Three Weeks With Lady X (8 page)

“Has anyone lived here since Lord Jupp died?” Lady Xenobia walked ahead of him, sounding as cool as if the air hadn’t sizzled between them a moment earlier.

“No,” Thorn said, grimly registering that battling with her had perversely made his cock spring to action—and he’d left his bloody coat in the carriage. Again. “I bought the house with all contents intact. Hopefully, the furniture merely needs dusting.”

“It’s been a good six months,” Lady Adelaide said cheerfully, trotting over to join them.

The oaken door was large and heavy, with stubborn hinges. Thorn was forced to throw his shoulder against it until it swung open with a creaking noise and a rush of dusty old air. They all stepped forward as light flooded the entry hall.

A moment later Thorn snatched up his ward and headed straight back out of the house, his hand clapped over her eyes.

Chapter Eight

T
he Earl of Jupp had adorned his entry hall with statues.

Of naked people.

Copulating.

India had never seen a copulation before (if that was the correct use of that noun—was it a noun?), but she knew enough to be certain that these statues depicted variations on the act she’d heard described. Just inside the door, for example, was a group of two women and one man, their naked bodies so entwined it was hard to see whose limb belonged to whom. What’s more, they were standing, instead of lying down, and there was no bed to be seen.

“Extraordinary,” Adelaide said, fanning herself. “I’m almost sorry that my mother didn’t allow that dance with Jupp. One has to wonder whether he had these done from life.” She moved around the side of a horizontal piece featuring two people carved from a single block of marble.

“The men do not look English,” India said, feeling somewhat proud of the fact that she’d even noticed their facial features.

“Probably Greek,” Adelaide said. She peered at a bronze statue. “Do you know, I think there’s a chance that this piece is by Cellini?”

India hadn’t the faintest idea who Cellini was. Was a “piece” still a statue when there was more than one person involved? Or was that a “composition”?

She moved to stand beside Adelaide, who was staring at a naked man from the back. His legs were extraordinarily hairy. And he had a tail.

India wrinkled her nose. “Is that supposed to be a man?”

“Don’t be prudish, darling,” Adelaide said. “There’s nothing worse than an English lady who doesn’t appreciate art, particularly an exquisite bronze dating from the 1500s. The hooves and tail suggest he’s a satyr.”

“What’s a satyr?”

“Half-man, half-goat, from Greek mythology. My governess didn’t teach me much about satyrs, because they are invariably naughty.” She took a quizzing glass from her reticule, bent over, and peered at the base. “That looks very like Cellini’s mark.”

The goat man had a beautiful back, muscled in a way that India imagined few English gentlemen’s were. And although she probably shouldn’t look, his behind was very attractively shaped. Rounded, one might say. And muscled.

“Benvenuto Cellini was one of the most famous sculptors in Renaissance Italy,” Adelaide said. “My husband spent a terrible amount of money on a silver salver depicting Neptune. Naked, of course, so it couldn’t be used even among friends.” She sighed.

The late Lord Swift had been prone to extravagant decisions. Luckily for Adelaide, he died before he could lay waste to the entire estate.

The satyr was not alone. He was embracing a damsel, one arm curved around her waist and the other flung in the air, curving over their heads.

They were kissing.

His lover wore no more clothes than did he.

“Thank goodness your mother didn’t raise you to be straitlaced, as you’d likely faint at this,” Adelaide commented, taking a closer look at the way the two figures clung to each other.

It was true that India’s mother had favored dancing naked in the moonlight over instruction in ladylike behavior. At any rate, the sculpture made her feel more feverish than faint.

“I think the satyr is actually the god Bacchus,” her godmother continued. “Do you see that grapevine around his forehead? Or a follower of Bacchus, because it seems to me that the god didn’t have hooves.”

India was more interested in the fact that she couldn’t see below his chest in the front: the satyr and his beloved blended together below the waist.

Adelaide strolled away to inspect a female nude leaning against a surprisingly large bird. “This is presumably Leda and the swan. Do you suppose that Mr. Dautry was aware that these statues came with the house?”

“I had no idea.” The sunlight darkened for a moment as Dautry walked through the door. “I damn well wouldn’t have brought Rose with me. I’ve put the coachman in charge of her, but I can’t stay long.”

Adelaide began chattering to him about Cellini, and India drew out a piece of foolscap and a pencil and began making a list of the statues, the better to ignore the silly, craving ache that the satyr’s kiss had aroused.

