by Lynn Kerstan
She thought it over. “Yes, I suppose I am. Although it takes me rather a long time to dredge up the courage.”
His eyebrows wriggled theatrically. “There is always one way to escape these outings, m’dear. You can make me a better offer.”
She laughed. “You really are the devil’s own, Caradoc. And to say you are the most selfish man alive is a gross understatement. You are wholly self-absorbed.”
“Not so much as I was before meeting you, princess,” he said in a shadowed voice. “But in my defense, there was a good reason for bringing you here today. After the face-off with Landry at the Opera House, followed by his abrupt disappearance, I wanted to be seen carrying on as though nothing happened.”
“That makes sense,” she conceded. “Am I along to draw a bit more attention to you?”
“In part. Your presence will help dispel the rumors about my attachment to Elizabeth, which have no basis in fact and can only do her harm. She will have a dull season indeed if all the eligible men assume I have staked a claim.”
Puzzled, Clare gazed straight ahead, seeing nothing. Why would he risk losing Elizabeth to another suitor? Not that any man could measure up to the Earl of Caradoc, and he was confident enough to know that. But it was generous of him to allow Elizabeth a few months to enjoy herself, free of demands from her father or her future husband. Perhaps he was not so selfish as she’d first imagined.
“Clare?” He cast her a quizzical glance. “Have I offended you again?”
“On the contrary. I was thinking about the care you have taken with Elizabeth, and your kindness to her.”
He waved a negligent hand. “I hope she becomes a great success, and I expect Isabella will make sure of it. But her welfare is not the main reason we are trundling through Hyde Park this afternoon. I wanted to be with you, princess. It makes me happy.”
She swallowed a gulp of surprise. “Then I shall try not to quarrel any more, although wrangling with you is a great distraction from the looks everyone is sending our way.”
“Devil take them all,” he said. “We’ve accomplished our purpose, so let’s have some fun.” With a flick of his wrist, the grays sprang forward, zigzagging around every obstacle until he steered them onto a deserted path just wide enough to accommodate the curricle’s wheels. He grinned at her with pure male vanity. “Goes like a dream, don’t she? Barely makes a ripple in the air.”
Clare released her grip on his arm and straightened her skirt. Seeing Bryn this way, behaving like an overgrown schoolboy, reminded her of Jeremy. She wanted to hug him. “That was quite a display.”
“I couldn’t resist,” he confessed. “Men like to show off for a lovely girl. One day soon we’ll drive to Claude’s place in Richmond, and you’ll have a chance to see how fast Black Lightning really is.”
“I can hardly wait. Do watch the road, Bryn. Someone is coming over the rise.” She pointed ahead. “What a beautiful horse!”
Bryn’s good mood soured when he recognized the rider approaching them on a magnificent bay. Max Peyton was a devilishly handsome man: tan, tawny-haired, and sleek as a healthy young lion. Clare had obviously noticed, because she was smiling at him.
“Caradoc,” Max said pleasantly, his gaze focused on Clare as if awaiting an introduction.
Not likely, the earl thought, annoyed that Peyton sat a horse so well. When had he ever imagined he could be friends with this man? “If you are looking for Rotten Row, stay on this path and turn left at the Serpentine.”
Peyton laughed. “Actually, I was trying to escape that mob scene, but I got lost on these winding roads. Are you enjoying this fine afternoon, Miss … ?”
“Clare Easton,” she replied softly.
Bryn snarled.
“My pleasure, Miss Easton,” said Max, doffing his hat and regarding her with clear appreciation before returning his attention to the earl. “I say, Caradoc, that is a prime curricle. Never seen its like. Do you race it?”
“Rarely. I have little time for childish games.” When Clare chuckled, Bryn cast her a quelling look.
“What a shame.” Max raised a brow. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to do so when you are occupied with business. She ought to be taken out and put through her paces.”
“What the devil makes you—?” Bryn’s hand tightened on the reins. “I forgot. You’ve a claim on me, Peyton, but that’s one hell of a favor to ask.”
“Forgive our language, Miss Easton,” said the lion with a grin.
