Lady in Blue (5 page)

She cast him a sly glance. “Like integrity, my lord, a love of knowledge is not restricted to the peerage. By good fortune, I have been educated. I can also embroider and play the pianoforte. But what is that to the point? It cannot be conversation or drawing-room entertainment for which you want me.”

The earl was not accustomed to being rebuffed, but the surge of resentment he felt was not for her words. Only for the poised way she delivered them. “Then let us get to the point, my dear. On the matter of your virginity, I accept Madam LaFleur’s assurance that you are qualified.” She didn’t flinch. “For the rest, I would like to see for myself.” His gaze caught hers and held. “If you are still interested in the position, you will now remove your clothes.”

Clare looked at him without expression for a long moment.

He thought she was stunned. He was wrong.

Gracefully, as if she’d done it a thousand times, she stood and began to unhook the row of buttons that ran down the front of her dress to below her waist. One by one, slowly because she did not remove her dark kid gloves, the buttons opened. Her gaze was fixed on his face, but he suspected that she didn’t see him at all. He followed the path of her fingers, down her long neck to the hint of flesh at the gradually widening vee, which had reached the edge of a plain cotton chemise. His eyes blurred.

How must he seem to her at this moment, leaning forward, practically slobbering over his desk? The awareness hit him like a harsh light, as if shutters were suddenly raised in a dark room. As if someone had turned over a rock and exposed him.

Clare was removing her dress, but she was clothed in a peculiar light of her own. Suddenly
he
felt naked. Uncomfortable. Shamed. He felt, dammit, all the things he’d expected her to feel.

Pretending boredom with the slow proceedings, he swung his chair around and stared into the garden, hearing the faint swish of taffeta. The white rosebud seemed to mock him. His mouth felt dry. How far had she got? Would she tell him when it was done? He came to his feet, almost missed his footing as he stepped off the platform, and let his glance fall on her briefly as he walked to the marble fireplace and leaned his elbow on the mantel. He caught a glimpse of white shoulder.

Why didn’t she take off those stupid gloves?

She hadn’t seemed to notice that he’d moved. He stared, brooding, into the empty hearth, for what seemed like a week. Finally he heard the dress fall to the floor. Glancing up, he realized he could see her reflection in the mirror that hung above the mantel.

She bent slightly, grasped the hem of her chemise, and began to pull it over her head. The fabric caught, momentarily, on a hairpin, and then it was loose and gone. She let it drop to the floor and turned to face him.

Bryn looked back at her, from the mirror. If his hands were not gripping the mantel, he’d have sunk to his knees.

She was perfect. Flawless in every detail. He saw long legs in dark stockings which reached to mid-thigh, tied with simple ribbons, no spare flesh above the binding. And then the curve of hip, a soft nest of gold-tinged hair, smooth abdomen, and narrow waist. Her breasts were full but high, beautifully formed.

The palms of his hands, tightly clenched on marble, were sweating. His breeches stretched against his uncontrollable arousal. And her eyes lifted, catching his in the mirror. The tiniest hint of a smile curled her lips.

He recognized contempt.

Then, as smoothly as if she’d been poised on his revolving chair and with exquisite slowness, she turned around. In profile she was breathtaking: the svelte arc of her back, the slight rounding of her belly, the sleek flanks. A tiny birthmark, shaped like a quarter moon, was raised just over the dimple on her right buttock. It was the only flaw—no, jewel—on skin like rich fresh cream.

She still wore her gloves. Bryn had a sudden vision of long legs in black stockings wrapped around his waist, hands in leather gloves caressing him.

Clare came around full circle. She stood with her arms at her sides, still as glass.

“Take down your hair,” he said huskily.

Her arms lifted, and she pulled the long hairpins from her chignon. Her gaze pinned him in the mirror. She combed her fingers through her hair until it hung thick and softly waving over her shoulders, reaching to her waist. A thick swath concealed her left breast. With the folds of blue dress and foam of white chemise at her feet, she looked like Venus born of the sea.

Only iron-hard control kept him in place. His gaze dropped to a porcelain shepherdess on the mantel, and he picked it up with determined fascination. The figurine was sleek and cool and smooth. He wished he hadn’t touched it.

Inexplicably, what he wanted to do most was apologize.

But who was to say she even minded? Clare had performed with the serene grace of a prima ballerina. Did she know he would have her, at any price? That she undervalued herself when she demanded a fortune?

If he looked up, he might find the answer in her eyes. For certain, she would recognize her victory in his. He had challenged her and lost. “Get dressed,” he ordered harshly, fingering the shepherdess.

The soft sounds of cotton and heavy taffeta tickled at his ears and skin. There was a long silence then, and he glanced into the mirror. She was turned away from him, gloved hands fumbling with the buttons near her waist. It was more difficult buttoning than unbuttoning. He considered pointing out how much easier it would be if she took off her gloves. He even thought to go help her, but didn’t dare to turn around.

She had the courage to face him naked, but he lacked the nerve to let her see him swollen with urgency. At all costs, she must not see that. It proved him the lust-driven, slimy thing she already thought him, which would put him at an awesome disadvantage for the negotiation to come.

