He set another chair at the foot of the sofa, facing Psyche, and with a satisfied smile sat down, saying, “For tonight consider me your servant. I shall be completely at your beck and call.”
Psyche tried not to smile foolishly at the man. Probably she should discourage him. But how to do it? He did not seem a man who discouraged easily and he had certainly been persistent in his attentions. Had this been her Season or had he not known her identity as Lady Bluestocking, she might easily have deceived herself into believing that he had a tendre for her.
But this was
not
her Season and he
did
know her identity, so that could not be the reason for his attentions to her. And then she realized what the reason was! It came to her with all the suddenness—and the pain—of a stubbed toe.
The earl was cultivating her acquaintance because he knew she was going to manage Amanda’s come-out. Knowing Amanda’s chaperone would give him the inside track in the matrimonial sweepstakes. As if he needed it!
Yes, that must be it. Knowing Overton’s skittishness about reputations, the earl had thought it wise to take precautions, to ingratiate himself with Psyche so that she would be on his side. That was certainly prudent of him—and reasonable. Then why did it make her want to cry? To stamp her foot and run off to her room in a fit of petulance?
Of course she could do neither and so she sat, struggling to get herself in hand. Now that she had discovered his real intentions, she surveyed the earl with a jaundiced eye, seeking his faults. But there was certainly nothing to fault in his looks. The best legs in London were now gracefully crossed, admirably broad shoulders leaned back against his chair. He had a very handsome if somewhat commanding face, and a low vibrant voice that could echo deep in a woman’s bones. As for his behavior—
The footman appeared with the deck of cards and silently handed them to the earl.
“Who shall be first?” he inquired politely, turning to face the others.
“Me! Oh me!” squealed the stickish Miss Linden, smoothing the skirt of her Grecian gown. The girl was too young and too thin for the Greek style. Its severe lines did little to make her more attractive. She looked like a little girl masquerading as a grown-up lady.
Handing Psyche the cards, the earl slowly winked. This evening was going to be fun. He meant to stay close to her, for as long as he could.
He got up. “Sit right here, Miss Linden. Allow me to help you.”
Miss Linden lowered her gaze and flushed clear to her pale forehead. “Oh, milord, you’re most kind.”
He pushed her up to the table and then turned back to the sofa. He leaned over, examining Psyche’s foot where it lay propped up among the pillows. He tugged a pillow a few inches to one side. Actually, it was not the pillows he wanted to touch, but Psyche herself. She looked so fetching, lying there like that. Almost as he had pictured her in Spain, only then he had not imagined her on a sofa.
Psyche shuffled the cards and, seeing the red stain spreading on Amanda’s pale cheeks, wished herself someplace else, any place else. “I am fine,” she snapped at the earl. “Quite comfortable. Kindly sit down.”
The earl raised a surprised eyebrow at this unprovoked waspishness, but remained silent, resuming his seat.
Psyche sighed. What was she to do? She was not a quitter. She had never been a quitter. And she certainly had no intention of letting the despicable Lindens drive her back to the country.
Imagine those two thinking themselves responsible for her departure from town! She’d been bored, that’s all, tired of town life—the patent artificiality, the glittering false world of
on-dits
and scandal where kindness was a flaw and lies and innuendo everyday fare. So she had gone back to her estate in Sussex, lived there quite comfortably, too, until Overton had come to disrupt her orderly, if somewhat lonely, existence with his pleas for help.
She dealt out thirteen cards, face up in a circle, then put three more, face down, inside it.
Miss Linden leaned forward, her expression eager, her pale hands plucking nervously at each other. How strange that such a girl should put store in this kind of thing.
Psyche looked down at the circle of cards. “Ten of clubs,” she said. “Beware, a popular young woman you know is not to be trusted.”
Miss Linden’s pale brow furrowed. She was reviewing her so-called friends, Psyche thought, and probably mistrusting every one of them. “Eight of spades,” Psyche continued. “Unless you are careful you will lose a friend through selfishness.” Surely that was likely,
if
the girl had any friends to begin with. She moved on to the next card. “Five of diamonds. You will inherit something of value.”
Miss Linden’s plain face brightened. “Can you tell me what it is?”
