Lady in Blue (7 page)

“Of course. This is your debut, and the despotic dowagers have not granted permission. Come, let us beard them together. I have a sudden uncontrollable urge to waltz.”

LADY JERSEY, WITH a lifted eyebrow and vast curiosity, nodded approval before speeding away to share the news with her cronies. The Earl of Caradoc, who rarely attended balls and never danced, had fixed his interest on the Landry chit.

Bryn was fully aware of the gossip and slanted glances as he led Elizabeth to Lacey and Claude. Each leapt hungrily for her dance card, and several other men added their names. By the time he swept her onto the parquet floor, her card was nearly filled and her eyes were shining.

Her inexperience was obvious from the first steps, but she was graceful and yielding. “You are lighter than dandelion fluff,” he said.

Elizabeth gazed up at him happily. “Until now I’ve waltzed only with my dance master, who is even shorter than I and rather fat.”

To his surprise, Bryn enjoyed the dance and her company. She chatted engagingly about Isabella and school, treating him, he began to discern, much like an older brother. Older than that. Like an uncle. To his relief, and somewhat to his pique, she didn’t seem to consider him a potential suitor.

An idea hit suddenly, and he stumbled. Tightening his hand on her small waist to cover the misstep, he swept her into an elaborate series of whirls that left her breathless.

When the waltz came to an end, Elizabeth thanked him politely, clearly unaware of the signal honor he’d done her. A moment later, he was forgot completely as Lacey stepped forward to claim her hand. Women were invariably dazzled by the viscount’s startling good looks and the twinkle in his eye.

Bryn seized a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and leaned against a marble pillar. Why not marry the girl? As Florette had taken care to remind him, it was past time he found a wife and produced an heir. Elizabeth was pretty, certainly innocent, and he could give her a better life than she was likely to have otherwise. Few men in this room could afford to bail out her reprobate father, and fewer still would marry into that family.

Bryn scowled at his champagne flute. A busy day, my boy, he thought sourly. After some twenty years on the town, he’d nearly despaired of finding the perfect mistress, let alone a tolerable wife. Today he’d met both, assuming either would have him. And the fact was, neither woman was in a position to refuse should he make an offer, proper or otherwise. Money was a wonderful thing. It could buy almost anything.

But Miss Landry would have to wait. By dancing with her, he had propelled her into fashion. Now she’d have a chance to make a desirable match. If she did not, he would give more thought to the matter.

More immediately, he wanted Clare. Until she was permanently installed as his mistress, he could not propose to anyone. Marriage was a business arrangement, and a prospective bride had every right to know the terms. His were fairly simple, and certainly reasonable. The Countess of Caradoc would bear his name, remain faithful until she produced an heir, and tolerate his mistress with good grace.

Things would be different, of course, if he’d ever met a woman he could love. But Elizabeth Landry was only the second female to arouse even the slightest thought of matrimony, and he knew instinctively that he could never share with her the encompassing, passionate love he craved. Naturally he would be kind to her. Already he liked her. If she found no one else, perhaps he’d marry her.

And perhaps he was an arrogant, overweening, selfish buffoon.

He downed the last of his champagne. Yes, it had been a busy day. He’d met a potential wife, an irresistible mistress, and a part of himself he wasn’t altogether glad to have been introduced to. The man who looked at Clare Easton’s body in a mirror. The man who bought women because there was no woman, not one he wanted, to give herself freely.

Most of the women in the ballroom would come to his bed if he beckoned. Most of the men would join him at any pursuit, just to be in company with the Earl of Caradoc. But in that pressing crowd, his ears pounding with voices and music, he felt very much alone.

Bryn arrived at Clouds an hour before Clare was due to appear.

There was no trace of the shambles Marita had produced with her dramatic exit. The last time he was in this parlor, he stood ankle deep in shattered glass and broken pottery. A wild woman, Marita. He would not miss her, even in bed.

