by Lynn Kerstan
“Pray, think no more about it. You had every right to examine your purchase.” She lifted a square of shortcake, studied it intently, and set it down again. “Shall we discuss terms? You indicated requirements, other than those I’d been given to expect. May I hear them?”
“Dammit, I want us to be friends!” His exclamation surprised them both. At least it broke her awesome composure for a bare, nearly imperceptible moment.
Her brows lifted. “Friendship, my lord, cannot be bought. At least, not at any price I am aware of. I had thought our arrangement to be more … straightforward. If we are to speak frankly, more exclusively carnal.”
“The one,” he said between clenched teeth, “does not rule out the other.”
She must have sensed his dry mouth, because she poured a helping of coffee, added a generous dollop of honey, and held out the cup. He took it gratefully, wincing as the hot liquid seared his tongue. The pain, coupled with that in his leg and groin, brought an edge to his voice.
“If you insist on a ledger of terms, I shall provide them. In writing, should you wish it.”
“That will not be necessary. But this is a matter of business, and I should like a clear explanation of what you expect from me.”
Business? Despite his overheated body and whirling mind, that word sent a chill down his spine. He tried to match her matter-of-fact tone. “Very well, Miss Easton. I require a mistress, preferably one who will remain with me for a considerable time. She will live in this house, be available to me when I send word, and remain exclusively mine. She must—you must—take precautions, at least until I have married and sired an heir.”
His gaze lowered. “In your case, the usual means will not suffice. I doubt my own ability to be responsible and will expect you to take instruction from Mrs. Beales, unless you are acquainted already with a method you prefer. She is my housekeeper, probably lurking at the keyhole right now although she has heard most of this before.”
“How delightful,” Clare murmured, sipping her coffee.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Bryn came to his feet. “I’ll make certain we are not disturbed.”
When he returned, Clare was leaning over the window seat, reaching for a book. She jerked up and spun around, hands clasped guiltily behind her back. As if she’d been caught pilfering the silver, he thought. “Mrs. Beales has suddenly remembered an errand across town,” he said, moving to the window. “I brought these for you. I’ve no idea what you like to read, but if it cannot be found in my library, we’ll spend an afternoon browsing the bookshops.”
Her gloved fingers reached out to stroke the leather bindings. “Truly? Anything I want?”
Bryn wondered if she would ever caress him as lovingly as she touched those old books. Suddenly jealous of paper, glue, and ink, he was relieved when she pulled herself away from the small library and resumed her place on the sofa.
“I have—a few questions,” she said in a stoic voice.
“Be free with them.” He lowered himself onto the chair and folded his arms. “Things will go better if there are no misunderstandings.”
“When do I get the money?” she asked bluntly.
“Not in advance,” he replied with equal bluntness.
“The next morning?” she persisted. “In full?”
“My dear, this is haggling. Do you imagine I will not honor my end of the agreement?”
Her eyes flashed. “Do you imagine I will not?”
“I cannot be sure—of anything—until the arrangement is consummated.” He bit his tongue. Devil take it, he was doing it again: attacking when he meant to conciliate. And she was reaching for that damned hat. “Clare, if you accept my offer I shall proceed to Child’s bank first thing tomorrow and secure ten thousand pounds—”
“Guineas.”
“Guineas.” Mercenary little witch. “But it will be a draft, not cash. That is too much money for either of us to carry around. And I’ll present it to you, with a great flourish, when next we meet. Agreed?”
“So long as the draft can be negotiated when and where I choose. How long will it take for me to earn it?”
He sat up, hands planted on his knees. “What do you mean?”
“What I asked,” she replied with a touch of impatience. “I understand now that you do not mean this to be the simple exchange of my virginity for payment, and that you expect me to remain with you for a period of time. I want to know how long.”
“I damn well don’t want an indentured servant, marking off a calendar and counting down each night before she can pack up and disappear.”
“But there must be a limit, don’t you see? I need to know how soon I can leave without cheating you.”
He stiffened. “The terms of our agreement end when I say so.”
“Then you must say so now.”
Devil take it, who was in charge here? “If you insist on some arbitrary date, I shall provide one. Let us say, ten years from today.”
“That is not reasonable,” she chided. “And if I irritate you as much as I obviously do, it would be a very long ten years.”
Laughing, he took a square of shortbread and waved it in the air. “I’ll not bargain with you, Clare. Your forced servitude is done when you expected it to be, after the first night we make love. If you choose to leave after that, I’ll not hold you.”
For once, he seemed to have unnerved her. “That is … remarkably generous,” she said.
“So it is. But if you stay, you’ll discover exactly how generous I can be. Bloody hell, lady, I’ve made concessions that weren’t demanded of Bonaparte after Waterloo. Perhaps you will keep that in mind.” Leaning forward, he gazed at her solemnly. “You have a low opinion of me now, and I suspect I deserve it, but allow me time to make everything up to you. At the very least, enough time to make you very rich.”
For once, she did not meet his eyes. “This is not what I expected, and I am not altogether sure I can give you what you want. More than likely I shall wish to leave immediately.”