Psyche shook her head. “The cards don’t say.” She continued her reading, ending with the last of the thirteen cards. “Five of clubs. Someone will try to get you to repeat gossip. Pretend you know nothing and save yourself a lot of trouble.” Excellent advice, Psyche told herself, but clearly wasted on someone of Miss Linden’s ilk.
Miss Linden gnawed on her lower lip. “Is there— Is there nothing of a romantic nature in the cards?”
Psyche frowned. “Not here.” So, even Miss Linden wished for a husband. Too bad, with a mother like hers she certainly had little chance of getting married. Poor thing. Pity stirred in Psyche’s heart. She knew what it was like to have the wrong kind of mama. Being Lady Linden’s daughter must be far from pleasant.
“Things of a romantic nature,” Psyche explained, “usually occur in the suit of hearts.” She reached for the cards in the middle. “Perhaps one of these will indicate—” She turned it over.
“A heart,” Miss Linden crowed. “The four!”
“Which indicates the marriage of a close relative.”
Miss Linden’s face fell. It was clear she wished for a marriage somewhat closer, like her own.
Psyche turned over another card.
“The king!” Miss Linden cried, clapping her hands. “Is that good?”
Psyche nodded. “Very good. A blond man secretly admires you.”
Miss Linden’s sallow face took on a rosy cast. “A blond man,” she breathed. “One more card. I do hope it’s a good one.”
Psyche turned it over. “The five of hearts. You will take a long trip.”
Miss Linden looked disappointed. Poor girl, Psyche thought, surprised by another surge of pity. “You will take this trip alone,” she continued, somewhat to her amazement extemporizing for the girl’s benefit. “Except, of course, for your maid. And on this trip you will meet a wonderful, wonderful man.”
There! Psyche told herself. That should give Miss Linden something worthwhile to think about. And Lady Linden, too!
Looking stunned, Miss Linden remained in her chair. “A trip,” she mumbled. “A wonderful man.”
Aunt Anna bustled up, like some gigantic mauve tent bedecked with ruffles. “Come, my dear,” she said gently, pulling Miss Linden to her feet and leading her aside. “Psyche has many futures to read yet. Now who wants to be next?”
“I do,” cried Georgie, from her place across the circle. Smiling at Gresham and the others, she bounced over to sit at the little table.
As Psyche shuffled the cards and dealt them out, Georgie grinned. “So, Psyche, do you read good things in my future?”
Psyche smiled. In spite of Georgie’s flirtatious attentions to the earl, they were still friends. Georgie couldn’t help her nature. “Indeed, I do.” It was easy to predict Georgie’s good fortune, even without the cards. Georgie was the kind who always landed on her feet.
The first card up was the ace of hearts. “Lifelong happiness with the one you love,” Psyche said. “What more could you ask for?”
“Nothing,” Georgie returned with a seductive smile at the earl. “Nothing at all.”
Psyche stifled a sigh. That was Georgie, always flirting. But must she do it with the earl? Did she have to want him, too?
She must stop this kind of thinking, Psyche told herself harshly. If the earl decided to marry, he--and he alone--would decide who the lady was to be. And no one and nothing could change that.
When the reading of her cards was finished, Georgie tripped back to her seat. Beaming, she stopped to speak to Gresham, laying a familiar hand on his shoulder. “You’re next.”
Gresham sauntered across the room, flirting shamelessly with Psyche, and ogling her up and down. The earl straightened in his chair. If he hadn’t known the man was besotted with Georgie, he might have really bristled. As it was, he still felt a sense of disquiet. Lady Bluestocking was
his,
even if she didn’t know it yet. He didn’t want other men flattering her, even in fun.
Leaning forward, Gresham eyed Psyche. “Do you see yourself in my future, oh beautiful one?”
Psyche chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid not, milord. But your future looks bright.” She touched the ace of clubs. “This denotes great success socially.” She smiled. “Of course that’s no surprise—a man with-your silver tongue should have no problems.”
Gresham preened a little, and ran a hand through his reddish hair.
The earl forced himself to relax. Gresham
was
mad about Georgie. He was no threat.
“Do go on,” Gresham said.
“The ace of diamonds. You will achieve wealth by hard and honest work.”
