Lady in Blue (8 page)

“I’ll take care of it.” He seized her hand and led her firmly out of the room. “Across the hall is a smaller bedroom. The servants occupy the third floor and there is a back staircase, so you will not be disturbed.” He met her eyes. “Has that awful room changed your mind about me?”

“Not in the least,” she said, with the light ambiguity he was coming to recognize.

As he ushered her downstairs, Bryn wondered, not for the first time, if she was laughing at him.

The coffee had cooled, and he drank his in one swallow while Clare nibbled at the edges of a biscuit. After what she’d seen upstairs, everything he wanted to say to her lodged in his throat. It was lowering to realize this woman was only sitting across from him for the money. And probably wondering if she’d asked enough.

His stomach twisted in knots. He was the one being tested for approval. He wanted her so badly he’d pay anything she demanded, but she didn’t want him at all and could refuse everything he owned. Three other women had sat across from him in this very room, arching and preening or nervous and shy. Never once had he wondered what they were feeling as he spelled out his requirements and watched them fall all over themselves to agree.

The truth was, he’d thought they were lucky to get him.

“What do you wish me to do now, my lord?”

With a show of indolence, he leaned forward and took a sandwich. “Well, for one thing, stop calling me
my lord.
”

“I don’t know your name,” she said with a smile.

“Do you not?” He bit off a hunk of bread and roast beef, regretting it instantly. His mouth was too dry to chew. “Surely Florette told you all about me.” Swallowing hard, he reached for the coffeepot and swore under his breath to find it empty.

Clare passed him her half-full cup. “Not a word, my lord. Beyond the obvious.”

He lifted an eyebrow as he drank.

“I meant, the size of your fortune. And that you only employ virgins.”

He set down the cup. “Seriously? Nothing more than that? If you are telling the truth, Flo has been ominously secretive. I’d expected her to prepare you, if only to give you the advantage. Had she done so, what you’ve seen of me thus far would not surprise you.”

“I am not,” she informed him, “in the least surprised.” Then she brushed her skirts with an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “That is not strictly true. Before I saw you, I’d imagined you would be old, with skinny legs and thick wet lips and cruel eyes.”

Had all his mistresses been so terrified? he wondered with a painful shot of awareness. Did they expect him to be cruel, even perverted, because he took only virgins under his protection?

“You have not told me your name,” Clare reminded him gently.

He regathered his wits. “I have rather too many, and you may choose the one you prefer. I was christened Brynmore Evan Anthony Owen Morgan Talgarth and hold the title Earl of Caradoc. My friends call me Bryn.”

“You are Welsh?”

“In part. The Caradocs have a long tradition of playing both sides against the middle. Our holdings march the border, crossing into Wales for water or the best pastureland. In early days we stood as a buffer between warring factions, but my ancestors shifted with the wind and always allied themselves with power and money. Nothing to be proud of.”

“My lord—Bryn . . .” She hesitated, as if finding it difficult to say his name. “I have one more question.”

He bit into the shortbread. “Yes?”

“I’m not sure . . . that is, what did you mean about Mrs. Beales teaching me?”

“When you are settled here, she will explain everything. Mrs. Beales tells me it is never a comfortable lesson, but it is truly necessary, my dear.”

For the first time, she blushed. “I intended to ask Florette. Would that be acceptable?”

“She would know, of course. I’ve no objection. But you must tell Mrs. Beales what method you have chosen, and she’ll see that you are supplied.”

Her gaze shot up. “Method? Is there more than one?” She was decidedly pink now. “I fear I am woefully ignorant.”

Light dawned. “I suspect,” he said dryly, “that we are talking about two related but entirely different things. And since Madam Florette is pulling far too many strings for my comfort, let us cut her off. Mrs. Beales will teach you what you need to know before we begin our relationship, and from then on I shall, with great delight, teach you the rest.” He smiled. “For now, let us attend to more immediate matters. Where are you staying?”

“At an inn. Please do not ask me which one. I prefer to meet you at Florette’s.”

“As you wish. You can move into Clouds on Sunday. That will give me a week to get the place in order.” He templed his hands. “I mean no insult, but is that the only gown you own?”

She lowered her eyes. “The only good one.”

“Then you need a wardrobe, my girl, top to bottom. My carriage will collect you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Plan to spend the entire day, and the one after that, in the shops. Mrs. Beales will assist you. She knows which modistes I favor, and the bills will be sent to me. No skimping, Clare. If you don’t spend my money lavishly, I shall personally drag you through the stores and ogle you while you are being fitted. It will give me pleasure,” he added more genially, “to see you clothed as befits your beauty.”