It was ridiculous.

Absurd.

That whole conversation outside with Dautry hadn’t helped. She had never seen a man flaunt an erection the way he was doing—again. Adelaide had made certain that India recognized the signs of male arousal, if only so that no man could surprise her unawares.

But she hadn’t known that men were regularly lecherous. In fact they likely wore long coats just to disguise the fact. The thought of Dibbleshire’s breeches drifted through her mind; she shuddered and pushed the image away.

There were ten statues in all. She waited for a pause in Adelaide’s lecture about Renaissance sculpture, then asked, “Do you wish to keep these pieces, Mr. Dautry?”

He was standing before Leda, who had very large breasts and looked merry, as if swans were just her cup of tea. “Perhaps I’ll keep this one,” he murmured. But then he glanced sideways at India. He was trying to shock her, the way little boys did when they dropped their breeches.

“She looks like a village barmaid,” she said indifferently. “I find the satyr far more interesting.”

Dautry pivoted and gave the bronze statue a good long stare. India looked again too. The satyr’s hand was curved above his lover in a gesture both exuberant and protective. Unwillingly, she felt another pulse of warmth.

“If they were both female, I would,” Dautry said, with a wicked grin.

He was trying to provoke her again, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of appearing scandalized. “Shall we consign the statues to the barn, and you can decide their fate some other time?”

Adelaide turned around, frowning. “Darling, you can’t mean to imply that you will actually attempt to put the house to rights. India has never done anything like
this,
” she told Dautry, gesturing about. “Her services are more like those of a wife. A temporary wife.”

His smile deepened.

“Barring any intimacies, of course!” Adelaide cried.

India rolled her eyes. “Mr. Dautry, I assure you that my clients do not think of me as a wife, temporary or otherwise.”

“Actually, that’s probably why they’re always falling on their knees before you, waving a ring,” her godmother said.

“I’m going to pay through the nose for a wife,” Dautry said, looking very amused. “It doesn’t seem extraordinary that I would have to pay for a provisional one first. According to my solicitor, you charge a sum larger than many dowries.”

“That is true,” Adelaide said, nodding. “From the moment that darling India decided to help people in a formal way, as it were, she determined that her services had to be seen as an extravagance, or she would not be treated with the respect she deserved.”

India decided to ignore this unhelpful exchange. She opened the first door to her left and entered a large drawing room. Its moth-eaten damask curtains had fallen to the floor, and only a few pieces of ramshackle furniture stood against the walls.

“Damned disappointing,” Dautry said, following her into the room. “There’s nothing very scandalous to be seen here at all.”

India turned in a circle. The sofa and all the chairs would have to go straight to the dust heap, along with the generations of mice homesteading within. But the writing desk against the wall needed little more than a good polish to be restored to itself.

“The proportions of this room are divine,” Adelaide said, poking at some paneling that had buckled from the wall.

“Unfortunately, I am not going to be able to make a complete tour of the house, since Rose is waiting for me. Lady Xenobia, can you speculate from the condition of this room whether you could transform the house into a background that will disguise the real me?” Dautry asked.

“I can transform the house, but not you,” India replied.

His response made Adelaide’s forehead crease. “My dear Mr. Dautry, you’ll have to curb your language. Laetitia’s mother won’t care for it.”

“Maybe you should delay those Greek lessons,” India said, keeping her voice sincere. “Just until you learn enough English to express yourself properly.”

“I suppose
you
never curse,” Dautry said, a distinct hint of provocation in his voice.

She was getting to know his measure now: he found her amusing. And not when she thought she was being witty, either.

“Mr. Dautry may not have had all the advantages one would wish,” Adelaide said earnestly, “but that doesn’t mean that he’s less of a gentleman. Why, some of the most gentlemanly men rise from nothing. My butler, for example.”

Dautry was terrifyingly attractive when he grinned; a dimple indented one cheek. Who would have thought such a forbidding man would have a dimple?

Without noticing, Adelaide rattled on about her butler and his exquisite manners. He never took the Lord’s name in vain. “At least, I’ve never heard him do so, and I can’t imagine that he would.” India, having hired him, was quite sure of that.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for me to learn that lesson,” Dautry said. “And now we’ll have to curtail this investigation of the property, because Rose has been in the care of my coachman long enough. Lady Xenobia, I believe that Lady Adelaide would prefer you didn’t take on Starberry Court.”

