A Wild Pursuit (13 page)

Stephen's arm tightened. “That's cruel nonsense,” he said firmly. They sat for a moment, Helene tucked against Stephen's shoulder while he thought about beating Rees Godwin into small pieces.

“Are you absolutely certain that it wouldn't work between us?” she asked.

Stephen looked down at her. “Are you trembling with desire because my arm is around you? Are you secretly wishing that I would push down your sheet and take your breast—”

“No! No, I'm not,” she said hastily, tucking the sheet more firmly under her arm. “All right. I accept that it won't work between the two of us. It's just such a shame, because you are quite perfect, and I'm not sure I have enough…enough bravery to go through this again.”

“Ah, but if you truly desired the man in question, it wouldn't take that much bravery.”

Helene didn't agree at all, but she bit her tongue.

“It seems to me,” Stephen said slowly, “that you're not quite certain that you wish for the affair itself, Helene. You are more interested in the appearance of an affair.”

“True. At the heart I'm terribly prudish about marriage. I
am
married. Or perhaps,” she added, rather sadly, “I'm just prudish. That's what Rees would say.”

“If only your husband could see you now,” Stephen said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Yes, wouldn't that be wonderful? Because I do like you more every moment.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.” He gave her a little squeeze.

“And there's no one else at this party whom I could even consider inviting to my bedchamber,” she continued. “There's no hope for it. I shall have to wait until I can return to London, and that won't be for quite a while. I just
wish
that Rees knew where I am, right now!”

“Invite him,” Stephen said, a wicked lilt in his voice.

“Invite him? Invite him where?”

“Here. Invite him to the house. We can make certain that he sees you in a compromising situation.”

Helene gasped. “With you?”

“Exactly.”

She started to giggle. “It would never work.”

“I don't see why not. I've never met your husband. But I don't like what you've told me about him. So why not fashion a comeuppance for the man?”

“It would be wonderful,” Helene breathed, imagining it. All the revenge without having to go through with the unpleasant bits. Could there be anything better?

“Unless there's a chance he might grow violent,” Stephen said, thinking of various nasty stories he'd read over the years about irate husbands.

“Rees wouldn't bother. Truly. He lives with an opera singer, you know.”

“I have heard that,” Stephen admitted.

Helene clutched his arm. “Would you do it, Stephen, really? Would you do it for me? I would be
so
grateful; I can't even tell you how much.”

He looked down at her and laughed, and the joy of it came right from the heart. “Do you know what I do with my days? I try to win votes. I count votes. I bargain for votes. I beg for votes.”

“That is very important work.”

“It doesn't feel important.
This
feels more important. So, summon the philandering husband!” Stephen said magisterially. “I always wanted to play a part in a romantic comedy. Sheridan, Congreve—here I come!”

Helene broke into laughter and he joined her, two proper, half-clothed members of the English peerage.

B
ea was creeping down the corridor toward the main stairs and library when the laugh rumbled through a door just at her shoulder. She would know that laughter anywhere. There wasn't another man in London with such a lovely, deep voice as Mr. Puritan Fairfax-Lacy himself.

It wasn't that she didn't want Helene and Mr. Fairfax-Lacy to find pleasure in each other. Of course she did. Why, she was instrumental in bringing them together, wasn't she? She headed directly down the stairs, trying to erase all thoughts of what might have brought on the Puritan's delighted peal of laughter. What had Helene done? Did she know as much as Bea did about pleasuring a man? It seemed unlikely.

Probably that was the sort of laughter shared by people who don't know everything, who discover new pleasures together. She couldn't remember laughing while in bed with a man. She mentally revisited the three occasions in question. There had been a good deal of panting and general carrying on…but laughter? No.

The thought made her a little sick, so she walked downstairs even faster. Once in the library she wandered around the shelves, holding her candle up high so she could read the titles. But it was no use.

The idea of returning to her cold bed was miserable. The idea of pretending to read one of these foolish books was enough to make a woman deranged. Instead she plunked down on a chilly little settee, drew up her feet under her night rail (a delicious, frothy concoction of Belgian lace that was far more beautiful than warm) and tried to think where things had gone wrong in her life.

The world would have said, without hesitation, that it was the moment when Lady Ditcher walked into a drawing room and was paralyzed with horror to see one of the Duke of Wintersall's daughters prostrate in the arms of a gentleman. Not that her arms were a problem, Bea thought moodily to herself. It was the sight of long white thighs and violet silk stockings. That's what had done the trick for Lady Ditcher.

But the truth was that the trouble started long before. Back when she was fifteen and fell in love with the head footman. Never mind the fact that Ned the Footman must have been thirty. She adored him. Alas, she wasn't very subtle about it. Her entire family knew the truth within a day or so. Finally her father sent the overly handsome footman to one of his distant country estates. He didn't really get angry, though, until he discovered she had been writing Ned the Footman letters, one a day, passionate, long letters…

That's where she went wrong. With Ned the Footman.

