The Secret to Seduction (31 page)

And at last, learning to be resigned.

Oh, yes. If she’d never met the man, she wouldn’t now feel more alive than she’d ever felt, and she wouldn’t now feel as though something very lovely, something promising, had been yanked away.

She hadn’t seen Rhys in weeks. She’d begun to wonder whether she would see him again.

Find something to do to help, he’d said, that didn’t involve climbing on roofs or giving away the things in the house. All those bloody
things
that made him feel so complete.

And so she had.

They knew her in town now; she visited with Margo Bunfield, and with Mrs. Perriman and her four children, and with three other elderly women who never left their homes because of age or infirmity.

Three weeks with nary a word or sign of the earl. Though, of course, she wasn’t behaving in any sort of scandalous or embarrassing manner, which seemed to be what mattered to him, and so there was no need for the earl to rush away from his life in London.

And because she was lonely, she found herself drawn more and more often to the familiar surrounds of a vicarage and of a church, and to Geoffrey.

She’d just listened to Geoffrey rehearse a sermon, a fine, eloquent one about the dangers of the pleasures of the flesh, delivered with such feeling Sabrina wondered just how much Geoffrey knew about the pleasures of the flesh. The thought gave her pause for a moment.

“Nicely done,” she complimented finally.

“It was rather, wasn’t it?” He smiled, but for some reason she didn’t want to see his smile, as there was an echo of Rhys about it. “Thank you for sending the beef,” he added.

“Oh, you’re welcome.” He still looked twitchy, however. Perhaps someone in the village could make him up a simple for his nerves. Though what could possibly trouble his nerves in Buckstead Heath eluded her.

“Sabrina…we’re friends, are we not?” Geoffrey was watching her with something like speculation.

“Yes, of course, Geoffrey.”

“Forgive my presumption in saying so…but you seem unhappy.” He said it evenly.

She was struck by the observation. Then again, she wasn’t precisely an enigma, never having perfected the skill of irony, so perhaps she shouldn’t feel quite so struck. It was kind of him to care, however. She thought it kind of anyone to take an interest in how she might be feeling at the moment.

“I’m sorry, Geoffrey. I shall endeavor to smile more in your presence,” she teased.

But he merely looked thoughtful. “I beg your pardon for asking, Sabrina, but I feel I must. Is…is Rhys unkind?”

Is Rhys unkind?
Rhys wasn’t anything in particular, it seemed, besides absent.

“My life is here, and his life is in London. He has provided a generous allowance so that I may buy all the carpets and the like I desire. It’s a fair arrangement. I’ve naught to complain about.” It was an honest enough answer.

Geoffrey fixed her with his dark gaze. His face so like Rhys’s, and yet unlike his. Geoffrey seemed even more nervous lately; he was growing thinner still, and she’d noticed that sudden movements and noises made him start. She was certain the living Rhys provided him with was generous; she couldn’t imagine the earl deliberately starving his cousin. She wondered if she ought to arrange for a nerve tonic to be sent to Geoffrey as well.

And then, startling, Geoffrey turned swiftly and reached for her hand. “Sabrina . . .”

His eyes were so intent on hers; his skin warm, his hands smooth. She stared at it again, knew a moment of sadness, and a strange sense of disconnection. How odd that one man could simply turn her inside out with the barest touch, and the other inspire nothing, unless it was warmth.

“Do you ever still long to be a missionary?” he asked.

And when Geoffrey said it, Sabrina felt the loss of her dream freshly. And wondered how her life would have been if she’d been able to travel across the world with the man who now held her hand. She felt a bit like Persephone, who had partaken of the pomegranate seeds and paid the price of her weakness.

“I have thought of it from time to time,” she admitted.

“If you are ever so unhappy, Sabrina…I want you to know…I would assist you in your mission.”

She frowned a little. “But, Geoffrey…I’m married now.”

“But you’ve an allowance now, an income of your own, is that not right?”

“Yes, but—”

Almost eagerly he said, “If you chose it, Sabrina…you
could
leave him. It would be a very bold step, but I would…I could accompany you. We could always go to Africa as we planned and do some good. I would help you to leave, and Rhys would never find you.”

It was an
astounding
suggestion. Sabrina stared at him and was tempted, briefly, to laugh.

But Geoffrey looked so earnest. His silky dark eyes were so understanding, so very nearly persuasive, and she could almost picture it: the leaving, the satisfying work on another continent.

And then it occurred to her that Geoffrey still held her hand in his, and he was standing a little closer than he usually did. She took a hint of a step backward.

He was merely trying, she realized, to help ease her unhappiness, rash and extraordinary though his suggestion seemed. And she did feel an ache: for an instant, she saw herself again, several continents away, useful, busy, working side by side with someone who shared the same dreams. A hard life, but a thoroughly lived life. The one she’d thought she’d wanted.

A scandalous thing it would be, to leave her husband. Then again, her husband had made a habit of leaving her.

“Thank you, Geoffrey. You’re so kind.” She faltered a little. And it was all she said.

How much more peaceful life would have been had she married Geoffrey instead. He never had offered for her; then again, he hadn’t been given a living until after she’d nearly made love to his cousin by moonlight in the sculpture gallery, and so it was impossible to know whether he would have or not. And unfair, she thought, to ask him whether he might have.

“When will Rhys next return?” Geoffrey wanted to know.

“I don’t know.”

And in the wake of these three lonely little words was a moment there where Geoffrey could almost have persuaded her to abandon everything. For she was young, and her life stretched ahead of her, lonelier for what might have been.

She was Egyptian and Irish, Louisette was, and born in France. Sloe-eyed, silky-haired, lips as inviting as a velvet pillow, and all but entirely spilling from her gossamer gown were a pair of breasts the color of milk and honey stirred together. She was redolent of strong perfume, too, and as she had chosen to drape herself over Rhys, her hands sliding down his chest, her soft breasts pressing against his shoulders, he knew
he
would be redolent of her perfume by morning.

