A Much Compromised Lady (14 page)

Lust, fierce and uncomplicated, shot through
St. Albans. And a curious tightness gathered in his chest as well.
He frowned at himself and looked away, uneasy, but his stare found
its own way back to his Gypsy.

Why am I taking so long with this? Why do I
give her such patience?

Now he sounded like his Gypsy—all questions.
And that irritated him. He had set the pace, he reminded himself.
Did not the story of Tantalus show that it was those things just
out of reach that tempted the most. He wanted her tempted—tempted
and teased and tormented.

Slowing his mount to a walk, he gave her a
smile.

She leaned down to pat her mare, and beamed
at him. “Ah, but Christo would love this one. Only we are not to
talk of him, are we. Well, then tell me what you are thinking
now—you have on that pleased-with-your-own-cleverness smile.”

“I was thinking of the story Tantalus. Do you
know it? He lived in ancient times, and when he displeased the
Gods, they condemned him to live forever in water to his chin. When
he bent to drink, the water fell away. And when he raised up to
eat, the wind pushed the sweet, luscious grapes overhead just out
of his reach.”

She brushed the black mare’s mane. “But if he
was to live forever anyway, he did not really need food or water,
did he?”

St. Albans’s mouth twitched. “That is not the
point of the story.”

She lifted one shoulder. “It sounds to me as
if it is. He did not need food and water—he just wanted it. I
wonder sometimes, which is worse, to want something desperately—or
to get it? I worry for Christo sometimes that way. He wants so
desperately his place in this world. Only perhaps he wants it too
much. What will he do with it, when he has it?”

Frustration simmered in St. Albans’s chest.
He had known this brother’s appearance would be a bother. And now
he could not even flirt properly with his Gypsy.

Reaching out, he covered her hands with one
of his, pulling her mount and his to a halt. “I would rather know
what it is that would make you desperate with desire?”

She smiled up at him, and his senses
danced.

“My desires? Ah, they are so simple, you
would laugh.”

“Would I? Try me.”

She glanced at him, her dark eyes uncertain,
and she slipped her hands out from his. She turned her attention to
brushing her mare’s arched neck. “All I have ever wanted is a
house. A cottage really, with a garden. And a cow. And maybe a cat,
too. And it should have a sitting room with a fireplace that looks
into the garden, and it should be in a small village—a place where
I belong, where people know me and accept me.”

She glanced up at him, her chin lowered, and
her dark eyes huge. “There. I told you it would seems as nothing to
you, but to me, it is all I have dreamed of since I was a
girl.”

He stared at her, and said, his voice rough
to his own ears, “I could give you that.”

She looked at him, a hard edge of mocking
laughter in her eyes. “Oh, yes, you would like to give me a
cottage, wouldn’t you. And would you also then buy for me a warm
welcome from those who lived there, so they would not scorn your
mistress?”

He glared at her. That was not what he had
meant. Or had he? His anger began to simmer. “There are ways to do
these things without occasioning talk. Besides, what does it matter
to you what others think?”

“So long as I get what I want, you mean?
Well, you may not care about anyone else’s feelings,
gaujo
.
I am not made that way. I do care. I am an outsider by birth, but I
am going to find a way to belong someplace,
gaujo
! And I
will find that without the strings on one of your gifts.”

Spurring her mount forward, Glynis pulled
away, angry with him for mocking her dreams. He had no intention,
she knew, of giving. No, she saw how he tempted her now with his
offer—and how later he would want something from her in return. It
was a bargain he offered her, not a gift. Meaning he would make the
terms, and could remake them as he pleased.. And it shamed her that
part of her anger came from a desire to take that gift, strings and
all.

He rode after her, but she would not look
back and would not slow to talk to him. She did not rein up until
they were before Winters House again where Glynis swung off her
mount without waiting for assistance.

A footman hurried from the house to take the
horses. St. Albans tossed Cinder’s reins to the fellow and strode
after his Gypsy, his temper in tatters.

