Lady in Blue

by Lynn Kerstan

  After years of tending his dying father, he had quite determined to put his own interests first. Certain sacrifices would be required to keep the promises he’d made, but those he had already accepted. For the rest, he fully intended to enjoy himself.

  And so he was, more than ever before. Her pleasure in the cat, her delight with the opera, her relief at being spared the sponges and vinegar … hell, one smile from Clare was almost more rewarding than making love to her.

  Almost.

  Sometimes he had the terrifying certainty that he could only make her happy by letting her go, without ever taking her to bed. Almost, the anticipated pleasure of her joy when he freed her was overwhelming. Now and again he fantasized about it. A part of him wanted to do it.

  But in the end, he could not let her go. That much generosity was beyond his strength.

  Swearing an oath, Lacey rose from the table and took the glass from Bryn’s hand, draining it in a single swallow. “Lost again, damn it all.”

  With relief, Bryn saw no antagonism in his eyes. “In that case, I’ll buy you supper.”

  “Thanks, but I have to get up early tomorrow. One more drink and I’m off to bed.” He drew away from the table as another player took his place.

  After signaling to a waiter, Bryn regarded his friend somberly. “I owe you an apology, Robert.”

  “Belay it. I’d rather keep you in my debt for a while, if only for the free drinks. And here’s some good news for a change. Except for the main bedroom and one or two details I’ll handle in the morning, Clouds is ready. The bed won’t be delivered until Thursday, but meantime Clare could move into the smaller bedroom across the hall. Assuming you are in a hurry to get her out of Ernie’s house, of course.”

  “I am not, but she’s uncomfortable there. And anything will be better than the nun’s cell she now occupies.”

  Lacey raised a quizzical brow.

  The waiter’s appearance saved Bryn from explaining how he knew where she slept. He signed for the decanter of brandy and settled onto a chair.

  Lace sat across from him at the small table and clipped the tip from a cigar. “Somebody named Max Peyton is looking for you. Who the devil is he? Never saw him before.”

  “Just one more rotter I’m indebted to,” Bryn said sourly. “Where is he?”

  “In the next room, playing backgammon with Alvanley. So, what do you think? Shall we leave Clare where she is?”

  Bryn considered for a moment. “No. I’ll bring her to Clouds tomorrow afternoon. That will give her time to settle in until the bed—er, the rest of the furniture is delivered. Thursday?”

  With a laugh, the viscount lit his cigar. “Why not sleep with her tomorrow night, Bryndle? A smaller bed has some advantages, as I recall.”

  “Perhaps I will,” he said amiably, although he knew he would not. Everything had to be perfect for Clare.

  Five days until Thursday. More time to court her, with kisses and flowers. More time to make her want him the way he wanted her, which would probably require a miracle.

  He came to his feet. “You’re a good man, Lace. I’ll make this up to you. Finish the brandy while I go find Peyton and see what he wants.”

  Once again, he found himself watching the end of a game as Max Peyton rolled dice against Lord Alvanley. This time he didn’t have to wait long. The baron, his position hopeless, conceded and bowed to his opponent, pausing only long enough to warn Bryn against taking Peyton on at backgammon before moving away.

  Feeling challenged, Bryn sat down and arranged the pips in home position. “A monkey?”

  “Two,” Max replied confidently.

  Fifteen minutes later, Bryn had lost a thousand pounds.

  “I’m a lucky sod,” Peyton said cheerfully as he accepted a scrawled vowel.

  “You play well,” Bryn acknowledged, forbearing to mention the series of doubles Peyton rolled in the endgame, barely escaping defeat.

  “That too. Will you dine with me tomorrow night at Watier’s?”

  “Have I a choice? As I recall, dinner at my expense was one of your demands.”

  Peyton brushed a thick wad of tawny hair from his forehead. “So it was, but only at your convenience. Eight o’clock?”

  Bryn regarded him curiously. “Any reason you’re in such a hurry?”

