Three Weeks With Lady X (11 page)

“All right,” India said, thinking this sounded a good deal better than it could have been. “What did you learn?” She pulled her wineglass back and took another sip.

“It wasn’t a real apprenticeship. My master was an old bastard who had a group of boys and forced us to do whatever he wanted.”

Her glass froze in the air.

“Not that. We were mudlarks. Do you know what that is?”

“As I told you, I hardly know anything.”

He shook his head. “You’re an odd duck.”

“No, just an ignorant one.”

Dautry leaned forward. “Who gave me a primer on the differences between plaster, paint, and silk for walls?”

“Those things are not important.”

“What is?”

“How to speak correctly. In French and Greek. Knowing who famous people are, like Leonardo.” She said his name carefully. “And Cellini. You say that with a
chee
sound in front, but you don’t spell it that way.”

“That’s important?”

“I suppose you wouldn’t know, because mudlarks don’t have tutors. Do they?”

“Definitely not.” He began to cut the apple into precise slices.

“What does a mudlark do?”

“Scavenge things from the Thames.”

“Do you mean that you went swimming?”

“Sometimes. But mostly we waited for low tide and waded into the mud to pick up whatever we could. Sometimes we found silver spoons and coins. But most of the time it was teeth, scraps of iron, buttons. Even handkerchiefs.”

India stared at Thorn in horror. “That’s awful! And it could have been dangerous. Were you in danger of drowning when the tide came in?”

“Broken glass was a bigger problem. It lurks in the mud, and if you’re unlucky with your foot or your hand, it will slice you, as easily as I’m slicing this apple.”

“ ‘Slice you’?” India whispered. “
Slice
you?” she said, louder, because she didn’t believe in whispering, even when the word was frightening.

“Infection took a lot of the boys.” He was watching her over his glass. “There are corpses in the water, and if you went into the water with an open wound, you were likely to get infected.”

“What?” She shouted that. She didn’t mean to; it just came out of her mouth. “He made you go in the river when there were dead people in there? Did you
step
on them?”

“No.”

“That’s despicable!” she cried. “Despicable! How did he force you to wade into the mud?”

“He was a violent man,” Thorn said, without a trace of emotion in his voice. “Though he never hit me. I would have killed him, and he knew that.”

“You should have.”

“I would have, sooner or later. Just to make him stop shouting at us.” The memories didn’t appear to bother him much, but they had to, somewhere deep inside.

But the story explained for her why Thorn wanted to marry Lala, besides the obvious fact of her beauty. She was such a sweet girl: she would make him feel better. She would smooth over all those bad memories.

India told him that, leaning on her elbow again. “Lala is just right for you. She’s like sugar icing. She’ll make it all sweet again.”

He looked up at her, a bit squinty-eyed. “What are you talking about? Make what sweet again?”

“Life. She’s the perfect antidote to such a terrible experience.” But there was one more thing she wanted to know. “Did he feed you enough?”

The look in his eyes was sardonic, as if she were an idiot. Which she was.
Whom
she was?

“I hate being hungry,” she said. But really, there wasn’t much to be said about it, and she knew it as well as anyone, so she stood up, just catching the edge of the table before she lost her balance.

“And I never drink to excess,” she added.

“You’re more interesting when you do. What do you know about being hungry?”

India ignored that. “I must go to bed. The carts will begin arriving at six in the morning. I promised a twenty percent bonus for every piece I take.”

He drained his glass. “Bloody hell.”

“You’re supposed to stand up as soon as I do,” she said, letting go of the table and heading toward the door. “It’s never too late to learn, Dautry. Lala will expect you to stand in her presence.”

Then she jumped, because somehow he had got himself to the door before her. “I’m not Dautry,” he said, a big hand curling around her upper arm.

“No, you’re a bastard,” she said obligingly, and giggled. “To be honest, I never said that word aloud before I said it to you.”

He turned her around so they faced each other. Her hands naturally came up to rest on his chest.

“I’m
Thorn,
not ‘Mr. Dautry.’ Can you remember that?” He gave her a little shake, as if she were a poplar tree and the wind had swooped by.