How dare she speak to him in such a fashion!
How dare she criticize him! And how dare she turn away from him,
dismissing him as if he were some...some lackey.

In the hall, he took hold of her elbow and
swung her around. He took her chin in his gloved hand. She tried to
wrench away, but he tightened his grip, forcing her face upward
until she had to look at him. Her eyes blazed, but his temper
burned even hotter.

“You are here, my Gypsy, because of my
indulgence. Do not forget that. And since we speak of desires, let
us talk plainly. You have already made yourself my mistress in
name, if not in fact, by living in my house, and your attendance at
the Cyprian’s Ball will make you much compromised indeed. So do not
fool yourself into thinking yourself an innocent who can after this
game reclaim her virtue by changing her locale. Desires always have
a cost, my dear. And if the price of gaining your brother’s
respectability is your own, that is a choice you make. So do not
throw my generosity back in my face as if I offered you less than
nothing.”

She stiffened, and for a moment he glared
down at her, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing, heat radiating
from him.

His anger provoked a matching one inside
Glynis. But in her heart she knew that deep anger always covered a
deep hurt. She wanted to lash out because his words stung. And for
him to claw at her now meant that she had hurt him.

Ah, but she had thought him invulnerable. A
man without a heart. She had feared his power over her, so she had
guarded herself so carefully—and she had not given a thought to any
harm she might do him. She had scorned him, and his offer, because
all of it tempted her too much.

But now she saw the glitter in his eyes, and
she knew he did not live above others. He lived apart from them.
Ah, but she knew how lonely that was.

Taking his hand in hers, she eased his tight
hold from her chin and lowered his hand. The heat in his eyes
softened.

She nodded to herself and lifted her chin. It
was as her mother had said—what would be, would be.

“You are right,” she said, and she kept hold
of his hand within hers. “It is my choice. So what do wish me to
wear to this Cyprian’s Ball?”

Something changed between them. Glynis felt
it at once, but she could not name it. That pull she had felt to
him from the very start intensified, and she could only stare up
into his eyes, hold to him as if she could not let go. He stared
back, his gaze searching her face, only she did not know what he
was looking for.

However, she knew that if she took but a
breath, brought herself but a little closer to him, he would kiss
her. And, after, she would go wherever he led.

Ah, but she wanted her arms around him. She
ached to hold him, to touch him, to cradle his cheek in her hand,
to lie with him. She wanted to ease the loneliness of life for
him—and herself.

But whatever they might have for a short time
could only lead to heartache. To a parting that must come, for he
had no place in her life, and she had none in his. Except for this
moment’s desire.

And still she wanted it.

His twisted smile slipped back into place,
and his eyelashes, tipped golden at the very ends, lowered to hide
whatever lay in those wicked green eyes of his.

Lifting her hand—the one she held him with—he
kissed the back of it, his lips warm as summer, and he said, his
tone casual, as if nothing had happened, “Why, my dear, you shall
go as a Gypsy, of course.”

* * *

He was mad. And she was mad to follow.
Christo had told her so. She told herself so. And still she
listened to St. Albans’s plans. He had a far more devious mind than
either she or Christo. That worried her, but she began to believe
that he actually might help them. Or perhaps he was simply helping
her down the path to losing her virtue.

“If you dress as a Gypsy, then Nevin—your
pardon, Francis Dawes—cannot help but be interested,” St. Albans
had told her. “He will think I am making a private joke of him,
which I am. But he will also wonder—and he will want to know for
certain—if you are the Gypsy who tried to steal from him. So all we
must do is make certain he glimpses you, but that he is left
uncertain and needing to meet you.”

She listened to his words, to his certainty,
and she wished she could be as confident as he in how Francis Dawes
would react. In truth, she did not know the man, and could not
guess his thoughts. He was her blood—her father’s brother. But all
she could feel for him was a deep hatred. And fear.

What if Francis Dawes recognized her as more
than a Gypsy? What if he knew her for his late brother’s child, and
sent his men after her again?