Bryn lifted his gaze to Clare in apology and caught a wicked glint in her eye. She was enjoying this, the baggage—his own atrocious manners and the unmistakable charm of a man who treated her like a lady instead of a possession.
“Black Lightning is yours when you want it, one race only,” he told Max gruffly. “And that is the only thing of mine you can put your hands on.”
“But you owe me two favors, Caradoc. And you know how I feel about gentlemen who fail to pay their debts. How is Landry, by the way?”
“In better health than he deserves, and traveling to preserve it. You’ll have no chance to collect from him for several months, and precious little after that.”
“Then you see why I must be assiduous about collecting from debtors present and solvent. In your case, I shall consider us even after you buy me the best dinner in London.” He smiled at Clare. “Miss Easton, under ordinary circumstances I would invite you to join us, but I plan to use this opportunity to propose a business venture.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Bryn said curtly. Without another word he chucked the grays into a trot.
Clare looked back over her shoulder, and when Peyton waved she waved back.
At that moment, Bryn wanted for the second time in two days to kill a man. He drove blindly for several minutes, so angry he didn’t feel Clare’s arm steal through his to hold on. Then he heard her gasp and saw a landau coming directly at them. Just in time, he managed to swerve onto the grass.
They sat in silence for a long minute.
“I suppose you think I’m rude,” he said, steering the grays back to the road.
“I expect Mr. Peyton thinks so.” She let go his arm. “Does everyone know what happened last night?”
“Only you, Lacey, Isabella, and Peyton. I trust you will speak of it to no one.”
“Who would I tell, since you’ve named nearly everyone in London I know?”
“You are not,” he said darkly, “acquainted with Max Peyton. I want to keep it that way.”
She agreed without expression. “We shall keep everything exactly as you wish it.”
Which put him firmly in his place, Bryn reflected as he drove out of the park. By his side, Clare had withdrawn into herself. He signaled a hackney to pull onto a quiet street behind him and found a boy to hold the grays while he settled Clare into the cab. Then he leaned his arms against the open window. She gazed back at him, composed and distant. He felt another surge of helpless anger.
“Tomorrow afternoon, you are to meet with Mrs. Beales at Clouds,” he said. “It should not take more than an hour, and the kitchen will do well enough if the workmen have not finished decorating the parlor. In the evening, if you do not object, we shall go to the theater.”
Her gaze was troubled. “What will take an hour?”
“I explained when we first came to terms,” he said, not kindly. “In two days the house will be ready, and this unnatural situation will at last come to an end. There are matters you must know about beforehand, and Mrs. Beales will instruct you. Pay careful attention.” His hands gripped the panel. He wanted to say something pleasant and couldn’t think of anything. “Get a good night’s sleep,” he advised finally.
After paying the driver and providing the direction, he stood for a long time after the cab disappeared before swinging into the curricle. His precious Black Lightning, soon to be violated by another man. A man Clare had waved to. Smiled at.
DISGRUNTLED, HE drove to Watier’s for a solitary meal and finally settled himself in a quiet room with a b
ottle of good cognac to brood.
Clare reminded him of cognac: warm, deep, biting, intoxicating.
When he was younger, he’d imagined falling in love. Even his father’s faithlessness and his mother’s despair had not rid him of that romantic notion. But as the years went by, he learned how the game was played. Aristocrats married to ally families and fortunes. A wedding was no more than the merging of assets, with love an accidental bonus on the rare occasions it entered the picture.
He’d resigned himself to a marriage of convenience but could never bring himself to make one. Always there was the foolish hope that someday he’d meet a woman he could love, one who’d love him in return. Why had he thought to prove an exception?
Now it was far too late, even for hope. He was thirty-five years old. Suitable brides were half his age, most of them undereducated and likely to bore him within weeks.
Clare would never bore him, but he couldn’t marry her.
He poured himself another drink. It was time to face the facts. He required two women—Clare to love and another to bear his name and heir. Elizabeth Landry could do that, unless she was luckier than he had been. She might yet find what he’d dreamed of, but if she did not, he would marry her—so long as she accepted his intention to keep a mistress.
