“I have to say, Marie-Anne, you seem like you have just as hard a time as I do, resisting when you’re tempted. Do you ever keep a thought to yourself?”
“It is rare,” she agreed, glad that his color had died down. “But I try to be careful of people. When you are tempted you see only what you want, and if it is available? Well then, you take it.”
He stopped walking and looked at her. It did worry her, how he had seemed to reject the idea that what he was doing could really hurt someone. She suspected that he was not accustomed to considering the consequences, probably because he’d planned to run away before there were any.
“So you’re testing me, is that it?” He raised his brows and it made half of the freckles she’d counted on his forehead disappear into the furrows created. She had to try very hard not to look at him like a love-struck girl there in the street. “You want to see if I can resist when what I want is there for the taking.”
She was visited by a brief vision of him taking her. Oh merde merde merde, this would be very difficult. Still, she shrugged as if it was a perfectly reasonable and simple course. “If you can resist me, then I think it will prove you can also resist this very tempting information that surrounds you.”
“Resist you? Forever?”
She could not help giving a burst of laughter at the woeful note in his voice.
“I think not forever. But for a little while. To prove that you can, you understand?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Well it seems we are entering into a wager to see who can resist the longest.”
Now it was she who raised her brows at him. “You think you are so tempting to me?”
“Madame,” he said in that slow, sweet way that he had, “I know it for a fact.”
And though she pretended otherwise, it was disconcerting to know how right he was. He was very assured of himself, and he had every right to be. At least it was a wager she wouldn’t mind losing. Not in the short-term, anyway. And the short-term was all there seemed to be, with Mason.
Chapter Thirteen
Upon their return to the manor house they were greeted with what sounded to Mason like a very one-sided argument taking place in the drawing room. He would normally have gone immediately to investigate, because it seemed obvious he should. But he was learning that he was even more ignorant than he’d suspected about the proper course of action among this finer class of people. And Marie-Anne was forcing him to consider that his moral instincts might be as lacking as his etiquette.
He looked to her now, prepared to follow her lead. She had paused in the act of untying her bonnet.
“But that is Phyllida,” she said with alarm.
Amy was already hurrying toward the drawing room. Marie-Anne followed swiftly behind, as did the other guests, and Mason wasted no time in joining the parade.
“I shall never forgive you, never!” Phyllida was shouting. Her cheeks were pink, a hand pressed to the base of her throat, her lips trembling. She had inherited her mother’s fondness for high drama. “It is a betrayal of the very foundation of our friendship, sir. How can you think I would welcome it, how can you!” And she burst into tears.
The poet St. James stood at a very respectable distance from her in the drawing room, looking only a little pained. He was good at posing like this, stoic and noble and infuriatingly handsome. It was the same suffering-artist look he always put on after reading out a piece of his poetry to an unenthusiastic audience. Amy had rushed to embrace her weeping sister and it was only when she looked up at him, furious, that St. James began to look heartsick.
“What exactly did you do, St. James?” Mason asked, a little surprised at how aggressively it came out. He thought he’d become inured to Phyllida’s dramatics, but a weeping girl was still a weeping girl.
“Faithless!” cried Phyllida now, dashing the tears from her face. “I would never have envisioned such treachery from you, never. All your promises to me were lies–”
“I never promised anything, I swear it.” St. James addressed this to Amy, who still glared at him. “On my honor–”
“Honor! You speak of honor!” Phyllida had caught a second wind now. She drew herself up, all offended dignity, and slowly pointed an accusing finger at him in an impressively theatrical gesture. “You are a stranger to honor, you dreadful…you perfidious…you cad.”
Now everyone was staring at St. James who, it must be said, did not have the look of a guilty man. He looked instead like he wanted throw up his hands and declare her a lunatic, but was too much a gentleman to do so. Mason sympathized deeply, and thought it best to get everything out in the open as quickly as possible.
“Well spit it out, St. James, so we can sort out if there needs to be a duel.” This earned Mason several looks that clearly told him he had no right to say it. But since Marie-Anne didn’t look appalled or tell him to shut his fool mouth, he didn’t care. “Don’t worry, I don’t have a pistol. Just a burning desire to know what all the fuss is about.”
St. James gave a curt nod. “I have informed Phyllida of my intention to pursue the study of law.”
Mason waited, with everyone else, for him to continue. There was only silence, though, apart from Phyllida’s choked gasp – as though she’d never heard anything so mortally wounding.
“And?” prompted Mason.
“And he is abandoning poetry!” cried Phyllida. When the response to this aggrieved declaration was a deafening silence, she looked beseechingly at the incredulous faces surrounding her. “But don’t you understand? He forsakes the Muse! To become a lawyer!”