It would be that, he reflected with a mixture of dread and excitement. He would not count the cost, even as he demanded more of Clare than her elegant body. Money could not buy what he desired from her.

He wanted her to want him. To writhe under him with passion in her eyes and words of need on her lips. He wanted all the fire she held so coldly in check.

Above all, he wanted her to stay with him. The idea shook him. He set the figurine carefully on the mantel. It was the cool finger on the trigger that made the best shot. Bryn realized he had to control his rising excitement at the prospect of a challenge. He must not leap into fantasies of a long relationship with a female he’d barely met and scarcely knew. Most of all, he had to control her. And he knew, with the edgy excitement of a born gamester, that it would not be easy.

As she fastened the endless line of buttons, he probed for her weakness. What he found unnerved him. She had no weaknesses, save her need for money, and that was trivial in comparison to his own vulnerability. He wanted her more than he wanted the game. Until now he’d never gambled with any real concern about the outcome, and even losing brought a new challenge—the rematch. He never lost twice.

This time, winning was more important than he was ready to admit. Bryn sensed the imbalance and knew he was overcompensating with the arrogance of a born aristocrat who had money to spend.

“Very nice,” he said in a deliberately impassive tone.

Clare abandoned the last two buttons at her neck when he gestured for her to sit down. She did, wrapping her long hair into a chignon and securing it with pins.

Somewhat awkwardly, he sidestepped onto the platform and settled onto his chair, relieved at her failure to look at him. Safely concealed behind the desk, he leaned back and folded his arms. “Yes, I believe we can come to terms, Miss Easton.” The formality seemed odd, in light of what had just transpired. “Naturally I regret the uncomfortable exercise, but you could not expect me to—”

“Buy a pig in a poke?”

At first he could not believe he’d heard it.

“You have not examined my teeth,” she continued. “Please do so if you wish and have no concern about my comfort. I expect we shall deal better if there are no misunderstandings.”

His fingers dug into his ribs. Exactly when had he passed the reins to this astonishing creature? “Do you understand, young woman, what I expect of you?”

“Not in detail. I believe there will be some pain and a little bleeding.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Regretting the outburst, he schooled his voice. “But while we’re on the subject, it’s true the first time is rarely pleasurable. I shall most certainly endeavor to cause you as little discomfort as possible.”

“I have told you, my lord, that you need not trouble yourself about my comfort.”

“Devil take it, lady!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Forget the first time. It’s not important.”

“Not important!” Her eyes blazed, only for a second. “You will pay dearly for that one night. What else could possibly matter?”

He sighed. “We have a grave misunderstanding, my dear. I will not pay you ten thousand guineas . . . no, not even ten guineas . . . for the dubious satisfaction of claiming your virginity. Did Florette not explain to you?”

She made a helpless gesture.

“I want a mistress, Clare. A woman exclusively mine for as long as we choose to stay together. The fact that our relationship must begin with your innocence is my personal predilection, which I need not explain, any more than you are willing to tell me any of the things you seem determined to conceal. This is not a matter of one night, the taking of a virgin and a payoff in the morning.”

There was a tense silence. “How long then?” she asked falteringly. “How many . . . nights?”

“Until I am finished with you.”

“I see.” Clare smoothed her skirt, considered for a moment, and rose. “Please, may I have my hat?”

“Not until you hear me out.” He grinned. “Sit, Miss Easton. You have come so far already. How can it hurt to stay the course?”

“The course,” she said acidly, “has become very rocky.” But she perched on the edge of her chair and gazed at him with admirable calm.

Again he marveled at the control of this woman. She had confronted, he knew with a shot of insight, challenges worse than this. And lost, or she would not be here now. His voice softened. “I am finding all this difficult to explain. To be honest, I’ve never had to explain it before. Did Florette tell you nothing about me?”

“Almost nothing.” Her lips sloped in that enticing, elusive smile that intrigued him. “But I insisted on seeing you before we met.”

“Indeed? At the time, I thought she staged that encounter so that I could see
you.
”

“Florette’s knives,” Clare said wisely, “have a double edge. She told me nothing but your name.”

“Likewise.” He laughed and caught a responsive gleam in her eye. For a moment they were united against Flo’s conspiracy and the sting of being caught in her trap.

“I would ask more of you, Clare,” he said softly, “than what you had thought to yield. And I shall, of course, pay you accordingly. There is a small house, on Half-Moon Lane, fully staffed, for you to live in. I wish to settle you there, today if possible. I hope that you will come to me freely, ready to agree to certain other provisions, which I shall explain later, and prepared to work out a comfortable and mutually enriching relationship.”

“Not today,” she said quickly. “I had not understood the terms of your contract, nor truly met you before this morning. I must have time to consider.” Standing, she held out her hand. “My hat.”

With reluctance, he took it from the drawer and came down off the platform to stand in front of her. She gazed at him, her eyes smoky with unhappiness. His heart sank. Gently, he placed the hat on her head and let his fingers linger for a moment against her smooth cheek. “You have not truly met me even now, Clare Easton. I very much regret how I . . . what I . . . oh, damn! Just give me another chance to set things right. Please.”