“Stop this instant!” flashed Frances, hardly knowing whether to cover her ears or her bodice. “If you had a shred of decency, you would disdain to take advantage of my predicament by behaving in this hateful, insulting fashion.”
“Which is my cue to point out that I don’t view my attentions to you in the nature of an insult, to which you reply, with a great deal more heaving of the bosom, that it
is
an insult unless preceded by an offer of marriage. Do you want a husband, Miss Atherton? Look downstairs; half the men there are husbands.”
“I don’t want a husband!” she shouted.
“You don’t want a husband, you don’t want a lover . . .” His eyes took on a wintergreen tinge, the firelight gave his skin and hair a clean gold glow. “Do you want to tell me what you
do
want? And you don’t owe me anything, least of all explanations. Tell me why you’re here if you want to; don’t, if you don’t want to. It’s entirely up to you.”
After eying him resentfully for a moment, Frances said, “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
He smiled. “Prudence Sweetsteeple meets Lord Rakehell.”
Frances wasn’t sure quite why, but somehow she found she was unable to resist that irresistible smile. Against not only her will but her better judgment as well, she smiled back. Some of the tension that had haunted her body flowed from her like a fleeing ghost.
“You really are incorrigible, you know,” she said.
“So they tell me.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he said serenely.
“You’re very difficult,” she told him, “and I don’t know what I’m going to do about you yet,
but
the reason I’m here is that I’m conducting what might be termed a . . . private investigation.”
Lord Landry appeared to find great charm in her confession. “Whose privates do you want to investigate?” he asked cheerfully. “This is certainly the place to do it.”
“Don’t be vulgar. I followed Edward Kennan here.”
A slight surprise registered on Landry’s handsome features. He raised a mobile eyebrow. “Kennan? Is one permitted to ask why?”
“I can’t tell you. And come to think of it, I wish you would not tell anyone my name is Atherton, either.”
“Ahh. Hence Frances Brightcastle. The pieces begin to fall together—except, of course, for the enormous gaps. Does this have anything to do with why you wanted to join the Drury Lane Company?”
“Yes, but I didn’t get a part, so . . .”
“So you came here? I hate to disappoint you, but Kennan doesn’t visit this place very often.”
She frowned as she paced the carpet, rubbing her toes in the pile, her hands behind her back. “I didn’t plan to stay. And when Kennan got out of his carriage and came in so stealthily, I thought he must be here for no good purpose. As I was looking for a way to sneak inside, Jem Beamer came to the door and mistook me for an extra girl from a Mrs. Blanchard. Naturally, it seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity.”
He burst out laughing. “For a preacher’s daughter you have a singular notion of heaven.”
“How was I to know?” said Frances defensively. “There’s no sign over the door saying ‘Brothel, Keep Out.’ Madame dressed me like this and said I had to entertain Mr. St. Pips. The rest you know.”
He stared at her, then said slowly, “And you say
you’ve
never met anyone like
me
before.” The white rose behind her ear had come loose and he put it back in place, anchoring it firmly among the rich brown locks. “Do you want a very sound piece of advice, Miss Atherton? You ought to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“I shall.” Frances gave a decisive nod. Lord Landry’s tolerant acceptance of her adventure made its terrors shrink; her earlier fear of Jem Beamer seemed the product of an overwrought conscience. What a departure from her usual self-reliance to have allowed herself to be meekly shepherded about by Madame la Princesse! “I ought to have left as soon as it became clear there was nothing to be gained by remaining. It was the height of melodrama to have been so intimidated by Madame la Princesse! I shall find her and demand the return of my clothing.”
Thankful to at last have a strategy, Frances began to walk toward the door, intent on implementing it without delay. She was brought up short by Lord Landry.
“Whoa!” he said, catching her shoulders from behind.
Frances twisted her head to look indignantly at him.
“Why ‘whoa,’ Lord Landry?”
Landry had made a careful effort to revive the white-faced and stricken girl he had found in St. Pips’ arms into the endearingly plucky creature he had met twice before, but he saw that he had been too successful.
“I admire your determination,” he said in a measured tone, “but your approach leaves a little to be desired. Wait for me here, and I’ll return in a few minutes to take you home. Leave Madame to me.” Even a man with half Lord Landry’s perception could not have mistaken her expression. “Oh, God, I know that look. I’m about to receive a ‘certainly not.’ Miss Atherton, what possible objection could you have to what I’ve suggested?”
