled him with a frightening smile that had him rapidly reviewing the reasons he'd thought he should enter into an affair with her. "If your calendar is free, that is. I wouldn't want to be an imposition."

"You could never be an imposition."

In consternation, he shook his head. This wasn't proceeding according to plan, at all. She was supposed to be apprehensive, ambivalent, undetermined. Her reticence would let him be covertly persuasive, credibly irresistible, while he gradually wore down her control and vanquished her inhibitions.

"Why delay?" she asked.

"Why, indeed?" He scowled at his father, but John merely cocked a brow, as perplexed as he about her impatience. With women, what man was ever on stable ground? "How is my schedule this afternoon, John?"