“Some married couples don’t even address each other by their Christian names!”

“Thorn isn’t my given name, remember? Tobias is.”

He looked rough and dangerous, like a man who would threaten to kill an evil master and mean it. “Tobias is not the right name for you,” she said, leaning in a little bit to make her point.

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “I agree.”

“A Tobias would drink hot cocoa for breakfast and go bald. And I think he would wear flannel drawers, which I find truly abhorrent. You don’t wear flannel drawers, do you?”

His body went still again. “What do you know about men’s drawers?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said, stepping away from him because she was within a second of leaning forward and putting her cheek against his chest. “I know precisely the amount of fabric required to make a pair of drawers. Unless the man has a large stomach, in which case, I don’t know how much fabric is needed, and the tailor must measure. But I have to say that I don’t like the idea of flannel.”

“You’ll be glad to know that I don’t wear it.”

“That is irrelevant to me.” She added, just to make the point, “Mr. Dautry.”

“India.”

“Yes?”

“You’re mine for another two weeks. I’m Thorn at meals and in letters. Not in public.”

They would likely never eat together again after Starberry Court was finished, since she scarcely knew Lala.

“I suppose,” she agreed.

His eyes caught hers.

“All right—
Thorn,
” she said irritably. “Using nicknames makes me feel as if we’re siblings. Next you’ll expect a kiss goodnight.”

Something changed in his eyes, and India suddenly felt a bit more sober.

“I wouldn’t say no.” His hands slipped down her back.

“Are you offering to make me your mistress?”

He was silent for a second, then said, “No. But I am wondering if you have ever been kissed.”

“Of course I have!”

He bent his head, and his lips touched hers.

India was curious, very curious, so she stood still as the kiss happened. Then it was over.

“Well, that was nice,” she said, feeling a little trickle of disappointment. What had she expected? Kisses were kisses and nothing more. Three men had kissed her. Four, including Dautry. None of the kisses had been terribly interesting.

He pulled her closer, which set off a feeling of alarm. “I must go to my bedchamber now,” she told him.

“Did that kiss make you desire to marry me?” he inquired.

“No. Though it was very nice, of course. I think Lala will be very happy with your kisses.”

“I’m not married
yet,
” he pointed out. “Nor betrothed, because I wouldn’t be kissing you if I was.”

“Good,” she said promptly, and forgot she was standing in the circle of his arms, his hands warm on her back. “Do you know that I once saw Mr. Bridewell-Cooper kissing the vicar’s wife?”

“A bold choice. My guess would be that the gentleman has kissed many women who aren’t his wife.”

“Will you do the same?” For some reason, the answer mattered. Probably because Lala was such a dear, and not all that bright. Other women had to look out for her.

His expression turned dark. “Absolutely not.”

“That was just the right answer,” she said, giving him a lavish smile, her best smile. She stood on her toes and brushed her mouth over his, just as he had. “I quite like being friends with a man. It’s very interesting.” Then, because she felt tipsy and chatty, she added, “And I am glad you kissed me. It was very nice of you.”

Apparently, she’d done something wrong, because he scowled and pulled her against him. “If I’m your friend, India, I can’t leave you thinking that was a kiss.”

“Why not?” she asked, confused.

He bent his head.

This kiss was different. India felt as if she were in a dream, one in which Thorn’s eyes closed, and she glimpsed his thick, black lashes. And then his tongue slid between her lips.

She’d never dreamed that a kiss could be so intimate. His tongue was
there,
in her mouth, as if he were talking to her. As if they were talking to each other. Silently. It made her shiver, and he pulled her even tighter.

India decided that she really liked kissing. It was
fun,
she thought dimly. Very . . . very . . . something.

“Damn it,” he growled, pulling back.

“What?” she said, giving him another big smile. “I like this. It’s quite nice.”

“ ‘Nice’?”

Her smile dimmed. “Didn’t you like it?”

“India.” He stopped. “No.”

“Why not?”