  “Any number of reasons,” Peyton responded with a wide smile. “I can scarcely wait for your reaction when you hear them. It should be a most interesting meal.”

  Bryn would rather spend tomorrow, all of it, with Clare. It would be her first day at Clouds. But perhaps the move would be easier for her if she knew he had other plans for the evening. She could relax, knowing he had no intention of taking her to bed. “Watier’s, eight o’clock,” he said curtly.

  Peyton stood. “Pray convey my regards to Miss Easton.”

  Bryn looked back at him from the door. “So far as you are concerned, Peyton, she does not exist.”

  14

  Clare had been to Clouds on two other occasions, but this time she felt like a condemned woman mounting the stairs of a guillotine. This time she had come to stay.

  She stumbled, and Bryn’s arm tightened in support. He drew her to a halt on the stoop and turned to face her, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “Clare, I haven’t been here since we …”

  “Came to terms,” she said, when he couldn’t seem to finish the thought.

  He nodded. “I have no idea what Lacey’s done to the house. But when you see it, be honest and tell me what you really think. We can change anything or everything. I want you to feel at home.”

  He looked even more worried than she felt. “It will be fine, Bryn,” she assured him with a smile.

  The footman must have been waiting by the door, because it swung open before Bryn lifted the knocker. “Good afternoon, milord,” he said in a lilting Irish accent. “And welcome to ye, milady.”

  Milady? Her gaze shot to Bryn’s in a silent plea.

  “Miss Easton will do, Charley,” he said, with a touch of amusement in his voice. “Clare, this is Charles Cassidy, in case you haven’t been introduced.”

  They had not, although she had seen the redheaded, freckled young man on her last visit. He was about her own age, with a handsome face, a sturdy physique, and a twinkle in his eyes. She held out her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Cassidy?”

  Bryn’s hand, not Cassidy’s, took her own. “Call him Charley, my dear.”

  Flushing, she looked an apology at the footman for putting him in an awkward position, and could have sworn he winked at her as he bowed, his expression properly deferential.

  Bryn must have seen the wink too. In a harsh voice, he ordered Charley to help with the luggage and drew her firmly into the salon.

  She regarded the room in wonder. It had been altogether transformed. Now it was warm and relaxing, with wing chairs angled in front of the fireplace and a plush sofa facing a low coffee table. There was also a small desk and chair, a marquetry sideboard, and a rosewood table with an inlaid chessboard. Most of the walls were lined, ceiling to floor, with polished oak bookshelves.

  All of them empty.

  Bryn muttered an oath. “There should have been books. I failed to see to it.”

  The duchess’s house, although fascinating, had intimidated her, but in this room she felt comfortable. “Everything is perfect, Bryn.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her, apparently still fretting about the lack of books. “We’ll fill those shelves together,” he promised. “Tomorrow I’ll bring over a carriageful. No, I’ll send them tonight.”

  She laughed. “I haven’t read all the ones you brought me before. Mr.—Charley is unloading them now.”

  “Right.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Let’s have a look at the other rooms, then.” He led her through the formal parlor across the hall, and they peeked into the small dining room before heading upstairs.

  Immediately Clare glanced at the closed door of the master bedroom.

  “It’s not
finished,” he explained. “The b—the furniture has not been delivered, and I don’t expect we can move in for several days. Meanwhile, you’ll stay here.” He took her into a small bedroom decorated in shades of palest yellow and blue. Fresh flowers were arranged on the dresser and on the table beside the bed.

  It was quite the nicest room she’d ever been able to call her own. She rather thought she would sleep here any night Bryn didn’t expect her to be waiting for him in the mirrored suite across the hall, stretched out on that platformed bed, wearing one of the flimsy nightgowns Mrs. Beales had insisted on buying …

  “Clare?”

  Startled from her thoughts, she mustered a smile. “I—”

  “You don’t like it,” he interrupted. “Forgive me. I ought not to have brought you here before checking everything myself.”