“Then I must contrive to change your mind.” Cold sweat pooled at the back of his neck. Already he was fiercely jealous of any man who might succeed him. “What will you do after you leave me?”
“I’ve not thought so far ahead.” She sliced him the hint of a smile. “In truth, I’ve not been certain of getting past the first night. Will you accept a promise to do my best?”
“If it includes forgiving me when I’m impossible, I accept your promise with gratitude. And I hope you will always speak your mind without fear of the consequences. There will be none, although my friends would tell you that I am often insufferable.”
“I shall take your word for that,” she said, too sweetly. “Do you expect me to live here?”
“Yes.” The change of subject, implying her consent to stay, sent his blood racing. “The staff is not large, but you may add to it as you wish. Mrs. Beales is cook and housekeeper. Two of her nieces assist her, although they live at home. There is a footman, Charles Cassidy, and we must find you a maid. You are to consider the house your own and may fix it up any way you like. There is an allowance for that, and I’ll increase it because more than a few things were destroyed … in a recent storm.” He stood and held out his hand. “Come. Let me show you the other rooms.”
Only when he opened the door to the larger bedroom did Bryn remember Mrs. Beales’s warning not to take Clare upstairs. By then it was too late. He groaned to see the enormous bed, set on a pedestal and draped in filmy silk. Marita was partial to the color red, and he’d been told the curtains and counterpane were vividly scarlet. Everything else was done up in black and gold.
Even worse, two walls and the canopy over the bed were mirrored. A lump the size of an orange settled in his throat.
Clare stepped into the room and examined the furnishings with slow deliberation. “Oh, my,” she said. Strolling to the bed, she fingered the drapes.
Once again, as if in a nightmare this time, Bryn found himself staring at her refl
ected image, their gazes meeting in the mirror. He stood stiff as a pillar, helpless with embarrassment. “You’ll want to redecorate,” he said.
“Not if you like it,” she replied serenely.
“I don’t! Really. Mari—er, the previous occupant … oh, damn.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Clare, I forgot what this place looked like. I ought never to have brought you up here.”
She pointed to the platform. “You are partial to stages, I gather. Do you build one whenever you perform?”
Longing for a trapdoor to open and swallow him, he swiped his wrist across a hot, moist forehead. “No. Of course not. The elevation you saw yesterday in my library is constructed for the view, so I can see the garden. This one—”
“Is also for the view.” Mounting the three stairs, she bent forward, calculating angles and reflections. “My heavens! Well, you must do as you like, Lord Caradoc. I’ve no skill at decorating, nor am I familiar with the London shops. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He seized her hand and led her firmly out of the room. “Across the hall is a smaller bedroom. The servants occupy the third floor and there is a back staircase, so you will not be disturbed.” He met her eyes. “Has that awful room changed your mind about me?”
“Not in the least,” she said, with the light ambiguity he was coming to recognize.
As he ushered her downstairs, Bryn wondered, not for the first time, if she was laughing at him.
The coffee had cooled, and he drank his in one swallow while Clare nibbled at the edges of a biscuit. After what she’d seen upstairs, everything he wanted to say to her lodged in his throat. It was lowering to realize this woman was only sitting across from him for the money. And probably wondering if she’d asked enough.
His stomach twisted in knots. He was the one being tested for approval. He wanted her so badly he’d pay anything she demanded, but she didn’t want him at all and could refuse everything he owned. Three other women had sat across from him in this very room, arching and preening or nervous and shy. Never once had he wondered what they were feeling as he spelled out his requirements and watched them fall all over themselves to agree.
The truth was, he’d thought they were lucky to get him.
“What do you wish me to do now, my lord?”
With a show of indolence, he leaned forward and took a sandwich. “Well, for one thing, stop calling me my lord.”
“I don’t know your name,” she said with a smile.
“Do you not?” He bit off a hunk of bread and roast beef, regretting it instantly. His mouth was too dry to chew. “Surely Florette told you all about me.” Swallowing hard, he reached for the coffeepot and swore under his breath to find it empty.
Clare passed him her half-full cup. “Not a word, my lord. Beyond the obvious.”
He lifted an eyebrow as he drank.
“I meant, the size of your fortune. And that you only employ virgins.”
He set down the cup. “Seriously? Nothing more than that? If you are telling the truth, Flo has been ominously secretive. I’d expected her to prepare you, if only to give you the advantage. Had she done so, what you’ve seen of me thus far would not surprise you.”
“I am not,” she informed him, “in the least surprised.” Then she brushed her skirts with an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “That is not strictly true. Before I saw you, I’d imagined you would be old, with skinny legs and thick wet lips and cruel eyes.”
Had all his mistresses been so terrified? he wondered with a painful shot of awareness. Did they expect him to be cruel, even perverted, because he took only virgins under his protection?
“You have not told me your name,” Clare reminded him gently.
He regathered his wits. “I have rather too many, and you may choose the one you prefer. I was christened Brynmore Evan Anthony Owen Morgan Talgarth and hold the title Earl of Caradoc. My friends call me Bryn.”
“You are Welsh?”