Because Ned rejected her. She offered herself to him, all budding girlhood and thrilled with love, and he said no. And it wasn't to preserve his position, either. Ned the Footman wasn't interested. She could read it on his face. After her father transferred him to the country, he never answered a single letter. With the wisdom of time, she realized Ned may not have been able to read, but honesty compelled her to admit that he wouldn't have wanted to write back. He thought she was tiresome.

Ever since then, she seemed to be chasing one Ned after another…except all the Neds she found were endlessly willing, and therefore endlessly tiresome.

She curled up her toes and rocked back and forth a little. She was certain that she wasn't merely a lusty trollop, as her father characterized her. She truly did want all those things other women wanted: a husband, a baby, two babies, love…. Real love, not the kind based on breasts propped up by cotton pads.

You've gone about the wrong way of finding
that
sort of love, she thought sourly. And it was too late now. It wasn't as if she could let her hair down and put away her rouge, and swear to never utter another profanity. She liked being herself; she truly did. It was just…it was just that being herself was rather lonely sometimes.

“Oh damn it all,” she said out loud, rubbing her nose hard to stop the tears from coming. “Damn it all! And damn Ned too!”

A slight noise made her look up, and there in the doorway was Mr. Laughing Lover himself, looking tall and broad-shouldered and altogether aristocratic. He could never be a footman. Not even Ned had looked at her with that distant disapproval, that sort of well-bred dismay. Ofcourse, the man
was
sated by his midnight excursion. That alone would make him invulnerable to her charms, such as they were.

“Ned?” he said, eyebrow raised. “I gather the gentleman has not joined us but remains in your thoughts?”

“Precisely,” she said, putting her chin on her knees and pretending very hard that she didn't mind that he had been with Helene. “And how are you, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy? Unable to sleep?”

“Something of the sort,” he said, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Why on earth was he in the library instead of snuggling beside the skinny body of his mistress? Uncharitable thought, she reminded herself. You're the one with a padded bosom. The reminder made her irritable.

“So why are you in the library?” she asked. “I thought you had other fish to fry.”

“A vulgar phrase,” he said, wandering forward and turning the wick on the Argand lamp. “In fact, I came to see if I could find the book of poetry
you
gave to Lady Godwin.”

“Why, are you having a private reading?” she asked silkily.

The minx was nestled on the settee, little pointed chin resting on her knees. She was curled up like a child, and with her hair down her back, she should have looked like a schoolgirl. It must be the dimple that gave her such a knowing look. That and the way her lips curled up, as if they were inviting kisses.

He walked over to her. “Why on earth did you give Lady Godwin that particular poem to read?”

“Didn't you like it?”

Close up, she didn't look like a child. Her hair was the color of burning coals. It tumbled down her back, looking as delectable and warm as the rest of her. “You've washed your face,” he said. Ignoring the danger signals sent by his rational mind, he crouched down before her so their eyes were on the same level. “Look at that,” he said mockingly. “I do believe that your eyebrows are as yellow as a daisy.”

“Pinkish, actually,” she said. “I absolutely loathe them. And in case you're planning to comment on it, my eyelashes are precisely the same color.”

“It is rather odd. Why aren't they the same red as your hair?”

She hugged her knees tighter and wrinkled her nose. “Who knows? One of my sisters has red hair, and she has lovely eyelashes. But mine fade into my skin unless I color them.”

“They're very long, though.” He just stopped himself from touching them.

“And they curl. I should be grateful that I have material to work on. They look quite acceptable after I blacken them. Naturally, I never allow a man to see me in this condition.”

“And what am I?” Stephen said. She was actually far more seductive like this than when she was
being
seductive, if only she knew. She smelled like lemons rather than a thick French perfume. Her lips were a gloriously pale pink, the color of posies in a spring garden.

“I suppose you are a man. But sated men have never interested me.”

“What an extraordinarily rude person you are. And how unaccountably vulgar.”

“I can't think why it surprises you so much,” she said, seemingly unmoved by his criticism. “Surely you must have talked once or twice in your life to a woman who wasn't as respectable as yourself.”

“Actually, brothels have never interested me. I have found ready companionship in other places.”

Bea shrugged. He wasn't the first to imply that she belonged in such an establishment, although to her mind, that signaled his stupidity. There was a vast difference between taking occasional pleasure in a man's company and doing the same thing for money, and if he couldn't see the difference, he was as stupid as the rest.

“Where did you find that poem, anyway?” he said, getting up and walking toward the bookshelves.

“I brought it with me.”

He swung around. “You travel about the country with a collection of libidinous poetry?”

“I have only just discovered Stephen Barnfield, and I like his poetry a great deal. The piece Helene read is by far his most sensuous. And it worked, didn't it? Called you to her side like a barnyard dog!”