“Your intervention is quite, quite gratuitous,” said Frances mulishly. “And if I may be frank? I’m getting a little weary of your smug rescues.”
“Are you?” inquired Landry dispassionately. He gave her a level smile, as free from rancor as it was from charity, then walked around her to open the door, motioning with his hand that she was free to leave. “Very well, my White Rose, do it your way. You’ll soon be sadder but wiser.”
“I doubt it, My Lord,” Frances sniffed, and marched out of the room, almost colliding with Jem Beamer in the front corridor.
“Where are you going?” exclaimed that worthy in his bluff way. “You wasn’t with his lordship long.”
“That’s no concern of yours,” she said, looking Beamer straight in the eye in an effort to compensate for her earlier weakness. “I’m going to get my clothes and leave.”
Beamer stared at her as if she’d claimed the Tower of London was made of cheesecake. “Have you gone mad, girl?” He stuck his face so close to hers that she could see the intricate pattern of tiny red veins in his yellow eyeballs.
“No,” she said firmly. “But I must have been mad before, to have flinched from asserting my rights. This country is governed by laws. And if I want to leave, I
can
leave! Let me pass, or I’ll . . .” Her threat was reduced to a helpless mumble as he clapped a huge hand over her mouth.
“You little Bedlamite,” he growled in her ear. “We’ve got four clients already paid for you. You hold your sauce or I’ll pump so much opium into you that you’ll think you’re walking on the ceiling. Going to behave yourself?” He pulled his hand off her mouth.
“Unhand me, sir,” she demanded stormily, “or I’ll report you to the magistrates.”
“Magistrates!” thundered Beamer. “Magistrates, is it?” He socked his hand back over her mouth. “By God, you’ll rue the day you said ‘magistrates’ to Jem Beamer. How are you going to get the magistrates if I break both your legs?” He dragged her toward a nearby room; she bit into his hand and tried to scream, and he squeezed her so tightly as to cut off her air. She was ready to lose her breath entirely when she saw Landry leaning against the doorframe of her vacated “love nest,” swinging his jacket from side to side.
Beamer saw Landry at the same time. “Your Lordship! Has she done ought to displease you? By God, if she has, I’ll settle her hash. So says Jem Beamer!”
“No,” he said placidly, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. “She was delightful. In fact, I’d like to take her home with me.”
“H-home?” stammered Beamer, his grip on Frances loosening. “This one? I—we couldn’t have that, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but it wouldn’t do.”
Landry produced a hundred-guinea note from an inside jacket pocket, exposing it in slow rotation to the light from the sconce.
“Trade?” he said.
Beamer looked greedily at the enormous sum being handled so negligently by His Lordship. “I want to oblige you, My Lord, but she’s a troublemaker. Been talking about going to the magistrates.”
“I guarantee that she won’t.” Landry walked to Beamer and tucked the note into Beamer’s ample waistband. “My word as a gentleman.”
Beamer hesitated another second, then released her. “The clothes she came in is in the room at the back. I’ll summon your lordship a hack, if you please. Enjoy yourself, My Lord.”
It was a mere matter of minutes before Frances was changed and being handed into the damp interior of a hackney cab by Lord Landry. Landry joined her inside and the cab lurched forward; the bright tattoo of the hired horses’ hooves came muffled through the hack’s grease-filmed windows. Frances stared at the footbath of foul straw covering the floor.
“One hundred guineas,” she said as though she couldn’t believe that he had spent so great a sum on her behalf.
Lord Landry stretched his arm lazily across the cracked leather seat behind Frances. “Don’t let it distress you; I regard it as an investment.”
“How could it not distress me?” asked Frances. “I shall pay you back every penny if it takes me forever! What do you mean, an investment?”
The hand that he had stretched in back of her lifted unobtrusively to stroke her cheek. “Frances. Is that your real name? Yes? Look at me, Frances.”
She had too much pride to refuse. His fingers lowered to brush the sensitive skin on the side of her neck.
“I still want you. But I didn’t want it to happen there.” He smiled. “It’s probably been a month since they changed the sheets. Come home with me.”