“Surely I need very little,” she protested. “I shan’t be going anywhere—”

“On the contrary. You’ll need gowns for the opera and the theater, for drives in the park, for picnics and”—he winked—“for the bookstores and circulating libraries.”

She looked downright horrified, not at all like a woman who’d been offered
carte blanche.

“Clare, buy anything that strikes your fancy. Mrs. Beales will see that you come home with everything you require. And try to enjoy yourself.” He grinned. “I never met a female who didn’t love to shop.”

“Perhaps I will,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve never actually done it before. It seems wasteful, though.”

“Indulge me,” he said. “And let me indulge you. All your fancies. Anything you want.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?” she asked suspiciously.

“Absolutely. I want to please you, and thus please myself. How can you find fault with that?”

Her brow knitted in a frown. “I’m not sure. But I won’t stay with you for trinkets, however expensive. And that is a foolish declaration, because I come to you for money and a great deal of it. This is much more complicated than I ever imagined, my—Bryn.”

“I like that,” he said. “
My Bryn.
Hold that thought, lovely Clare. And tell me we have come to terms.”

Standing, with the fluid grace he loved to watch, she put on her hat and pinned it into place. This time she did not lower the veil.

He stood, too, and reached for her hand. “What color are your eyes?” he asked, watching them widen in confusion.

“Light brown, I suppose. Sometimes almost gray.”

“Like smoke. Good. I wasn’t sure. And your hair?” A tendril curled at her ear, and he drew it between his thumb and forefinger. This close to her, he was aware of her subtle fragrance, like soap and powder.

“No color, really,” she replied. “Brownish, rather like fog. City fog, not clean country mist.”

Warming to the concern in her wide, curious eyes, he fingered her hair, relishing the texture. “My vision is perfectly fine,” he assured her, “except that I cannot discern all colors. Mostly reds and greens, I’m told. To me, they look like mud, so I wasn’t certain if I was seeing you as you really are.”

“Truly? But how do you know which colors you can’t see? Have you ever been able to distinguish them?”

“You are wearing a blue gown. Too dark for you, I think. Yellow is very clear, which is why I like daffodils. Mrs. Beales told me the curtains in the bedroom are crimson, but to me they appear a dull brown. I’ve always been this way, as was my mother’s father. Likely I inherited it. Some years ago I consulted with John Dalton, the scientist, who also experiences color deficiency, and he thinks it may be caused by fluid in the eyeballs. In any case, nothing can be done about it. My valet sees that I don’t wear clashing colors, and I shall never be able to appreciate the Old Masters, but otherwise it is merely an inconvenience. You mustn’t mind if now and again I ask you what color you are wearing.”

Her face was alight with fascination. “But if I answered green, and you cannot see green, what difference would it make? Have you any idea what green looks like?”

“None whatever,” he replied cheerfully, “although I am informed there is a lot of it around. Trees and shrubs and grass are green, I understand. Friends tell me I see the landscape, even in spring, as it appears to them in winter. Most of all, I miss red. In poetry, it is the color of passion.”

He regretted saying that immediately. The light in her eyes shaded and she backed away, wincing a bit when his finger caught in her hair. Carefully, he unwound the long tendril and lowered his arm.

“Then we are agreed, my lord,” she said, as if negotiating the price of a cut of meat, “I shall spend your money recklessly, be schooled by Mrs. Beales, and move into this house when you are ready to bring me here.” She glanced wistfully at the window seat. “Could I select a book and take it with me? I’ll bring it back.”

Those damn books. He’d offered her freedom to buy anything she wanted, and all she asked was the loan, for a few days, of a book. “Take them all,” he said. “Choose what you can carry now, and I’ll have the rest sent over.”

“This will do.” She picked up the heavy volume of Shakespeare’s plays and clutched it to her chest. “With all that shopping, I won’t have much time to read.”

“I’m beginning to think you agreed to be my mistress only to get your hands on my books.”

Clare smiled at him, the first bright, open smile he’d yet seen. It took his breath away.

“Yes. But mostly because you were kind enough to bring them to me.” She reached up and swept the veil across her face. “Until Friday.” In a gesture he knew was without conscious thought, she tilted her head to the ceiling as if imagining herself upstairs, in bed with him. She stumbled slightly when she turned toward the door.

It was the first ungraceful move he’d ever seen her make. “Clare?”

Pausing, she turned her head.

“I will not make love to you Sunday,” he said gently.

She went completely still.