Mrs. Beales offered him a mug of coffee, which he refused. Even after a sleepless night, he felt too jittery for stimulants of any sort. She regarded him appraisingly through narrowed eyes, chuckled when he growled at her, and vanished into the kitchen.

Maude Beales knew all his moods. She’d served him twelve years in this house, named Clouds by the first of his mistresses to live here. Angela had asked that all the ceilings be painted sky blue and adorned with fluffy clouds. They had long since been painted over to fit the taste of her successors, but the house retained its name.

At his instruction, the young footman unloaded the books from the coach and arranged them on a window seat. The small house boasted not a single bookshelf. Bryn decided to line one wall of the parlor with shelves and make sure they were filled. Considering the amount of time he spent here, it was amazing he’d never thought of it before. But then, he was never at Clouds to read.

Shortly before eleven, Mrs. Beales directed the footman to place a large tray on a table in front of the sofa. Bryn saw all his favorites: cream-filled cakes, slim finger sandwiches of rare roast beef, peach tarts, and a large pot of steaming coffee. Best of all, a plate of shortbread. He took a handful of small squares and chewed with pleasure while examining the furniture, planning strategy.

Clare would be placed on the sofa, directly in front of the table. He would settle to her right, in the winged chair. No, that was too far away. He directed the footman to move the chair closer, then to the left, then directly opposite the tray. Mrs. Beales stood with her arms folded, a smile quirking her thin lips.

Damn but he was nervous, and he didn’t need her smug face to tell him so. “Get out,” he said. “You too, Cassidy. Go shopping or something. Come back in . . . two hours.”

“Charley, you have two hours to get into trouble,” said Mrs. Beales with amiable nonchalance. “I shall be in the kitchen, milord. Do call if you need me.”

He eyed her balefully as Charles Cassidy made his escape. “I will introduce you to Miss Easton when and if necessary, Maude. Don’t come wandering in here with some excuse about warming the coffee.”

“As you wish, milord.” From the door, Mrs. Beales turned and gazed at him down a sharply pointed nose. “Don’t take her upstairs.”

“Out!” When she was gone he began to prowl the salon, checking his watch every few seconds. Did the woman think he planned to consummate this arrangement immediately? Within two hours? Not a chance. Clare had yet to agree to anything beyond another meeting, and even if she accepted his offer he would not rush her to bed in the middle of the day.

Tonight, with wine and candlelight and slow seduction, he would draw her willingly into his arms.

The palms of his hands were damp with sweat. He’d not felt this apprehensive since the night he huddled under a leaking tent in the pouring rain, just outside a flyspeck on the map called Waterloo.

At precisely eleven o’clock, the knocker sounded and Bryn hurried to open the door. Once again Clare was swathed in veils, wearing the same blue dress as before. They stood awkwardly for a moment, and then he backed up to let her enter, unable to summon even a casual welcome.

Offering his arm, he led her to the parlor and gestured to the sofa. She sat, gracefully, and removed her hat, placing it beside her.

His memory had not failed him. She was regal as a princess, demure as a nun—quietly, enchantingly beautiful. He mustered a smile. “Thank you for coming, Miss Easton. I was afraid you would not.”

“Indeed?” Her head tilted. “I rather thought you expected it.”

“Not after the way I behaved yesterday.” He regarded her moodily. “If I apologize, will you forgive me?”

“If?”

“Very well,” he said, shifting on his feet. “I was a boor and a snob.”

“Not at all,” she responded in a cool voice.

He understood exactly. He’d been much worse. “Shall I grovel?” he asked, heat rising to his ears. “Offer my cheek for you to smack?” Take off my clothes, he thought, and let you stare at me the way I stared at you? The notion was wonderfully exciting.

“I would like some coffee,” she said, pouring herself a cup. “And you?”