“Not just a dog, but a barnyard dog?” he said, wandering back and sitting down next to her. His rational mind told him to stop acting like the said barnyard dog. And every cell in his body was howling to move closer to her.

“If you'd like to read the poetry yourself, I believe Lady Godwin left it on the table.”

He grabbed the book and then returned to the settee and sat down again. He didn't want to look at Bea anymore. Her thick gold eyelashes were catching the firelight. “I shall borrow it, if I may,” he said, leafing through the pages.

“I was surprised to find that
you
knew Spenser's poetry, for all you chose an unpleasantly vituperative bit to read aloud. You should have known that Lady Arabella would take it amiss if you read aloud poetry criticizing women for growing old.”

“I wasn't criticizing age,” he said, reaching out despite himself and picking up a lock of her hair. It was silky smooth and wrapped around his finger. “That poetry was directed at you and all your face painting.”

“I gathered that.” Bea felt as if little tendrils of fire were tugging at her legs, tugging at her arms, telling her to fall into his arms. She lay her head sideways on her knees and looked at him. He had dropped her hair and was reading the book of poetry. Who would have thought he liked poetry? He looked such a perfect English gentleman, with that strong jaw and elegant cheek. Even after (presumably) shaking the sheets with Helene, he was as irreproachably neat and well dressed as ever. Only the fact that he wore no cravat betrayed his earlier activities.

“Where's your cravat?” she asked, cursing her own directness. She didn't want to know the answer, so why ask?

“I've found the poem.” His eyebrows rose as he read. “Goodness, Bea, you are a surprising young woman.”

“Only in my better moments. So where
is
your cravat?” He'd undoubtedly left it on the floor of Lady Godwin's room, lost as he'd wrenched it from his throat in his urgency to leap into bed with the chaste—or not so chaste—countess. “Did you leave it on Helene's floor?” she asked, jealousy flooding her veins.

“No, I didn't,” he said, looking at her over the book. The somber look in his eyes, that disapproval again, told her she was being vulgar.

She threw him a smoldering invitation, just to make him angry. It worked.

“I hate it when you practice on me,” he observed, his eyes snapping. “You don't really want me, Bea, so don't make pretenses.”

She threw him another look, and if he weren't so stupid, he would know—he would see that it was real. That the shimmer of pure desire racing through her veins was stronger than she'd ever felt.

But he didn't see it, of course. He merely frowned again and then reached into his pocket and pulled out his cravat.

“Oh, there it is,” she said, rather foolishly.

“A gentleman is never without a cravat,” he said, moving suddenly toward her.

Bea raised her head, thinking he was finally, finally going to kiss her. A moment later he had tied the cravat neatly over her eyes. She felt him draw away and then heard the crackle of pages.

“Let me know when you wish to return to your chambers,” he said politely, although any idiot could hear the amusement in his voice. “I think we'll both be more comfortable this way.”

For a moment Bea sat in stunned silence. She didn't even move. She still had her arms around her knees. But she couldn't see a thing. Her senses burst into life. His leg was a mere few inches from hers, and her memory painted it exactly, since she couldn't see it: the way his muscles pulled the fine wool of his trousers tight when he sat. The way his shirt tucked into those trousers without the slightest plumpness. Even—and no good woman would have noticed this, obviously—the rounded bulge between his legs that promised pleasure.

Bea wiggled a little. It was worse than when she
could
see him. Sensation prickled along every vein, pooled between her legs. Perhaps if she leaned back against the couch and pretended to stretch? Her night rail was fashioned by Parisian exiles and made of the finest lace. Perhaps it could do what she could not seem to do: seduce him. At least make him feel a portion of the yearning desire she felt.

But she'd tried all of that before. It was a little embarrassing to realize how much she had tried to create a spark of lust in his eyes. She had rubbed against him like a cat, leaned forward and showed her cleavage so often he must worry she had a backache. None of it had created the slightest spark of interest in the man. Only when she'd been rained on and covered with mud had he kissed her.

Bea chewed her lip. Maybe she should just return to her room. Except honesty told her that she would no more leave his presence than she would stop breathing. Not when he might kiss her, when he might change his mind, when he might—

Oh, please let the poem excite him, since I don't seem to be able to, she prayed to any heathen goddess who happened to be listening. Please let it work for me as well as it worked for Helene.

“If it be sin to love a sweet-faced Boy,”
he read.

His voice was so dark, so chocolate deep that it sent shivers down her spine. The poem certainly worked on
her
. Bea felt him lean toward her. She didn't let herself move.

“Whose amber locks trussed up in golden trammels, dangle down his lovely cheeks…”

A wild shiver ran down Bea's back as his hand rested on her head.

“Your hair is darker than amber, Lady Beatrix. Your hair is more the color of—”