Lady in Blue (4 page)

Bryn waited for Clare
in the library of his townhouse on St. James’s Square. He’d thought to pass the time between breakfast and her arrival by catching up on some paperwork, but he found himself unable to concentrate. Turning his back on the papers strewn over the enormous desk, he gazed into a lovely garden.

It was that view which had inspired him to have a platform constructed, about eight inches high, to hold his desk and chair. Without the added height, his vision was obstructed by a wide ornamental panel halfway up the ceiling-to-floor panes of glass. Into the platform was built a device that allowed him to rotate his chair without standing up to turn it around. He dabbled with inventions, most of them designed to enhance his comfort and pleasure, some more successful than others. The library was unusable for the three months it took to get the revolving chair to work smoothly, and a faint odor of grease still permeated the room.

He did his best thinking in that chair, arms folded behind his head, gazing into the garden. But, unaccountably, today he was too itchy to stay seated. He moved to the large bay window and pressed his forehead against the glass, infuriated by his own eagerness to meet the mysterious virgin in blue and find out what made her think she could demand a fortune for relinquishing the title.

And what made Florette think he was going to pay it?

Did she figure he was in no position to reject Clare whatever-her-name-was? Hell, he wasn’t that desperate. And damned if he’d be extorted. He hated the idea of satisfying Flo in her little game. He was tempted to declare the Blue Lady unsuitable at first glance and send her back like an unopened parcel.

Which fine display of temper and ego would net him precisely nothing. Given the alternative—celibacy—he was in no position to thumb his nose at Flo for the brief satisfaction of bettering her. The Lady in Blue was the last virgin, until he found another reliable source. Or a bride.

It was unlikely he’d agree to her outrageous price, but he found himself wishing the chit would somehow find a way to convince him otherwise. He pulled out his watch. Where the devil was she? It was five minutes past eleven. No woman kept him waiting. He would make that very clear to her.

More time passed before he heard the discreet knock on the door. “Come,” he called, his voice unnaturally harsh. He swung around, curled fists planted on his hips, poised for his first real look at her.

She was veiled, gloved, and swathed from neck to ankles in a dark blue gown exactly as before. She came into the room and paused, hands at her sides. Behind her, the butler stood indecisively.

The earl waved his hand. “That will be all, Walters. No interruptions.” Walters bowed out, closing the door behind him.

Clare stood without moving. She was, Bryn thought, the stillest creature he’d ever seen. She scarcely seemed to breathe.

“You are late,” he said coldly.

“Your carriage was late.” Her voice, a pleasant low alto, was expressionless. She crossed the room—he might describe it as a glide—until she stood in front of the desk, head tilted to look up at him.

“Be seated,” he said, determined not to give her the satisfaction of asking her to lift that damnable veil.

Two large chairs were angled by the corners of the platform. She chose the one to his left, settling gracefully on its edge with her hands folded in her lap.

He sat too, leaning forward with his elbows propped on the desk, hands templed, chin resting lightly on his fingertips. “And just what is it, young woman,” he asked bluntly, “that makes you worth ten thousand pounds?”

She lifted her head. “That, my lord, is for you to decide.” Slowly, she drew up the veil with both hands and removed the hat. As if granting a favor, she allowed him to look at her face.

What he saw took his breath away.

She was not the first woman lovely enough to catch a man’s eye in a crowded room. Hers was a quiet, marble beauty, all line and shape. A woman to look at for a long time. Her hair seemed to be a pale brown, dusted with gold, thick where it had come loose from a chignon at her nape. Wisps and tendrils, disturbed by removing the hat, curled at her temples and forehead.

She appeared older than the girls he’d come to expect, but that might have been her demeanor. Clare was ineffably serene.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled a warning. Flo had been right. This one was different. He struggled to control his initial reaction, along with the sharp sense of challenge she fired in him. He felt uneasy, as if something crucial was at stake. “Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked, temporizing as he pulled his thoughts together.

“No, thank you.” She placed her hat on the corner of his desk.

He shrugged. “Well, shall we begin then? With your name, perhaps.”

“Clare. Clare Easton.”

“Um. And your age?” Did her lips quirk slightly?

“Three-and-twenty, my lord.”

He let out a breath. “That seems a bit old. Under the circumstances.”

“I presume you mean a bit old to have any claim to virginity.”

“For a lovely woman, yes.” He regarded her skeptically. “Shall I assume you have spent the past six or seven years in a nunnery?”

“My background can be of no interest to you, so long as your conditions are met.” Her chin lifted. “I assure you, they are.”

“Ah, but you do not know all my conditions. Only the first, and you cannot blame me for being suspicious. Innocence is not likely, considering your age, beauty, and chosen profession. And virginity is easily faked.”

“You would know better than I. But with your own experience, could you not unmask a deception?”

“Only when it was too late. How can I be sure you are not lying to me?”

