by Lynn Kerstan
“Fair enough. I’ll tell her so, and she will come to you if it suits her. Clare is my goodbye gift, or my last mistake, but under no circumstances do I wish to be responsible for anything that happens once you meet.”
“That sounds rather ominous.”
Rising, Flo held out her arms, and he walked straight into them for a last hug. “Ah, you are a beguiling thing, Caradoc,” she whispered against his neck. “Alas that I took my first lover long before I met you.” Setting him back, she brushed the hair from his forehead. “Still, je ne regrette rien. The profession has been kind to me, and I shall retire in comfort with memories of the most delightful sort to keep me young. Along with a dalliance or two, tu comprends, for one is never too old to dance.” Her eyes, which she’d once told him were greener than emeralds, shimmered with tears. “Take care, my friend. And look to the crossroads.”
As he drove away, Florette stood at the door and waved, feeling a tightness in the vicinity of her heart. On instinct alone, she had begun something that might well lead to disaster. Bryn was curious about the mysterious veiled lady, as she’d hoped. And resistant because he could not bear to relinquish control of any situation to someone else. But she knew him, and understood him better than he could imagine. The man needed exactly what she’d given him. All he had to do was realize it.
With a sigh, Flo closed the door. She had gathered the players and dealt out the hand, but the outcome was unpredictable. Clare was the wild card in this game. The Lady in Blue, as Bryn called her, was not what he expected. Nor what she wanted to be.
When they came face-to-face, anything could happen.
2
Bryn waited for Clare in the library of his townhouse on St. James’s Square. He’d thought to pass the time between breakfast and her arrival by catching up on some paperwork, but he found himself unable to concentrate. Turning his back on the papers strewn over the enormous desk, he gazed into a lovely garden.
It was that view which had inspired him to have a platform constructed, about eight inches high, to hold his desk and chair. Without the added height, his vision was obstructed by a wide ornamental panel halfway up the ceiling-to-floor panes of glass. Into the platform was built a device that allowed him to rotate his chair without standing up to turn it around. He dabbled with inventions, most of them designed to enhance his comfort and pleasure, some more successful than others. The library was unusable for the three months it took to get the revolving chair to work smoothly, and a faint odor of grease still permeated the room.
He did his best thinking in that chair, arms folded behind his head, gazing into the garden. But, unaccountably, today he was too itchy to stay seated. He moved to the large bay window and pressed his forehead against the glass, infuriated by his own eagerness to meet the mysterious virgin in blue and find out what made her think she could demand a fortune for relinquishing the title.
And what made Florette think he was going to pay it?
Did she figure he was in no position to reject Clare whatever-her-name-was? Hell, he wasn’t that desperate. And damned if he’d be extorted. He hated the idea of satisfying Flo in her little game. He was tempted to declare the Blue Lady unsuitable at first glance and send her back like an unopened parcel.
Which fine display of temper and ego would net him precisely nothing. Given the alternative—celibacy—he was in no position to thumb his nose at Flo for the brief satisfaction of bettering her. The Lady in Blue was the last virgin, until he found another reliable source. Or a bride.
It was unlikely he’d agree to her outrageous price, but he found himself wishing the chit would somehow find a way to convince him otherwise. He pulled out his watch. Where the devil was she? It was five minutes past eleven. No woman kept him waiting. He would make that very clear to her.
More time passed before he heard the discreet knock on the door. “Come,” he called, his voice unnaturally harsh. He swung around, curled fists planted on his hips, poised for his first real look at her.
She was veiled, gloved, and swathed from neck to ankles in a dark blue gown exactly as before. She came into the room and paused, hands at her sides. Behind her, the butler stood indecisively.
The earl waved his hand. “That will be all, Walters. No interruptions.” Walters bowed out, closing the door behind him.
Clare stood without moving. She was, Bryn thought, the stillest creature he’d ever seen. She scarcely seemed to breathe.
“You are late,” he said coldly.