Marie-Anne turned abruptly away so that her face was hidden, but not before Mason saw her hand come up to cover her mouth. He thought he might have to do the same, if he wanted to avoid laughing in Phyllida’s face. Amy was far more gracious and composed.
“Is that all, Phyllie dear?”
“All!” Phyllida gasped, appalled at her sister’s sangfroid. “We cannot all be content with dull church mice, Amy. Some souls yearn for a wisdom and beauty that can never be found in a vicarage – or in tedious books of law. A lawyer! I can find nothing to admire in it, nothing at all.”
“I think it very admirable that Mr. St. James should look to the future and choose a profession that might provide a comfortable living.”
“But I was promised poetry,” wailed Phyllida.
Amy clearly wished the audience would have the decency to disperse, but there was no chance of it as long as there was such quality entertainment to be had. She patted Phyllida’s hand in a soothing gesture and avoided looking toward Marie-Anne’s back, which was now shaking with suppressed laughter. Mason felt a renewed flood of gratitude that she had gotten him out of his entanglement with the ridiculous Shipley family.
“It’s a terrible disappointment, of course,” Amy said quietly to her sister. “And yet just as you must be true to your own nature, so must Mr. St. James be true to his. In time, I’m sure you will come to see that it is for the best. You have often said, Phyllida, that the superior soul must strive to be above such temporal concerns.”
Mason almost applauded. This was the practiced art of the long-suffering older sister who knew exactly how to end a tantrum. Phyllida visibly gathered herself and nodded at her sister. “Temporal concerns. Just so. Yes, one must rise above,” she said, sounding like a martyr serenely facing an arena of lions.
She let go of Amy’s hands and turned once more to St. James.
“I could never be a lawyer’s wife, Mr. St. James. I could not bear it. I suppose I must wish you luck.”
“I regret that my decision has caused you distress,” he said stiffly.
“And I regret that you have abandoned your dreams, and all my hopes with them,” she sniffed, lips trembling. “Farewell, Aloysius.”
And so saying, she made a slow exit, cloaked in an aura of great tragedy and with all eyes on her. It was the best show Mason had seen since he’d come to England.
“My imagination is a terrible fa
ilure,” Marie-Anne said that night when she had finished howling with laughter. She’d managed to compose herself very well after Phyllida’s scene, but gave in to hilarity within seconds of stepping through the panel into Mason’s room. “I thought it was only possible that he would lose interest in her. I did not consider she could possibly lose interest in him.”
“It’s the first evidence I’ve seen that there’s any hope for her.” Mason was sketching her laughing eyes, or trying to. It was hard when she kept wiping them and moving her face, but now she was calming down and settling at last in the chair.
“What can you mean, any hope for her? She scorns a man because he will abandon bad poetry and because he will work in the law. She is very full of nonsense.”
“I don’t agree. If she was full of nothing but nonsense then his ambitions wouldn’t matter to her. That pretty face of his would’ve been enough to keep her hanging on.”
She blinked, surprised. “But... oh no, I think you are right!” Dismay came over her face. “If it were me I would stay with him. His profession would not matter to me, if I could look at him every day. This is very concerning, to find I am so frivolous. More than Phyllida, even!”
She genuinely seemed a little appalled at herself.
“At the risk of being too self-assured, Marie-Anne, I have to say that if you were anything like frivolous you’d be naked and on that bed with me right now.” He started over on his drawing, concentrating on that instead of the thought of her naked on his bed.
The tiny crease at the corner of her eye was what most betrayed her. It only appeared when she was teasing. Because of it, he knew she was not serious before she even said a word.
“Perhaps if you looked like Mr. St. James, I would be inclined to be more frivolous.”
He looked at her. Not to study the shape of her eye, but just to look straight at her and through her blatant attempt to play on his jealousy. He let his mind fill up with memories of her hot mouth on his throat, and how she had thrust her hips against him and moaned. She could see it, what he was thinking of.
“Perhaps if you were naked on the bed, we could be all kinds of frivolous together.”
He should count it as some kind of victory that she could not hold his look, but he didn’t feel remotely victorious. He just felt a little dizzy from all the blood rushing south. She was going soft right in front of his eyes, easing back in the chair, her hand smoothing slow and languid across the fabric of her gown against her knee. The outline of her legs was clear and made him think of the plump softness of her inner thigh. He could taste her still, all the flavors of her still vivid in his mouth even though it had been days. It had been forever.
It took a moment to realize she had said something. He had only heard her faint murmur and thought of her moans, because he was that far gone into his imagination. “What?”