He shook his head and lowered himself onto the chair across from her, so tense that a muscle in his left calf cramped painfully. Longing to shake it out, he stretched his legs across the Axminster carpet, determined to appear at ease. “Miss Easton—Clare—I know this is impossible, but could we pretend we’d never met before? I very much want to start over, without the events of yesterday looming between us.”

“Pray, think no more about it. You had every right to examine your purchase.” She lifted a square of shortcake, studied it intently, and set it down again. “Shall we discuss terms? You indicated requirements, other than those I’d been given to expect. May I hear them?”

“Dammit, I want us to be friends!” His exclamation surprised them both. At least it broke her awesome composure for a bare, nearly imperceptible moment.

Her brows lifted. “Friendship, my lord, cannot be bought. At least, not at any price I am aware of. I had thought our arrangement to be more . . . straightforward. If we are to speak frankly, more exclusively carnal.”

“The one,” he said between clenched teeth, “does not rule out the other.”

She must have sensed his dry mouth, because she poured a helping of coffee, added a generous dollop of honey, and held out the cup. He took it gratefully, wincing as the hot liquid seared his tongue. The pain, coupled with that in his leg and groin, brought an edge to his voice.

“If you insist on a ledger of terms, I shall provide them. In writing, should you wish it.”

“That will not be necessary. But this is a matter of business, and I should like a clear explanation of what you expect from me.”

Business? Despite his overheated body and whirling mind, that word sent a chill down his spine. He tried to match her matter-of-fact tone. “Very well, Miss Easton. I require a mistress, preferably one who will remain with me for a considerable time. She will live in this house, be available to me when I send word, and remain exclusively mine. She must—
you
must—take precautions, at least until I have married and sired an heir.”

His gaze lowered. “In your case, the usual means will not suffice. I doubt my own ability to be responsible and will expect you to take instruction from Mrs. Beales, unless you are acquainted already with a method you prefer. She is my housekeeper, probably lurking at the keyhole right now although she has heard most of this before.”

“How delightful,” Clare murmured, sipping her coffee.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Bryn came to his feet. “I’ll make certain we are not disturbed.”

When he returned, Clare was leaning over the window seat, reaching for a book. She jerked up and spun around, hands clasped guiltily behind her back. As if she’d been caught pilfering the silver, he thought. “Mrs. Beales has suddenly remembered an errand across town,” he said, moving to the window. “I brought these for you. I’ve no idea what you like to read, but if it cannot be found in my library, we’ll spend an afternoon browsing the bookshops.”

Her gloved fingers reached out to stroke the leather bindings. “Truly? Anything I want?”

Bryn wondered if she would ever caress him as lovingly as she touched those old books. Suddenly jealous of paper, glue, and ink, he was relieved when she pulled herself away from the small library and resumed her place on the sofa.

“I have—a few questions,” she said in a stoic voice.

“Be free with them.” He lowered himself onto the chair and folded his arms. “Things will go better if there are no misunderstandings.”

“When do I get the money?” she asked bluntly.

“Not in advance,” he replied with equal bluntness.

“The next morning?” she persisted. “In full?”

“My dear, this is haggling. Do you imagine I will not honor my end of the agreement?”

Her eyes flashed. “Do you imagine
I
will not?”

“I cannot be sure—of anything—until the arrangement is consummated.” He bit his tongue. Devil take it, he was doing it again: attacking when he meant to conciliate. And she was reaching for that damned hat. “Clare, if you accept my offer I shall proceed to Child’s bank first thing tomorrow and secure ten thousand pounds—”

“Guineas.”

“Guineas.”
Mercenary little witch. “But it will be a draft, not cash. That is too much money for either of us to carry around. And I’ll present it to you, with a great flourish, when next we meet. Agreed?”

“So long as the draft can be negotiated when and where I choose. How long will it take for me to earn it?”

He sat up, hands planted on his knees. “What do you mean?”

“What I asked,” she replied with a touch of impatience. “I understand now that you do not mean this to be the simple exchange of my virginity for payment, and that you expect me to remain with you for a period of time. I want to know how long.”