“In part. The Caradocs have a long tradition of playing both sides against the middle. Our holdings march the border, crossing into Wales for water or the best pastureland. In early days we stood as a buffer between warring factions, but my ancestors shifted with the wind and always allied themselves with power and money. Nothing to be proud of.”
“My lord—Bryn …” She hesitated, as if finding it difficult to say his name. “I have one more question.”
He bit into the shortbread. “Yes?”
“I’m not sure … that is, what did you mean about Mrs. Beales teaching me?”
“When you are settled here, she will explain everything. Mrs. Beales tells me it is never a comfortable lesson, but it is truly necessary, my dear.”
For the first time, she blushed. “I intended to ask Florette. Would that be acceptable?”
“She would know, of course. I’ve no objection. But you must tell Mrs. Beales what method you have chosen, and she’ll see that you are supplied.”
Her gaze shot up. “Method? Is there more than one?” She was decidedly pink now. “I fear I am woefully ignorant.”
Light dawned. “I suspect,” he said dryly, “that we are talking about two related but entirely different things. And since Madam Florette is pulling far too many strings for my comfort, let us cut her off. Mrs. Beales will teach you what you need to know before we begin our relationship, and from then on I shall, with great delight, teach you the rest.” He smiled. “For now, let us attend to more immediate matters. Where are you staying?”
“At an inn. Please do not ask me which one. I prefer to meet you at Florette’s.”
“As you wish. You can move into Clouds on Sunday. That will give me a week to get the place in order.” He templed his hands. “I mean no insult, but is that the only gown you own?”
She lowered her eyes. “The only good one.”
“Then you need a wardrobe, my girl, top to bottom. My carriage will collect you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Plan to spend the entire day, and the one after that, in the shops. Mrs. Beales will assist you. She knows which modistes I favor, and the bills will be sent to me. No skimping, Clare. If you don’t spend my money lavishly, I shall personally drag you through the stores and ogle you while you are being fitted. It will give me pleasure,” he added more genially, “to see you clothed as befits your beauty.”
“Surely I need very little,” she protested. “I shan’t be going anywhere—”
“On the contrary. You’ll need gowns for the opera and the theater, for drives in the park, for picnics and”—he winked—“for the bookstores and circulating libraries.”
She looked downright horrified, not at all like a woman who’d been offered carte blanche.
“Clare, buy anything that strikes your fancy. Mrs. Beales will see that you come home with everything you require. And try to enjoy yourself.” He grinned. “I never met a female who didn’t love to shop.”
“Perhaps I will,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve never actually done it before. It seems wasteful, though.”
“Indulge me,” he said. “And let me indulge you. All your fancies. Anything you want.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?” she asked suspiciously.
“Absolutely. I want to please you, and thus please myself. How can you find fault with that?”
Her brow knitted in a frown. “I’m not sure. But I won’t stay with you for trinkets, however expensive. And that is a foolish declaration, because I come to you for money and a great deal of it. This is much more complicated than I ever imagined, my—Bryn.”
“I like that,” he said. “My Bryn. Hold that thought, lovely Clare. And tell me we have come to terms.”
Standing, with the fluid grace he loved to watch, she put on her hat and pinned it into place. This time she did not lower the veil.
He stood, too, and reached for her hand. “What color are your eyes?” he asked, watching them widen in confusion.
“Light brown, I suppose. Sometimes almost gray.”<
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“Like smoke. Good. I wasn’t sure. And your hair?” A tendril curled at her ear, and he drew it between his thumb and forefinger. This close to her, he was aware of her subtle fragrance, like soap and powder.
“No color, really,” she replied. “Brownish, rather like fog. City fog, not clean country mist.”
Warming to the concern in her wide, curious eyes, he fingered her hair, relishing the texture. “My vision is perfectly fine,” he assured her, “except that I cannot discern all colors. Mostly reds and greens, I’m told. To me, they look like mud, so I wasn’t certain if I was seeing you as you really are.”
“Truly? But how do you know which colors you can’t see? Have you ever been able to distinguish them?”
“You are wearing a blue gown. Too dark for you, I think. Yellow is very clear, which is why I like daffodils. Mrs. Beales told me the curtains in the bedroom are crimson, but to me they appear a dull brown. I’ve always been this way, as was my mother’s father. Likely I inherited it. Some years ago I consulted with John Dalton, the scientist, who also experiences color deficiency, and he thinks it may be caused by fluid in the eyeballs. In any case, nothing can be done about it. My valet sees that I don’t wear clashing colors, and I shall never be able to appreciate the Old Masters, but otherwise it is merely an inconvenience. You mustn’t mind if now and again I ask you what color you are wearing.”
Her face was alight with fascination. “But if I answered green, and you cannot see green, what difference would it make? Have you any idea what green looks like?”
“None whatever,” he replied cheerfully, “although I am informed there is a lot of it around. Trees and shrubs and grass are green, I understand. Friends tell me I see the landscape, even in spring, as it appears to them in winter. Most of all, I miss red. In poetry, it is the color of passion.”
He regretted saying that immediately. The light in her eyes shaded and she backed away, wincing a bit when his finger caught in her hair. Carefully, he unwound the long tendril and lowered his arm.