“We’ll take it slowly, my dear. A bit at a time, until you feel comfortable with me. Contrary to what you saw upstairs and the way I behaved yesterday, I shall not jump on you the minute we are alone. We’ll do nothing until you are ready, however long that takes.” He smiled. “Well, however long, within reason. Now wait here a moment while I see the carriage brought around.”

She nodded, still clutching the book to her chest like a shield.

It was time, Bryn decided
ruthlessly, to call in a few debts, and no one owed him more than Robert Lacey. That evening, as they relaxed over cigars and brandy at White’s, he informed the viscount of his intentions.

“Clouds is a mess. I want the place decorated, top to bottom, and you, Lace, are the man to do it.”

“Got a new one, eh?” Lacey rounded his lips and puffed a smokeball.

“Flo’s parting shot, and a direct hit.” There was no point fabricating with Lacey, who had known him since they were children. “The young lady and I came to terms this morning, but I can’t move her in until you’ve worked some magic. Go over there tomorrow morning, make some plans, and get things started.”

“
Morning?
This must be serious.”

“So it is. Money is no object, and chances are you can pick up commissions for yourself from the suppliers.”

“You’d do better to hire a professional, old lad. I know pretty much what a place ought to look like, but as for the rest—”

“Consider it a challenge. You have a good eye and ought to put it to better use than squinting at a deck of cards.”

“Across the table from you,” Lacey pointed out. “Which is why I shall attempt to refeather your love nest. Damn, but I wish you’d let me pay you off in cash. This business of crooking your finger every time you need something done you can’t be bothered to do yourself is a bloody nuisance. At dawn, no less.”

Since Lacey’s notion of dawn was eleven o’clock, and because his small inheritance couldn’t make a dent in what he owed, Bryn was unimpressed. “I’ll settle for cash any time,” he said amicably. “Meantime, one of the rooms downstairs should be a library. Shelves floor to ceiling.”

Lacey coughed on cigar smoke. “A library! At Clouds? You
are
getting old.”

“I want everything simple. Nothing flamboyant. Fashionable but comfortable. Clean lines, but soft.”

“Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar,”
drawled the viscount.
“Rich, not gaudy.”

Laughing, Bryn refilled both glasses from the crystal decanter. Lacey was the only friend he could drag along to
Hamlet
who would actually watch the play. “Make it special, Polonius. To suit Clare.”

“Ah.” Lacey wafted a long-fingered hand.
“That he is mad, ’tis true.
Does a slight difficulty present itself to your befuddled brain? As in: I’ve never seen her?”

Bryn took a long drink. Clare was so vivid in his own mind it was unimaginable that Lacey could not picture her. Contrarily, he was loath to share that vision. “She looks good in blue,” he said finally.

Lacey chuckled.

“Yes, I know. Half the world is brown to me. But I asked her to describe herself, and what I see appears to be accurate. Her hair is . . . not exactly a color. Light, something like parchment held up to the sun. And her eyes are smoky gray.” He gestured to the smoke ring floating up from the viscount’s pursed lips.

Puffing a breath, Lacey scattered the smoke. “What will you do with her while Clouds is uninhabitable? Not good for her to stay at Flo’s that long.”

Stretching his legs, Bryn contemplated a polished boot. “I want her under my protection immediately, but devil if I can figure out the logistics. She can’t move in with anyone respectable, and I won’t let her move in with anyone who isn’t. Probably she should go to a hotel, but I hate to coop her up in one room.”

Lacey drained his brandy and settled back with his arms crossed behind his blond head. “As it happens, and assuming enormous shall we say
condescension
on your part regarding my debts, I have an idea that will solve both our problems.”

“Is that so?” Bryn didn’t care two beans for the money Lacey owed him, but his friend’s pride demanded some kind of equable payment. “And just what
is
your problem?”

“Insatiable curiosity. Damned if I’ll lift a finger until I’ve seen this mysterious Clare.”

“You can’t afford her,” the earl said icily. “And I’ll kill you if you make a move in her direction.”

A wickedly arched brow lifted in denial. “Perish the thought. And hark to a brilliant notion, however devoid of propriety. As it happens, the redoubtable Ernestine Fitzwalter is currently nosing out Egyptian artifacts in, of all places, Egypt. Wouldn’t you have thought all of them to be in London by now? Nevertheless, her house is vacant for at least a month, with a small staff to keep it up. She left me a key, and what dear old Auntie doesn’t know—”

Barking a laugh, the earl shook his head. “She’d string you up by your balls, Lace, if she ever found out. And then she’d come for me.”