“Your carriage was late.” Her voice, a pleasant low alto, was expressionless. She crossed the room—he might describe it as a glide—until she stood in front of the desk, head tilted to look up at him.
“Be seated,” he said, determined not to give her the satisfaction of asking her to lift that damnable veil.
Two large chairs were angled by the corners of the platform. She chose the one to his left, settling gracefully on its edge with her hands folded in her lap.
He sat too, leaning forward with his elbows propped on the desk, hands templed, chin resting lightly on his fingertips. “And just what is it, young woman,” he asked bluntly, “that makes you worth ten thousand pounds?”
She lifted her head. “That, my lord, is for you to decide.” Slowly, she drew up the veil with both hands and removed the hat. As if granting a favor, she allowed him to look at her face.
What he saw took his breath away.
She was not the first woman lovely enough to catch a man’s eye in a crowded room. Hers was a quiet, marble beauty, all line and shape. A woman to look at for a long time. Her hair seemed to be a pale brown, dusted with gold, thick where it had come loose from a chignon at her nape. Wisps and tendrils, disturbed by removing the hat, curled at her temples and forehead.
She appeared older than the girls he’d come to expect, but that might have been her demeanor. Clare was ineffably serene.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled a warning. Flo had been right. This one was different. He struggled to control his initial reaction, along with the sharp sense of challenge she fired in him. He felt uneasy, as if something crucial was at stake. “Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked, temporizing as he pulled his thoughts together.
“No, thank you.” She placed her hat on the corner of his desk.
He shrugged. “Well, shall we begin then? With your name, perhaps.”
“Clare. Clare Easton.”
“Um. And your age?” Did her lips quirk slightly?
“Three-and-twenty, my lord.”
He let out a breath. “That seems a bit old. Under the circumstances.”
“I presume you mean a bit old to have any claim to virginity.”
“For a lovely woman, yes.” He regarded her skeptically. “Shall I assume you have spent the past six or seven years in a nunnery?”
“My background can be of no interest to you, so long as your conditions are met.” Her chin lifted. “I assure you, they are.”
“Ah, but you do not know all my conditions. Only the first, and you cannot blame me for being suspicious. Innocence is not likely, considering your age, beauty, and chosen profession. And virginity is easily faked.”
“You would know better than I. But with your own experience, could you not unmask a deception?”
“Only when it was too late. How can I be sure you are not lying to me?”
Her eyes flashed like lightning out of a clear sky, so unexpected that he wasn’t sure he’d seen it. “Integrity,” she said in a chilling voice, “is not confined to the aristocracy. Even a whore can tell the truth.”
That word, whore, seemed altogether out of place on her lips. He bristled. “I do not tolerate insolence, Clare.”
She bowed her head and said nothing.
For some perverse reason, he was angry at her failure to strike back. Bryn folded his arms across his chest. She was too calm. Too controlled. Were she truly virgin, it could only be because she was frigid. And a passionless woman, however beautiful, held no
interest for him. “You will not do,” he said in a businesslike voice.
“As you will.” She reached for her hat.
He swept it away. “Why do you wear this? Are you afraid someone will recognize you?”
Her lips curved slightly. “I have only one thing to sell, my lord. Were I seen leaving your house, all London would assume I’d relinquished it already.”
The earl regarded her with new interest. He almost thought she was laughing at him. Rejected women, and he had rejected a few, rarely found the situation amusing. He placed the hat near his elbow, out of her reach. “I would not have expected you to have given up so easily,” he said with sudden insight. “Men interested in your peculiar temporary attribute and able to afford your outrageous price don’t grow on trees.”
Clare stood. “Indeed not. I expect they are hatched in ponds, under rocks.”
He found himself laughing, and swung his chair around to gaze into the garden. If the white rosebud, just beginning to open, had poked through the glass and bitten him, he could not have been more surprised. She had a temper, that cool-eyed young woman, and concealed it extremely well. “Sit down,” he directed. “I’m not finished with you.”