Her eyes flashed like lightning out of a clear sky, so unexpected that he wasn’t sure he’d seen it. “Integrity,” she said in a chilling voice, “is not confined to the aristocracy. Even a whore can tell the truth.”

That word, whore, seemed altogether out of place on her lips. He bristled. “I do not tolerate insolence, Clare.”

She bowed her head and said nothing.

For some perverse reason, he was angry at her failure to strike back. Bryn folded his arms across his chest. She was too calm. Too controlled. Were she truly virgin, it could only be because she was frigid. And a passionless woman, however beautiful, held no interest for him. “You will not do,” he said in a businesslike voice.

“As you will.” She reached for her hat.

He swept it away. “Why do you wear this? Are you afraid someone will recognize you?”

Her lips curved slightly. “I have only one thing to sell, my lord. Were I seen leaving your house, all London would assume I’d relinquished it already.”

The earl regarded her with new interest. He almost thought she was laughing at him. Rejected women, and he had rejected a few, rarely found the situation amusing. He placed the hat near his elbow, out of her reach. “I would not have expected you to have given up so easily,” he said with sudden insight. “Men interested in your peculiar temporary attribute and able to afford your outrageous price don’t grow on trees.”

Clare stood. “Indeed not. I expect they are hatched in ponds, under rocks.”

He found himself laughing, and swung his chair around to gaze into the garden. If the white rosebud, just beginning to open, had poked through the glass and bitten him, he could not have been more surprised. She had a temper, that cool-eyed young woman, and concealed it extremely well. “Sit down,” he directed. “I’m not finished with you.”

“Indeed? It seemed a clear dismissal:
You will not do.
Have I misunderstood, my lord?”

He grinned at the white rose. Impertinent baggage. But he’d always loved the bite of iced champagne and felt a shiver of anticipation. “It pains me to admit it, but I seem to have changed my mind. At least for the moment.
Please
sit down, Miss Easton. What have you got to lose?”

“That would appear painfully obvious. The same thing I walked in this room with, although you seem to doubt it.”

He heard the rustle of taffeta and glanced over his shoulder to see her settling on the edge of her chair. He hoped his relief didn’t show.

“How do you manage to spin around like that?” she asked.

He lifted his knees and made a complete circle, then leaned back and crossed his ankles on the desk like a satisfied boy. “Physics, grease, and a clever carpenter with a blacksmith brother.”

“Most impressive. Did you design it?”

“Yes and no. The idea came from something I saw at the theater. Part of the stage revolved, and what had been a drawing room was suddenly a tavern.” He chuckled. “The audience liked it so well that the stage manager had to repeat the trick three times before the play could go on.”

She nearly smiled. “Have
you?
”
she inquired. “Swung around, I mean. Shall this play continue?”

“Let us say I am willing to hear more. Ten thousand pounds is an exceedingly high price for a woman of no experience, however lovely.”

“I had thought a woman of no experience was precisely what you wanted.”

“Not really.”

She blinked. “Can a woman be experienced
and
a virgin?”

His brows lifted. “Not in that order, of course. But after a few hours of instruction . . .”

At last, he thought with fiendish satisfaction, he had ruffled that disturbing composure. At least to the point where one gloved hand fiddled with her skirt.

“I have no experience,” she said flatly. “If you are willing to exchange ten thousand guineas for my virginity, let us come to terms. If not, please give me my hat.”

He opened a drawer and put it inside. “I see the price has gone up, from pounds to guineas. An outlandish sum, Miss Easton, for such a trifle.”

“A
trifle?
It is not so to me, my lord, nor to you. It was my virginity, and only that, which admitted me to this interview. It is what you advertised for, and what I have to sell.”

“You must need the money badly. What you
really
want to do is tell me to go to the devil.”

She paled. “Not that. Never that.”

His brow furrowed. “Is someone compelling you, my girl?”

She stiffened. “No one. I have . . . debts, that is all.”

“Where is your family?”

“Dead. I’ve no relations, not by blood. Be at ease, Lord Caradoc. No outraged protector will show up on your doorstep to avenge the loss of my virtue.”

“You relieve my mind.” Bryn swung his legs from the desk and leaned forward, chin propped on his fingers. “Miss Easton, I’ve no intention of prying secrets from you, but you cannot expect to enter my employ without answering a few pertinent questions. Even footmen are interviewed at length and expected to provide references.”

“That would be a bit difficult, don’t you think?” She flashed him an annoying little smile. “A reference could only prove me unsuited to the job.”

Your point, he admitted with a nod, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze floated around the room, taking in the bookshelves lining both walls. “Do you read?” he asked with some surprise.

“You have a wonderful library,” she said, a touch of awe in her voice. “And yes, I love to read above all things.”

“Your vocabulary indicates some education,” he observed, “as does your accent. Clearly you were reared among the upper classes.”