  “The house is beautiful. And have you noticed that all the colors are ones you can see?”

  Glancing around, he shrugged. “What’s that to the point? Clouds is for you.”

  “For us,” she corrected gently. “At least Robert—Lord Heydon —seems to think so, because the rooms are decorated with both of us in mind. I think he worked wonders, especially with such a limited palette. Has anything appeared brownish to you—except things that really are brown, like wood?”

  His brow furrowed. “Not that I recall, but mostly I’ve been looking at your face. And you appear to disapprove.”

  She crossed to him and gazed into his troubled eyes, reminded of the time Jeremy had coerced Joseph into arranging a birthday gift to her from the both of them and then squirmed when she opened the package because he didn’t know what was inside. The Earl of Caradoc was the most commanding individual she had ever encountered, and it never failed to surprise her when he behaved like an uncertain young boy, worried that she wouldn’t like what he offered her. He often looked that way, in spite of his incredible generosity to a woman who, so far, had given him nothing in return.

  She put one hand on his shoulder. “Bryn, forgive me. I am frightfully nervous. By now I should not be, but I cannot seem to help myself. The house is splendid.”

  “You are only saying that to make me feel better,” he said stiffly.

  “As if I would.” Her lips curved. “I seize every opportunity to put you in your place, Lord Caradoc. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  After a moment, he laughed and drew her into his arms. “Indeed I have, hellion.”

  His embrace led to a kiss, and as it deepened she felt closer to him than she’d ever been, even the night she slept with her head on his shoulder. She wondered if he would take her to bed now, in broad daylight. That was, after all, the only reason she was in this house. Her hands slid under his jacket, wrapping around his waist, and with a low rumble in his chest he pulled her closer.

  And then he abruptly set her away, breathing heavily. “I want you,” he said.

  Unable to speak, she stared back at him.

  “But I cannot stay.” He turned and moved to the door. “Not even for another minute, or I won’t be able to leave.” Keeping his back to her—deliberately, she thought—he looked at her over his shoulder. “I stupidly made another engagement for this evening, Clare, to someone who has a claim on me. I owe him a debt and thought to discharge it while you settle in here.”

  She smiled. “I shall be here whenever you want me.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll take you to lunch, and then to Hatchard’s, or perhaps the British Museum. We shall spend the whole day together, doing whatever you like.” His expression turned serious. “And we’ll we spend our first night together, as lovers, only when you are ready.”

  Now, she wanted to scream. Let’s get it over with, while you are being so kind to me. While I’m not afraid.

  But he moved into the passageway, and she barely heard his last words. “Soon, Clare. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.”

  “I HAVE CHOSEN the wines and the menu,” Max informed Bryn at the door of a private dining room at Watier’s. “You will be paying, of course.”

  From the wide grin on Peyton’s face, Bryn knew he was in for an expensive evening. And a dull one, making conversation with a man he scarcely knew. But as it turned out, Peyton was capable of maintaining a conversation, or at least a monologue, for the duration of a long, leisurely meal. And to his surprise, Bryn enjoyed his wildly improbable tales about life in India.

  “I should travel more,” he observed, during a rare break between stories.

  “I daresay it would loosen you up a bit.”

  Bryn lifted a brow.

  “Ah, the aristocratic gesture of disdain.” Laughing, Max raised his wineglass in a toast. “To British snobbery.”

  “Someone,” Bryn said in a chilling voice, “ought to teach you a few manners.”

  “It has been tried, with little success. My father eventually shipped me off in the service of the East India Company, with firm instructions not to return until I’d made a man of myself.”

  “And did you?”

  After a beat, Max leaned back and folded his arms. “Most people like me, Lord Caradoc. May I ask why you do not?”

  Because Clare smiled at you, Bryn thought immediately. But he couldn’t say that. “I am in your debt. It gives you an advantage.”