“Indeed? It seemed a clear dismissal: You will not do. Have I misunderstood, my lord?”
He grinned at the white rose. Impertinent baggage. But he’d always loved the bite of iced champagne and felt a shiver of anticipation. “It pains me to admit it, but I seem to have changed my mind. At least for the moment. Please sit down, Miss Easton. What have you got to lose?”
“That would appear painfully obvious. The same thing I walked in this room with, although you seem to doubt it.”
He heard the rustle of taffeta and glanced over his shoulder to see her settling on the edge of her chair. He hoped his relief didn’t show.
“How do you manage to spin around like that?” she asked.
He lifted his knees and made a complete circle, then leaned back and crossed his ankles on the desk like a satisfied boy. “Physics, grease, and a clever carpenter with a blacksmith brother.”
“Most impressive. Did you design it?”
“Yes and no. The idea came from something I saw at the theater. Part of the stage revolved, and what had been a drawing room was suddenly a tavern.” He chuckled. “The audience liked it so well that the stage manager had to repeat the trick three times before the play could go on.”
She nearly smiled. “Have you?” she inquired. “Swung around, I mean. Shall this play continue?”
“Let us say I am willing to hear more. Ten thousand pounds is an exceedingly high price for a woman of no experience, however lovely.”
“I had thought a woman of no experience was precisely what you wanted.”
“Not really.”
She blinked. “Can a woman be experienced and a virgin?”
His brows lifted. “Not in that order, of course. But after a few hours of instruction …”
At last, he thought with fiendish satisfaction, he had ruffled that disturbing composure. At least to the point where one gloved hand fiddled with her skirt.
“I have no experience,” she said flatly. “If you are willing to exchange ten thousand guineas for my virginity, let us come to terms. If not, please give me my hat.”
He opened a drawer and put it inside. “I see the price has gone up, from pounds to guineas. An outlandish sum, Miss Easton, for such a trifle.”
“A trifle? It is not so to me, my lord, nor to you. It was my virginity, and only that, which admitted me to this interview. It is what you advertised for, and what I have to sell.”
“You must need the money badly. What you really want to do is tell me to go to the devil.”
She paled. “Not that. Never that.”
His brow furrowed. “Is someone compelling you, my girl?”
She stiffened. “No one. I have … debts, that is all.”
“Where is your family?”
“Dead. I’ve no relations, not by blood. Be at ease, Lord Caradoc. No outraged protector will show up on your doorstep to avenge the loss of my virtue.”
“You relieve my mind.” Bryn swung his legs from the desk and leaned forward, chin propped on his fingers. “Miss Easton, I’ve no intention of prying secrets from you, but you cannot expect to enter my employ without answering a few pertinent questions. Even footmen are interviewed at length and expected to provide references.”
“That would be a bit difficult, don’t you think?” She flashed him an annoying little smile. “A reference could only prove me unsuited to the job.”
Your point, he admitted with a nod, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze floated around the room, taking in the bookshelves lining both walls. “Do you read?” he asked with some surprise.
“You have a wonderful library,” she said, a touch of awe in her voice. “And yes, I love to read above all things.”
“Your vocabulary indicates some education,” he observed, “as does your accent. Clearly you were reared among the upper classes.”
She cast him a sly glance. “Like integrity, my lord, a love of knowledge is not restricted to the peerage. By good fortune, I have been educated. I can also embroider and play the pianoforte. But what is that to the point? It cannot be conversation or drawing-room entertainment for which you want me.”
The earl was not accustomed to being rebuffed, but the surge of resentment he felt was not for her words. Only for the poised way she delivered them. “Then let us get to the point, my dear. On the matter of your virginity, I accept Madam LaFleur’s assurance that you are qualified.” She didn’t flinch. “For the rest, I would like to see for myself.” His gaze caught hers and held. “If you are still interested in the position, you will now remove your clothes.”