“I’m sorry, Adelaide, but I have already agreed to do it,” India said, adding, “and I shall not fail.” That sentence came out with a bite. The only time she had done so was after she’d had to ward off Lord Mening’s son and heir with a penknife, which meant she’d vacated the premises before she’d been able to replace the cook.

“But where would we stay?” Adelaide protested. “Surely not here. Our trunks and our ladies’ maids should arrive in an hour or two . . . are we to sleep on the grass?”

“I will take rooms for all of you in the Horn & Stag in Tonbridge,” Dautry said. “It’s a decent place.”

“Splendid,” India said.

Adelaide sighed. “I’m afraid that my goddaughter is used to getting her way,” she told Dautry.

“Perhaps Rose and her nursemaid could stay at the Horn & Stag during the house party?” India asked, still grappling with the issue of Thorn’s ward.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I want her close to me at all times.”

“Are there any outbuildings on the estate?”

“A dower house and a gatehouse.”

“I could renovate the dower house as well,” India said. “She would be very close to you; you could visit her daily. But she would be out of Lady Rainsford’s sight, at least until her ladyship had agreed to your betrothal.”

“Are
you
ever planning to marry?” Mr. Dautry asked.

“What?” India said, nonplussed.

“Of course she will marry,” Adelaide exclaimed, sounding scandalized. “India has more suitors than she knows what to do with.”

“Incredible,” he murmured. “Miracles never cease. I am always surprised by what my sex will tolerate.”

“How odd,” India said sweetly. “I myself am never surprised by men. Absurdity is so common that it seems characteristic of your sex.”

“My dears, you are squabbling like the children I am happy never to have had,” Adelaide said. “India, I suggest that we retire to the inn and discuss your suitability to take on such a large project.”

India should have followed Adelaide out the door, but she didn’t move. “You will have to be kinder once you marry Laetitia,” she said to Dautry. Something in his eyes told her that he wasn’t thinking about his fiancée at the moment. “She will wither if you speak to her like that. She’s too amiable to stand up to your sarcasm.”

“But that’s precisely why I’ve chosen her,” Dautry said, prowling toward her. “Not because of some absurd wish to enter the peerage. If I wanted to marry a woman merely for her title, I wouldn’t have chosen Laetitia.”

“You’ll be lucky if she accepts your offer,” India said. “Even she deserves—”

“Even
she? Are you implying something about my future bride’s virtue?”

She scowled at him. “Of course not! Your mind is in the gutter.”

“Always. So what did you mean?”

India hesitated. She was shocked to see that he was grinning again, his eyes locked on hers.

“If you’re about to inform me that Laetitia is a noodle, I know it already.”

“Ah,” India said carefully.

“Miss Rainsford has a smile so charming that she’s sweeter than honey. She is lovely and, like any red-blooded man, I am, shall we say, enthusiastic to bed her. She will never attempt to change me. She’ll greet me every morning with a smile, offer me whatever I desire, and she’ll do it cheerfully, because that’s her nature.”

India was struck by an emotion she had never dreamed she would experience: jealousy of Laetitia Rainsford. No man would ever describe
India
as sweeter than honey.

“Why would I give a damn about the fact that she doesn’t know Greek?” Dautry continued. “Or how to multiply sums? I can do that myself.”

India pulled herself back together. “I’ve been in many households in the last decade. I’ve seen plenty of husbands who consider their wives to be ninnies. Over time, in their arrogance, they leach away the sweetness they once loved.”

“They are fools,” Dautry said flatly. “A wife is an investment, like any other, and I take care of my possessions. I will coddle Laetitia, and frankly, I would never speak to her the way I have to you, because I’ve spoken to you the way I speak to a man.”

Outrage surged through India’s body. “Laetitia will not be your possession,” she said between clenched teeth. “She will be your wife. Your partner in life. And for your information, I am
not
a man.”

“Indeed? I think you may be a general disguised in women’s clothing.”

That did it. Lala was sweet as honey, and she was a general. The words that went through India’s mind weren’t polite ones. “I shall send a note around to your London residence with names of some tradespeople and artisans who should be able to help you,” she said tightly.

Dautry shook his head. “I want you.”

“You cannot have me. Now, if you’ll please move out of the way, I shall join my godmother.”