He could feel her breasts shift against the back of his neck every time he reached for a card. She breathed softly in his ear as he reviewed his hand. It was physically impossible to be unmoved. He did smile a little for her benefit, which prompted her to touch her tongue to his ear.

You just take.

Oh, and how she’d looked when she’d said it. That diffident hand playing in her hair, her face flushed and unhappy. So arrestingly lovely, she was. So generous with her passion, a passion
he’d
shown her she possessed. So generous with her trust, a trust he’d never really earned.

A similarly exotic girl was draped all over Wyndham, who sat across from him holding a hand of cards, and Wyndham looked more aware of the girl than the cards. His hand had risen to settle companionably on the girl’s breast. He gave it a pat. All the girls were accommodating here at The Velvet Glove. They’d all been particularly sympathetic when they’d learned the earl had been recently married. And since his wife was not in evidence, it was assumed it was a marriage of convenience, the sort foisted upon men of his station at his time of life.

Louisette, Bettina, and all the other ladies at The Velvet Glove stood ready to help him satisfy any appetites a wife was disinclined to satisfy.

What the bloody hell did she want?

He
had
taken. He’d taken advantage of her innate passion, her innate generosity, her capacity for pleasure…Because he’d never thought it anything but his right to do so. Because he thought she’d wanted it, too.

Because it was all he knew how to do and give.

“Rawden, are you ever going to play?”

He paused, his gaze moving from his cards, to the sultry room at The Velvet Glove, to the girls sprawled in shadowy embraces with the men who had the money to pay for their attentions.

“I fold.”

He lowered his cards. Louisette’s hands trailed back up his chest to tangle in his hair. He turned his head to look at her, and found hope in her dark eyes.

And it wasn’t that he wasn’t tempted. He studied her, picturing vividly the hour or so he could spend upstairs with her. She tilted her head invitingly.

He’d spent so many hours like that, in so many arms like that, and—

He swiftly lifted her hand and kissed it gracefully. “Good night, darling.”

His last view was of Wyndham’s astonished expression as he pushed himself away from the table, away from Louisette, and called for his coat, leaving all of them behind.

What was the use of being an earl if one couldn’t depart abruptly and rudely on occasion?

A breath of joy arrived at La Montagne along with a message from Lady Mary Capstraw: she had completed her social migration and was now winging her way back to Tinbury via Buckstead Heath.

And now she was breezing into La Montagne, a silent, beaming Paul in tow, while footmen took care of her trunks, and Paul excused himself to freshen up.

She seized Sabrina in a great hug.

“Countess! Shall I curtsy? I aver,
look
at you! Show me all your new clothes, if you please! We can stay just the evening, I fear, as I’ve promised to move on to visit the Gordons by next week, and if the weather turns dreadful again, we shall be stuck in the coaching inn outside of Buckstead Heath, and the food there wreaks havoc upon Paul’s delicate digestion. And oh, let us call for some tea in your cunning green sitting room. Where is your handsome husband?”

“London,” Sabrina answered shortly.

“Ah, London! How very exciting. Sabrina, that reminds me! I just visited with Katherine Morton—”

Sabrina could scarcely keep up with all of Mary’s acquaintances. “Blond hair and freckles and two boys?”

“
Red
hair and freckles and a new little girl,” Mary corrected. “She’d been to London and she’d brought a copy of the
Times.
I didn’t mean to read it—”

Sabrina couldn’t imagine Mary voluntarily reading a newspaper. “No? How on earth did it happen?”

“But there was a very exciting story in the paper. And Sabrina, I thought of you. For it came out that the mother of the Viscount Grantham’s wife, Lady Susannah, was the mistress of a politician named Richard Lockwood, many years ago, and she was accused of murdering her protector, but they never did find her, and they say she’s innocent.”

Sabrina didn’t particularly want to hear about mistresses at the moment, given that it was all too easy to picture her husband once again in the arms of Sophia Licari.

“Mary, really. I think many men have mistresses.” She tried to sound blasé. It wasn’t a sentence she could have uttered with any ease or authority just a few weeks earlier.

“Oh, so I’ve heard. I’m certain yours has given up his, however.” She gave Sabrina a pat. “But, Sabrina, it’s truly the oddest thing. It came out in the trial that Anna Holt, the mistress, had three daughters. One of them is now Lady Grantham, the other is married to the most divine man—it’s Katherine who told me that he’s divine—who owns The Family Emporium in London, and the other is still missing. And you’ll never guess what her name is supposed to be.”

Mary paused, a taste for drama taking over, and leaned forward, her entire face an exclamation point.

Sabrina decided to indulge her. “What is her name supposed to be?”

“Sabrina.”

Sabrina’s cup of tea paused halfway to her mouth. She frowned a little.

“Like…my name? Sabrina?”

“
Just
like your name. Sabrina.” Mary was aquiver.

“And the mother’s name was . . .” Sabrina knew, it was just that it seemed so . . .

For the first time in days a ray of light penetrated her heart.

“Anna Holt!” Mary nearly shouted in delight. “Anna, Sabrina! Her name was Anna! And that’s what it says on the back of your miniature. You might be the daughter of a
mistress.
”

She said this with particular relish.

Sabrina remembered Rhys’s words when she’d snapped that she was adopted:
Well, that explains everything.
He’d said it to be incorrigible, of course. But she wondered if it did explain why she’d all but mounted the man in the statue gallery the first time he’d touched her. Or her temper. Or . . .

She was dizzy with the wonder of it.

“Well, you’re certainly too pretty to be the daughter of a vicar,” Mary added as she sipped her tea.