Clare looked at him without expression for a long moment.
He thought she was stunned. He was wrong.
Gracefully, as if she’d done it a thousand times, she stood and began to unhook the row of buttons that ran down the front of her dress to below her waist. One by one, slowly because she did not remove her dark kid gloves, the buttons opened. Her gaze was fixed on his face, but he suspected that she didn’t see him at all. He followed the path of her fingers, down her long neck to the hint of flesh at the gradually widening vee, which had reached the edge of a plain cotton chemise. His eyes blurred.
How must he seem to her at this moment, leaning forward, practically slobbering over his desk? The awareness hit him like a harsh light, as if shutters were suddenly raised in a dark room. As if someone had turned over a rock and exposed him.
Clare was removing her dress, but she was clothed in a peculiar light of her own. Suddenly he felt naked. Uncomfortable. Shamed. He felt, dammit, all the things he’d expected her to feel.
Pretending boredom with the slow proceedings, he swung his chair around and stared into the garden, hearing the faint swish of taffeta. The white rosebud seemed to mock him. His mouth felt dry. How far had she got? Would she tell him when it was done? He came to his feet, almost missed his footing as he stepped off the platform, and let his glance fall on her briefly as he walked to the marble fireplace and leaned his elbow on the mantel. He caught a glimpse of white shoulder.
Why didn’t she take off those stupid gloves?
She hadn’t seemed to notice that he’d moved. He stared, brooding, into the empty hearth, for what seemed like a week. Finally he heard the dress fall to the floor. Glancing up, he realized he could see her reflection in the mirror that hung above the mantel.
She bent slightly, grasped the hem of her chemise, and began to pull it over her head. The fabric caught, momentarily, on a hairpin, and then it was loose and gone. She let it drop to the floor and turned to face him.
Bryn looked back at her, from the mirror. If his hands were not gripping the mantel, he’d have sunk to his knees.
She was perfect. Flawless in every detail. He saw long legs in dark stockings which reached to mid-thigh, tied with simple ribbons, no
spare flesh above the binding. And then the curve of hip, a soft nest of gold-tinged hair, smooth abdomen, and narrow waist. Her breasts were full but high, beautifully formed.
The palms of his hands, tightly clenched on marble, were sweating. His breeches stretched against his uncontrollable arousal. And her eyes lifted, catching his in the mirror. The tiniest hint of a smile curled her lips.
He recognized contempt.
Then, as smoothly as if she’d been poised on his revolving chair and with exquisite slowness, she turned around. In profile she was breathtaking: the svelte arc of her back, the slight rounding of her belly, the sleek flanks. A tiny birthmark, shaped like a quarter moon, was raised just over the dimple on her right buttock. It was the only flaw—no, jewel—on skin like rich fresh cream.
She still wore her gloves. Bryn had a sudden vision of long legs in black stockings wrapped around his waist, hands in leather gloves caressing him.
Clare came around full circle. She stood with her arms at her sides, still as glass.
“Take down your hair,” he said huskily.
Her arms lifted, and she pulled the long hairpins from her chignon. Her gaze pinned him in the mirror. She combed her fingers through her hair until it hung thick and softly waving over her shoulders, reaching to her waist. A thick swath concealed her left breast. With the folds of blue dress and foam of white chemise at her feet, she looked like Venus born of the sea.
Only iron-hard control kept him in place. His gaze dropped to a porcelain shepherdess on the mantel, and he picked it up with determined fascination. The figurine was sleek and cool and smooth. He wished he hadn’t touched it.
Inexplicably, what he wanted to do most was apologize.
But who was to say she even minded? Clare had performed with the serene grace of a prima ballerina. Did she know he would have her, at any price? That she undervalued herself when she demanded a fortune?
If he looked up, he might find the answer in her eyes. For certain, she would recognize her victory in his. He had challenged her and lost. “Get dressed,” he ordered harshly, fingering the shepherdess.