  “But once you sign for this meal, equity between us will be restored. Well, not altogether, because I’ll still race your curricle when the opportunity arises, but you have already conceded that favor.”

  “You might have demanded more,” Bryn said thoughtfully. “In fact, I expect you intend to do just that. There must be some point to this dinner other than the dubious pleasure of my company.”

  “And so there is. I did warn you about a business proposition, although I’d hoped to mellow you first. Clearly my extensive research into your favorite foods and wines has been in vain.”

  Bryn reached for the port. “Rather too obvious. I resent anyone who pries into my affairs.”

  “Which I have done,” Max confessed without remorse. “To an extent that will put me in your black books for a very long time.”

  Bryn barked a laugh. “What makes you imagine I’d do business with a stranger, let alone one who admits trying to manipulate me?”

  “Perhaps for that very reason. And because the venture I propose will cost you a great deal of money.” Max refilled his glass. “Moreover, it will provide no return whatsoever on your investment.”

  “What?” Bryn sat forward. “Are you demented? Why should I spend a minute of my time listening to such an absurd proposition?”

  Max shrugged. “Because you are curious, perhaps?”

  Bryn didn’t bother to deny it. The man knew more about him than his taste in food and wine, to recognize his fascination with the impossible. “I’ll hear you out,” he said, trying to sound bored. “So long as it doesn’t take too long.”

  With an unsettling look on his face, Max rang for the waiter.

  While the table was cleared, Bryn puffed on a cigar and watched Peyton from the corner of his eye. He had come prepared with a leather case full of papers and maps, and when the waiter was gone he stacked them on the table and resumed his seat. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm.

  Bryn felt the familiar tingle a challenge always roused in him and deliberately tried to squelch it. Only a fool entered a business arrangement with no hope of profit. He was curious, nothing more.

  An hour later, he was fascinated to an extent that astonished him. Max Peyton’s clever, daring scheme had enormous potential, although the early risks were substantial. A large investment would be required at the outset, but that was the least of it.

  “As you see,” Max explained unnecessarily, “unless we are to wait for years while new vessels are constructed, you will be forced to adjust your current shipping schedule. Radically, I’m afraid.”

  That was putting it mildly, Bryn thought with an interior snarl. He speculated in land, but much of the Caradoc fortune was derived from trading ventures. Most of the ships
he owned outright, although he had established several partnerships in the early days and maintained them for reasons of loyalty. He could never bring himself to abandon the men who helped him get started, even though they’d since become a nuisance.

  This new proposal would force him to reorganize nearly every aspect of his business affairs. Peyton wanted more than a financial investment. He was asking him to disrupt profitable enterprises that provided his major source of income.

  “Interesting,” he conceded, when Peyton had finished his presentation. “If it works—”

  “It will, and you know it. John Company is choked by its own bureaucracy, and opportunities go unexplored from sheer inertia. Consider America. It is expanding, with the territory acquired from Bonaparte and most of the continent wide open for development.” Max propped his elbows on the table. “Your contacts with markets in the Orient are invaluable. You have both the ships and the access to goods America will be needing in the years ahead. Eventually we’ll be cut out, because in my experience Americans prefer to do for themselves, but in the meantime we can make a fortune.”

  “If so, why did you tell me not to look for a return on my investment?”

  “Oh, there will be profits,” Max said cheerfully, “but I have plans for them. And that, Lord Caradoc, is the one element of this arrangement you may not take to. In fact, I intend that every penny be allotted to establish schools for young men and women whose families cannot afford to educate them.”

  Bryn choked on a swallow of port. “You are setting up a bloody charity?”

  “Exactly. Although I do not care for that term.” Max reached into the leather case and pulled out another stack of papers. “Part two of my proposal. These you will wish to study in detail.”

  “The hell I will. As it is, I give a rather substantial amount to worthy causes. I’ll not risk everything I’ve built these last twenty years so you can construct classrooms.” His eyes narrowed. “What in blazes made you think I’d even consider it?”