His eyes were on hers, and she actually caught the precise moment he decided to be honest. “You’re not good at kissing, India. In fact, you’re downright terrible.”

Her heart thumped and her arms fell away from his neck. “Oh.” She’d have to remember not to kiss her future spouse until after he proposed.

“India—”

That’s all she let him say. He was probably going to offer her lessons, or some other absurd thing that only a man would think up. She ducked around him to leave, before realizing that her inadequacies weren’t his fault. She turned and said, “Thank you for telling me, Thorn. I’m sorry about—”

That was all she managed to say, because he reached out and pulled her toward him once again. A large hand clamped on her bottom—where no man had
ever
touched her!—and he growled in her ear, “I’m not done yet.”

His tongue swept into her mouth. She could actually feel his hunger deep inside her body, making her skin tingle. The hand that wasn’t holding her against him came up and gripped her hair in his fist, tugging her head back.

A little whimper broke in her throat, and without thinking she bent her head sideways and brought her own tongue out to taste
him
.

The moment she did that, he groaned and his arm tightened around her. That kiss . . .

That kiss did things. To her, to her body. He was surrounding her, all hardness to her softness. The feeling made her hot and restless, and she made that little sound in the back of her throat again and pressed closer to him. She didn’t know why she hadn’t liked kissing before. It was tremendously interesting. It was more than interesting. It was . . .

Thorn cursed and pulled away from her.

India stood there, feeling feverish. “I must be very drunk,” she said, pulling herself together.

He was staring at her, eyes gray-green and wild. “
Damn
.”

“Good night,” she said, and added, “this did not happen, Mr. Dautry.”

“ ‘Mr. Dautry’?” He growled it.

India realized that her heart was beating fast and her knees felt weak. She cleared her throat. “Right. Thorn. Not that this will happen again.” She walked out the door with admirable steadiness and got herself upstairs and into her bed.

When she woke up in the morning, she lay for a while trying to decide whether she was still a bad kisser, or whether he’d taught her something. But when she ventured down to breakfast and learned that Thorn had set off at the break of dawn without even leaving a letter, she concluded that that spoke for itself.

The truth stung. Perhaps even more sharply because she had no idea what she should have done differently. But over the years she’d learned that not everyone could be good at everything. She finally decided to put the whole subject out of her mind, into the same box as her childhood—things better left unexamined.

Just as she made that decision, Adelaide walked into the breakfast room.

“I understand that you and Mr. Dautry supped together last night,” she said, helping herself to a serving of coddled egg from the sideboard. “I suppose I ought to have chaperoned you, but this wicked cold kept me in bed all day. And in truth I don’t worry about him, since the dear man has such an infatuation with Lala. Do you know that he told me that Lala was his ideal woman, perfect for him?
Lala
? I am as generous as the next person . . .”

In the back of India’s mind, the sting got a little sharper. One had to suppose that Thorn had kissed Lala—how else could he have deemed her perfect?

After a struggle, India managed to control a bitter pulse of jealousy by telling herself that jealousy was unbecoming. Unladylike.

She ignored the part of her that didn’t give a damn about being a lady and just wanted Thorn to consider
her
kisses perfect.

Dear India,

Today I received an invoice for Aubusson carpets. Are you nailing them to the roof in lieu of slate? There isn’t enough floor space in the entire house for this number of rugs.

Thorn

P.S. I am sending this letter by one of my footmen, Fred. He’s a country boy. I told him that you are not to be alone in that house at any time. The groom will return with your reply.

Dear Thorn,

The carpets are an investment for future generations. Lala’s mother will appreciate the furnishings, even if you don’t.

India

P.S. Fred is a lovely fellow.

Dear India,

You do realize that I won’t be marrying Laetitia’s mother, don’t you?

Thorn

Dear Thorn,

Count your blessings.

India

Dear India,

I received another collection of invoices, and now I am rethinking marriage altogether. I’m not sure it’s worth it. Did we really need that much champagne? Not to mention the barrel of Colchester oysters, the knitted stockings, and the pound of Fry’s drinking chocolate?