And Clare would have to accept his marriage.
More air dreams, he told himself cynically. So far she barely tolerated him, and he wasn’t even sure he loved her. For all he knew, he was incapable of loving anyone. But God in Heaven, he wanted to.
So far, all he’d done was make a prime ass of himself. Either Clare brought out the worst in him, or she turned a bright light on what was really there. Repeatedly, he made sure to remind her she was a whore, with duties to perform, skills to acquire, obedience expected. After her session tomorrow with Mrs. Beales, she would despise him all the more.
For the first time in his life, Bryn found himself uneasy in his own company.
“Hallo, Bryndle.” Robert Lacey pulled over a chair and helped himself to the nearly empty decanter of cognac. Appropriating the earl’s snifter, he refilled it and settled back with a provoking grin. “You appear to be in a bad mood, which is just as well because I have bad news. I’d hate to ruin a good mood, not that I’ve seen you in one since I can remember.”
“Cut line,” growled the earl. The last thing he needed was another dose of bad news. “What’s happened now?”
“More what hasn’t happened, I’m afraid. Clouds won’t be ready on Sunday. The business with Elizabeth set me back a day, but pretty much everything is in place except the bed. It won’t be delivered for another week.”
“Bloody hell, Lace, that’s the only thing we can’t do without. It’s not as if we required the Great Bed of Ware. I’d have thought a bed would be the first thing you requisitioned.”
“So it was, but I wanted something special. In good taste for a change, elegant and comfortable, hand carved from mahogany. But the woodcarver’s been sick from eating bad fish. He’ll finish up Wednesday at the earliest, and perhaps not even then.” Lacey cradled the snifter between his hands. “Have a dip in the Thames, old boy. You’re a blazing fever on two legs.”
“You don’t know the half of it. And what the devil are you doing here, with Clouds still needing work? I gave you a fairly simple task, and you’ve accomplished nothing.”
Lacey came to his feet. “No doubt I should be hanging wallpaper at three o’clock in the morning, but I had an irresistible urge to be dressed down. Make do with Clouds as is, Brynmore. I resign, effective immediately.”
Astonished, Bryn watched him stalk away. Not once in all their years of friendship had Robert Lacey lost his temper for so little cause. His own offensive behavior was nothing out of the ordinary, and Lace had always shrugged it off. Until now.
It occurred to him that he demanded rather a lot of his friends. They deserved his best, but he gave them his worst and expected to be forgiven. Only Clare stood up to him, holding him accountable for his conduct.
So far today, he’d succeeded in antagonizing Max Peyton, Robert Lacey, and Clare. Maybe he should ride on down to Canterbury and pick a fight with the archbishop.
Making up his mind to be exceptionally polite to his valet, who was no doubt waiting up for him, Bryn struck out for home. Tomorrow he would make amends with Clare and Lace. Peyton could wait. That was an acquaintance he did not want to encourage until Clare was content to remain his mistress. At the moment, he wouldn’t blame her for turning to a younger and kinder man, but he wasn’t ready to give her the chance.
All the way to St. James’s Square, Bryn rehearsed speeches to ease himself into Clare’s good books after her trying encounter with Mrs. Beales. The housekeeper’s lecture had been reviewed for him by previous mistresses, and he felt almost embarrassed, thinking about what Clare faced tomorrow morning.
12
Clare gazed at the large table with some amazement. It was covered with all sorts of things that could not possibly be related: silky paper that looked as if it was oiled, a lemon, thread, scissors and a sponge, vinegar, honey, disks of wax, olive oil, alum, bark, green tea, herbs of every kind, items she could not identify, and a cucumber.
Mrs. Beales looked bored as she allowed time for Clare to examine the display before asking her to take a seat. Obviously she had been through this exercise many times.
Clare settled nervously on the trestle bench, hands folded in her lap, still not altogether certain what to expect. When she arrived at Clouds, the housekeeper led her immediately to the kitchen without explanation. Bryn had told her about this lesson, but she could not decipher what it concerned.