Both Gresham’s eyebrows shot up. “Work! Me? Impossible!” He put a hand over his extravagantly brocaded waistcoat, clutching dramatically at his heart. “I assure you I have never worked a day in my life!”
Psyche laughed with the rest of them, the earl saw. But that light wasn’t shining in her eyes, the light that shone there when she looked at
him.
“Then perhaps,” she said, “your wealth will come from someone else’s hard and honest work.”
Gresham chuckled, his round face jovial, his eyes merry. “That’s more like it. I am always willing to profit from someone else’s labor.”
Chapter Seven
One by one. Psyche read their fortunes—all but Lady Linden’s and the earl’s. Lady Linden pleaded a headache and went early up to bed, dragging her still dazed daughter after her. The others gradually drifted away, leaving the earl and Psyche alone in that part of the room.
She gazed at him speculatively. “How is this? I thought you wished to have your fortune told, but you did not take your turn with the others.”
He hitched his chair closer and took her hand. That was highly improper, of course. She sought to withdraw her fingers from his grasp, but he didn’t allow it. “Wait,” he said, holding them more tightly still. “I wish to tell
your
fortune.”
“The cards are on the table,” she replied, a little stiffly because actually she did not want to withdraw her hand at all. It felt quite natural in his, as though it belonged there. “You must shuffle them first, though.”
He shook his head, his dark eyes gleaming. “No, Psyche, not with the cards. I mean to read your palm,”
A shiver sped down her spine, whether from the way he spoke her name or from the way he was holding her hand she couldn’t be sure. “I didn’t know— How did you learn to read palms?”
He smiled at her. “When I was a boy, the Gypsies camped on our summer estate. I used to watch them read my mother’s hand. And those of the servants. It was great fun.”
She tried to protest, tried to pull her hand away. “But that doesn’t mean--”
“I know enough,” he said softly, turning her palm over. He traced a line down it with his warm forefinger. Another shiver afflicted her. This was ridiculous. She was no schoolroom chit to be thrown into the vapors by the touch of a man’s finger!
“This, this is your lifeline,” he went on in that deep voice of his. “It shows your life will be long.” He leaned closer still and a certain giddiness overtook her, a longing to topple into his arms.
Be sensible,
she told herself.
He’s merely playing with you, doing what he does best.
But oh, if only he weren’t playing, if only he were serious.
The earl tried to remain calm. He had reached her. She had that look in her eyes, that look that he knew preceded surrender. But this was no game of flirtation he was playing. This was the most serious thing in his life. She held his future in her hand, all right, but not in any lines. And it was still too soon. He dared not ask her yet.
He hitched his chair a little closer. “And this is your love line. It’s very strong. I see marriage, one marriage, to a man you love.” If only he could tell her
he
was the man. How much longer could he bear to wait? But he must not make the attempt too early.
Psyche threw him a hard look, and pulled her hand away. “Enough foolishness,” she cried. “I am too fatigued for this.”
Across the room, Aunt Anna looked up. “You should be abed,” she cried, bustling over. “I’m sorry, my dear, I have been remiss keeping you up so late after your injury.”
Perversely, now that she had an excuse to leave the others, Psyche found that she didn’t want to do it.”I--”
“Psyche has not yet read the cards for me,” the earl told Aunt Anna, his eyes full of laughter. “Surely you would not deprive me of that pleasure?”
Aunt Anna giggled. The earl had that effect on women, Psyche thought with some bitterness. No matter their age—or size—he made them act like green girls just out of the schoolroom.
“Very well,” Aunt Anna said. “But then Psyche really must go up to her room. We can’t have her taking ill, you know.”
The earl nodded. “Word of honor.”
When Aunt Anna seemed disposed to linger, he turned his charming smile on her again. “I have waited till last,” he said softly, “because I wish for a private reading. You do understand?”
Aunt Anna blushed rosy red. “Of course, of course.” And she bustled off.
“Aunt Anna may understand,” Psyche said crisply when her aunt was out of earshot. “But I do not. First you wish your fortune told, then you don’t, then you do again.”
He smiled at her, that smile that made her bones want to melt into nothing. “May a man not change his mind as easily as a woman?”
Psyche frowned. “I suppose
a man
may do anything he chooses.”