“I damn well don’t want an indentured servant, marking off a calendar and counting down each night before she can pack up and disappear.”

“But there must be a limit, don’t you see? I need to know how soon I can leave without cheating you.”

He stiffened. “The terms of our agreement end when I say so.”

“Then you must say so now.”

Devil take it, who was in charge here? “If you insist on some arbitrary date, I shall provide one. Let us say, ten years from today.”

“That is not reasonable,” she chided. “And if I irritate you as much as I obviously do, it would be a very long ten years.”

Laughing, he took a square of shortbread and waved it in the air. “I’ll not bargain with you, Clare. Your forced servitude is done when you expected it to be, after the first night we make love. If you choose to leave after that, I’ll not hold you.”

For once, he seemed to have unnerved her. “That is . . . remarkably generous,” she said.

“So it is. But if you stay, you’ll discover exactly how generous I can be. Bloody hell, lady, I’ve made concessions that weren’t demanded of Bonaparte after Waterloo. Perhaps you will keep that in mind.” Leaning forward, he gazed at her solemnly. “You have a low opinion of me now, and I suspect I deserve it, but allow me time to make everything up to you. At the very least, enough time to make you very rich.”

For once, she did not meet his eyes. “This is not what I expected, and I am not altogether sure I can give you what you want. More than likely I shall wish to leave immediately.”

“Then I must contrive to change your mind.” Cold sweat pooled at the back of his neck. Already he was fiercely jealous of any man who might succeed him. “What will you do after you leave me?”

“I’ve not thought so far ahead.” She sliced him the hint of a smile. “In truth, I’ve not been certain of getting past the first night. Will you accept a promise to do my best?”

“If it includes forgiving me when I’m impossible, I accept your promise with gratitude. And I hope you will always speak your mind without fear of the consequences. There will be none, although my friends would tell you that I am often insufferable.”

“I shall take your word for that,” she said, too sweetly. “Do you expect me to live here?”

“Yes.” The change of subject, implying her consent to stay, sent his blood racing. “The staff is not large, but you may add to it as you wish. Mrs. Beales is cook and housekeeper. Two of her nieces assist her, although they live at home. There is a footman, Charles Cassidy, and we must find you a maid. You are to consider the house your own and may fix it up any way you like. There is an allowance for that, and I’ll increase it because more than a few things were destroyed . . . in a recent storm.” He stood and held out his hand. “Come. Let me show you the other rooms.”

Only when he opened the door to the larger bedroom did Bryn remember Mrs. Beales’s warning not to take Clare upstairs. By then it was too late. He groaned to see the enormous bed, set on a pedestal and draped in filmy silk. Marita was partial to the color red, and he’d been told the curtains and counterpane were vividly scarlet. Everything else was done up in black and gold.

Even worse, two walls and the canopy over the bed were mirrored. A lump the size of an orange settled in his throat.

Clare stepped into the room and examined the furnishings with slow deliberation. “Oh, my,” she said. Strolling to the bed, she fingered the drapes.

Once again, as if in a nightmare this time, Bryn found himself staring at her reflected image, their gazes meeting in the mirror. He stood stiff as a pillar, helpless with embarrassment. “You’ll want to redecorate,” he said.

“Not if you like it,” she replied serenely.

“I don’t! Really. Mari—er, the previous occupant . . . oh, damn.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Clare, I forgot what this place looked like. I ought never to have brought you up here.”

She pointed to the platform. “You are partial to stages, I gather. Do you build one whenever you perform?”

Longing for a trapdoor to open and swallow him, he swiped his wrist across a hot, moist forehead. “No. Of course not. The elevation you saw yesterday in my library is constructed for the view, so I can see the garden. This one—”

“Is also for the view.” Mounting the three stairs, she bent forward, calculating angles and reflections. “My heavens! Well, you must do as you like, Lord Caradoc. I’ve no skill at decorating, nor am I familiar with the London shops. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”