With a thin-lipped smile, Mrs. Beales took up a position directly across from her. “Today,” she said briskly, “I shall introduce you to several methods of preventing conception. As the earl has no doubt made clear, his first son must be born in wedlock. After that happy occurrence, and should you still be under his protection, the two of you may decide to have children together. Until then, all care must be taken. You do understand that?”
Clare stared at her, cheeks flaming. Better than most, she knew the consequences of careless passion and what happened when an aristocrat bred children on a woman he did not intend to marry.
“Very well, then.” Mrs. Beales made a sweeping gesture over the table. “This is a mere sample of prophylactic devices, culled from my studies. I have developed rather an interest in the matter and pride myself on keeping up with the latest advances.”
“There seem to be a g-great many of them,” Clare stammered. “Could you not simply tell me which is the best choice? In truth, I know embarrassingly little about … anything.”
“My dear, all the young women who have sat across from me at this table were innocent, although few were entirely ignorant. However, I shall assume you know nothing at all, and you must stop me if you have a question.”
“I do. The same question, actually. In my place, which method would you choose?”
“I would never be in your place, Miss Easton.”
Clare stood and regarded her levelly. “Consider yourself fortunate to have been given a choice.”
The housekeeper’s cold blue eyes held a glint of approval. “Because I lost any claim to beauty before I was out of leading strings, my own choice was confined to Harry Beales, as ugly-tempered a brute as ever walked this earth until he fell off a horse and hit his head on a rock. I made certain the obliging horse lived like a king for the rest of its life.”
She folded her arms across her thin chest. “Dislike me if you choose, young woman. I have worked for Lord Caradoc these past twelve years, although he tells me I am nosy and insolent. In fact, he has dismissed me eleven times, but always he begs me to come back, with a rise in salary. Should you insist, he’d dismiss me yet again, and I would stay with my sister until another young woman is ready to sit in that chair and learn what she needs to know. It’s up to you whether we live in this house together, Miss Easton. Otherwis
e I shall wait out your tenure elsewhere.”
Clare sat, recognizing a force stronger than herself.
Mrs. Beales produced a sour smile. “A wise decision. Now, shall we begin? The only certain way to prevent the birth of a child at an inappropriate time is abstinence. Under the circumstances, we cannot consider that an option, but I wish your understanding to be complete. Your circumstances may change, and what will not do with his lordship may later be your method of choice.”
Abstinence would definitely top her list, Clare reflected, once she was free of her debt to the earl.
“Some gentlemen prefer to take the responsibility themselves,” Mrs. Beales went on, “whether for lack of confidence in other methods or mistrust of their partners, I cannot say. The earl assures me this will not be possible with you, which is unfortunate. Withdrawal is much the easiest procedure for the female.”
“I see.” Clare swallowed. “Er—withdrawal of what, exactly?”
Mrs. Beales sat down, regarding her curiously. “Have you no brothers, Miss Easton?”
Her eyes lowered. “No, not precisely. That is, I am aware of certain anatomical differences between the genders and have occasionally witnessed mating between dogs and the like. But somehow I cannot quite imagine how it works.” Her gaze lifted. “It all seems exceedingly … awkward.”
“And so it is, in many ways. When you are more schooled regarding the physical details, much of what I am about to tell you will make better sense. At that time, I shall be happy to review this lesson. A good argument,” she added with a quirked mouth as she pulled a small notebook from her apron pocket, “for keeping me here. I have written down several recipes, with instructions for everything I am about to describe, so you needn’t concern yourself with remembering it all. Simply get a general feel for things, and then I’ll give you my recommendations.”
Clare nodded mutely.
The housekeeper propped her elbows on the table. “We have our concoctions, our insertions, and our barriers. The concoctions, usually brewed into tea or some other liquid, consist primarily of herbs. There are hundreds of such potions, but I have recorded only a few of the most efficacious. To get you started, I prepared a centuries-old gypsy formula.” She pushed a small jar across the table. “You must drink a teaspoonful of this mixed into water every morning, but it will take several weeks to become effective. In the meantime, you must also employ another method.”