Ah, this seemed such a dangerous scheme.
Almost as risky as it was to simply break into Nevin House to steal
the box. They could hang for that. She did not know what might
happen with this other plan.

So she would trust St. Albans a little. At
least with him she knew that he did not want her dead. He wanted
many other things from her, yes, but not that.

Seeming in a mood to be pleased, St. Albans
offered his full charm in the days leading up to the ball. He made
himself an affable host. Not even Christo’s glowering looks could
disturb St. Albans’s easy smile. He challenged Christo to cards in
the evening, and he took her shopping during the day. He arranged
for a dancing master to teach her to waltz, but when he saw how
easily she picked up the steps, he swept her around the room,
spinning her until she was breathless, his hand firm on the small
of her back and pulling her close.

Flushed and too aware of that tug of
attraction to his physical grace, she had pulled away, and she
showed him how Gypsies dance—not touching, but with fire in the
eyes and in the feet, and twirling and lifting her skirts, and
flirting with every sensual move and twist.

Hunger came into his glance, so hot that it
warmed her skin and left her light-headed with the power she had to
pull that look into his eyes.

But Christo stepped into the room, and so St.
Albans had done nothing other than watch her.

What would be, would be
, she told
herself again.
Do not regret what happens, or what does not
happen.

However, she could almost wish that life
could go on like this. Pleasant and drifting. But her mother and
Bado both waited for news. And Christo’s temper shortened, and she
knew that his restless steps took him too often to Nevin House. He
could not live this way forever.

It was with both relief and cold hands that
she stepped into the Argyle Rooms on Regent’s street. Taking a deep
breath, she smoothed a hand over the gown that St. Albans had
chosen for her. It would amaze her if Francis Dawes recognized her
at all, even as a Gypsy.

No Gypsy had ever worn a red gown so dashing,
the material impractically thin and cut low with gold coins sewn
around the hem and the bodice. She had even bent one coin, just to
see if it really was soft gold. It was. And the gown was silk, and
the turban she wore was also silk, a red and gold brocade with
fringe that hung down from the side and tickled her bare shoulder,
and which made her think that perhaps when she left this would find
its way into her things.

Ah, but she should not be thinking of that
now.

She was here for a reason.

Only her reason for coming did not seem to be
here.

Scanning the room, she stood with St. Albans
in the entrance to the main salon. She had not expected such
elegance. Tall and rectangular, the long room stretched before her,
with carved statues set along the white walls above the doorways
that led into other rooms. A small orchestra played at the far end,
on a raised platform, while gentlemen in their fine dark coats and
evening clothes, and ladies in all manners of dress, danced and
talked and laughed and drank.

The men glanced at her, interest and
speculation in their eyes. The women also gave her glances, but
with hard, jealous eyes. Glynis stared back, a little scornful of
these
gadji
, and a little envious of their easy
confidence.

A lady dressed as a page boy danced past, her
hair cut short and her slim figure encased in blue velvet breeches
that showed her every curve and a tight coat that she filled in a
way no boy ever would.

Glynis turned away from the crowd, toward St.
Albans. “You said he would be here. Well, where? And how should we
ever find him in this crowd, even if he does come?”

“Questions. Questions. Always impatient
questions. I have said he will be here, and he will. I have
arranged it. Now, I shall fetch you champagne to occupy your busy
tongue.”

Frowning, she glanced around the room again.
A woman dressed in a Grecian gown so shear that it might as well
not have been there at all, stared at Glynis, her face painted and
her expression appraising.

Glynis wished Christo was here. He
was—almost. But St. Albans had allowed his presence only if Christo
came with the grooms.

“There are limits to my abilities,” he had
said. “And while I can make the world believe you are my mistress,
no one would mistake your brother for a gentleman.”

It was true. Even with his hair cut and his
face clean shaven, and dressed in the Earl’s black livery, Christo
looked more a ruffian than either a servant or a gentleman. Glynis
would have liked him closer just now, for the stables felt a very
long way from these glittering rooms with their bright candles and
decadent guests.