“Is this the man who led a cavalry charge that cut Boney’s finest to mincemeat? And now you fear retribution from a seventy-year-old battleax, just for commandeering her house? Nosey would be ashamed of you.”

Bryn stiffened. “Installing my mistress in Grosvenor Square, at a duchess’s mansion and without her consent, is bad
ton.
”

“And you are a hypocritical, aristocratic boor. That comes of inheriting the title when you were barely out of short pants. Dammit, who’s to know? Well, the servants will tattle, I suppose, but not if I dispatch them on holiday while you send a few of your own people over. We can work it out. And I will personally face Ernie when she returns, tell her part of the truth, and shoulder the blame.” Lacey clapped his hands in satisfaction. “It’s a perfect plan. Hell, when this business is done with, you’ll be in debt to
me!
”

“I expect so, but that unthinkable state of affairs won’t last through our next face-off at piquet.” In fact, Bryn could well picture Clare in Ernie’s mansion. It would suit her, unlike the vulgar bedroom at Clouds. And he wanted to give her a taste of something elegant, to prove he could offer it with a flick of his wrist. “Lace, if you bring this off we’ll call things even. I’ll meet you at Clouds tomorrow morning at nine so you can look things over. Then we’ll collect Miss Easton and take her to Ernie’s house. You’ll get your chance to see her, but I want your word you won’t set foot there once she’s settled in.”

“You needn’t spray every rock and tree in London like a tomcat, Bryndle. No man who values his life would trespass on your territory. And since when can’t you trust me?”

“Since Clare.” He looked over in surprise when Lacey didn’t respond. The viscount’s gaze was fixed on a burly, puffy-eyed man with a large red-veined nose, ringing a peal over one of the waiters. Bryn recognized Giles Landry.

“Devil take it,” Lacey swore. “Why hasn’t he been blackballed?”

“Old family. And why bother? Almost no one plays with him at White’s. He games in the hells.”

Lacey’s face was grim. “He’s worse than a gambler who doesn’t pay off. He’s a brute.”

“Yes? I hadn’t heard that. More bark than bite, I’d have thought.”

“He’s brave enough when his opponent can’t fight back. Took a horse whip to his tiger last week, Isabella told me, and beat the boy senseless. I’ve half a mind to go pick a fight with him.”

“You’ve half a mind, anyway. And you can’t call him out until you’ve decorated Clouds. Nine o’clock, Lace.” The earl stood, stretched, and stabbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “By the way, did you drop by the Hothouse last night?”

Lacey grinned.

“Well?” Bryn glared at him. “What’s the story? Is Florette really leaving?”

“Within the week. Rose bought her out.” The grin widened. “Saw the contract myself. I do hope your new mistress pleases you, because she’s the last one Flo will ever provide.”

And the last I’ll require, Bryn thought as he left the club. Things were rapidly falling into line. The bank draft was locked in his safe, Lacey would see to the restoration of the house, and Clare had a place to stay until it was ready. His secretary had begun inquiries for a suitable girl to maid her, and Bow Street Runners would be tracing her background. He wanted to know where she might go when the terms of their bargain were fulfilled. She’d not escape him easily. He would leave her no place to hide.

Behind that cool poise and those impenetrable eyes, a passionate, fascinating woman waited to be claimed. He was sure of it. He’d had glimpses, but he wanted it all. There was nothing he could not arrange, nothing he would not give her, at least within the boundaries of mistress and—

He frowned.

The porter muttered an apology as he handed over his lordship’s hat and cane, clearly wondering what he’d done to offend.

Bryn scarcely noticed. As he swung into his carriage, he tried to think of the right word for his position with Clare. Protector, yes. He would guard her with his life. Lover? Oh, yes. Friend? That too. Scarcely knowing her, confused as to his own uncharacteristic possessiveness, he realized there was no word to describe what he wanted to have with Clare. And so far as he knew, she didn’t even like him. There was no sign, not the slightest, that she was attracted to him.

All he had was her promise to try.

His staff was astonished when the earl arrived home before midnight. He ensconced himself in his study, making lists and detailing orders. A big business deal brewing, they muttered among themselves over a late cup of chocolate in the kitchen.

Long after he’d sent them off to bed, Bryn leaned back in his chair, facing the dark garden, remembering. Strange how every detail was etched in his mind. Everything she’d said. Most of all, how she had looked, draped in her long hair, naked and remote, yielding and proud, with nothing to give or withhold except herself. He was still there when the first light of dawn filtered through the trees, lost in a fantasy of their first night together.