Frances swallowed convulsively, and shifted to avoid his hand. “I can’t think it possible”—Frances’ voice was grave and nervous—“that even
you,
Lord Landry, would expect me to make good my debt to you by becoming your . . .” She couldn’t say it.
“Mincing words again, Frances?”
“Your mistress,” she snapped explosively. “And I didn’t give you permission to use my first name.”
He laughed softly and pulled her close against his chest; his lips touched the top of her head. Then he released her completely and sat up, away from her. “Forget the one hundred guineas and come home with me anyway.”
“No!”
He touched her chin with the curve of his finger. “All right. Fear not, Miss Atherton, I’m not going to abduct you.” His green eyes were like a soft summer mist as he gazed peacefully at Frances. “I can wait.”
Frances had met his gaze bravely as long as she was able. When she could do it no longer, she turned her head as though to look out of the window at the passing night scene. Unfortunately, the window had been broken and replaced with a wooden shutter. She felt ridiculous staring at it, and the acid silence burned her nerves.
“You make it very difficult for me to say thank you,” she said in a suffocated tone.
“I know,” he said. “Is it so important to you, saying thank you, or is it another thing you think you ought to do? Your hand’s trembling. What’s the matter?”
“I’m tired, and you make me feel uncomfortable.”
“I can’t help that, dear.” His voice was soft. “Unless you’ll let me.”
His hand slid through the front of her coral brocade pelisse and made a warm cup over the thin chintz gown that covered her shoulders. Quickly, fearfully, she braced her small mittened hands on his chest, resisting him.
“Frances, lovely Frances, you know what happens between a man and a woman, don’t you? I couldn’t possibly do that to you here; there’s not enough room. You can stop fighting for a moment.”
“Tricks,” she said, trying to free herself, “and more tricks!”
His expert grip held her easily. “Very astute,” he said with a dangerous sparkle. “I wouldn’t like you so much if you were stupid. Besides, you’ve got a fighting chance. I’ve been honest with you—I told you what I wanted within an hour of meeting you.”
If only she were not so keenly aware of his closeness. “You won’t be able to seduce me.”
It was his most attractive smile—tender, faintly amused. “If I’m not going to be able to seduce you, then what are you so worried about?”
He coaxed her closer with the light urging of one hand. “You can then let me do this with perfect safety.” He rested the other hand against the back of her head, bringing her face up to his own. Then his lips were at the side of her face, nestled in the thick dark hair; she felt his soft breath and the warm, living texture of his skin. He touched his lips in a slow, circular motion over her smooth brow, down her small, perfectly shaped nose. “And this,” he said, “shouldn’t disturb you at all.”
He moved her in his arms and then brought his lips down on hers. She made a sudden startled motion to pull herself free, but he was ready for it, and ruthlessly held her still. Landry was careful to cause her no pain. His grip was all steel but lined with velvet. He wanted nothing to distract Frances from her slow and frightened meeting with the aching, unexplored needs of her body. Cool and dry on her quivering softness, his searching lips taught her the lesson nature had intended her to learn. The delinquent scorch of passion began to burn away her rebellion, and as he felt it, he drew from her and studied her face. Her eyes were closed, the lovely dark lashes outlined against the blushing cream of her cheeks; her cheekbones stood out rigidly, yet delicately, the curving sculptured contours leading up from the small round chin. Frances’ hands were clasped before her in an attitude of fervent supplication, her lips slightly parted and full. As he watched, her eyes fluttered open, gazing at him in raptured inquiry.
“It feels sweet when you don’t resist, doesn’t it?” he asked gently.
She shivered, and shook her head weakly in denial. Landry laughed under his breath, and pulled her mouth once more to his, this time letting her feel some of the warmth of his desire, not enough to scare her, but only to feed her fledgling pleasure. He framed her face in his hands, dragging his lips back and forth across hers, then moved his mouth to the soft curve of her throat. Her response was a sharp, catching gasp. He covered her opened lips again, and gathered her close. Whispering her name against her softness, letting his fingers part and filter her curls, he shifted the slim girl tenderly against his body. He kissed her lips a last time and put her from him. His fingers spread on her cheek, caressed her dulcet and pliant lips with his thumb, feeling her shaky breath. Breaking contact, he opened the door of the still carriage, and escorted her silently to her aunt’s house.