“You are drawing,” she said. Her voice was like her body, all soft and slow and suggestive. “You remember I am here to ask what you draw?”
He held up the page of poorly proportioned eyes, embarrassing scribbles that he’d be ashamed to show her except that she wanted proof.
“This will not sell gossip papers,” she said.
He shook his head. “St. James being scorned by Phyllida Shipley and abandoning poetry – that would sell papers.”
“But you draw me instead.”
“I’m trying to. You’ve got me a little distracted.” Maybe he should go back to drawing her mouth. He knew how to do that.
She lifted her shoulders just barely, an attempt at nonchalance. “It is you who talks about naked on the bed. You distract yourself. You see how I sit here innocently? I came to see art.”
He would have challenged her on the word – she said “art” as though he had any right to the word – but he was far more interested in how her breasts now rose and fell in shallow breaths. It was not performance. He was sure she didn’t even realize how plainly she showed she was aroused. The other things were purposeful, like her trying to make him a little jealous, and lingering in his room even after knowing he wasn’t telling tales on her friends. She was reminding him that she was there for the taking, and that he was supposed to resist the temptation she offered.
It was as much a punishment as it was a test, and he didn’t doubt he deserved it. The arbitrary nature of it was the worst part. How would he know when he’d proven himself? When she fell into his bed, he supposed. Or when she gave in to her obvious desire to kiss him. And it was obvious.
She wanted it every bit as much as he did. Which meant he had something to work with.
He had exactly no experience in seducing women – at least not romantically or sexually. The rules he’d set out for himself long ago prohibited significant cruelty, so he’d never played that game. He knew how to charm and persuade for other reasons, though. It was all the same principles: coax down the defenses, give them a glimpse of what could be, wait for them to fall for it.
Deciding it was worth a try, he said, “I’ll draw something for you. Not like how I draw for the papers.” It was the most open and artless he’d ever seen her, no defenses at all when she looked at his secret drawings. To realize it was a revelation, that anything he’d done could have evoked that in her. “Anything you want. You can watch.”
She looked up at him, delighted. “You will not be annoyed with me to hang over your shoulder? Oh, but no – I will not dictate. Only watch.” She got up and came around to his side of the desk, standing over him and the fresh sheet of paper he placed there. “I want you to choose,” she said. “Something beautiful to you.”
He looked up at her, long enough to make her breathing go quick again, then gave her a slow smile. The pencils were lined up, graphite in varying degrees of sharp and rounded, and he reached for the first.
“Something beautiful,” he agreed, and began to draw with the smell of her filling his senses.
He’d never considered letting anyone watch him draw this sort of thing before. The silly things and sketches for the papers were different. Those weren’t meant to be life-like or lovely, and he was happy to show them to anyone who cared to see. But the things he loved to make were hidden away, his own secret, purposeless indulgence. They didn’t make money. No one wanted them but him – and now her.
He moved his hand along the paper. It was all sinuous lines. Graceful curves and delicate folds appeared under his pencil as the heat of her body warmed his arm where she stood next to his chair. He felt a distant terror behind the thrill, the danger of giving this part of himself to her, of exposing himself to her judgement. It was only fitting that coaxing down her defenses would require him to take down his own, that seducing her meant tempting himself to the point of yearning.
“It is…a flower?” she asked, her voice husky and sweet. “I do not know it.”
She had leaned down closer to the page, and he could feel her breath against his cheek. He turned his face to observe her and saw the wonder in her eyes, the obvious enchantment as she studied the page. She thought it was beautiful. She didn’t have to say it, because her face showed it.
And it was beautiful. Anyone would say so, even if they never saw what he had put there. He rubbed a finger carefully over a line to smudge it a little, to create a more diffuse shadow in the declivity between the petals. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered, “It’s you. I hid it in a flower. But it’s you.”
There was a little jolt of controlled surprise that ran through her as she saw it, and then the unexpected blush that was like a slow-blooming rose, the color spreading delicately over her cheekbones, up to her hairline, down to her neck. All the while a mix of emotions played across her features: a little scandalized, amused, bashful, and still reluctantly enchanted. Thank god it hadn’t offended.
“Mason!” she admonished softly.
“You said something beautiful.” He brushed his finger soft and slow on the page, up and down the inner curve where in real life, his tongue had pulled the sweetest sounds f
rom her. Her flush deepened. This time it was not modesty, but lust.
The defenses down, the glimpse of what could be – and now he only had to wait for her to fall. Just let her be pulled in by the gravity of her own wanting. Her hand came up over the page, her finger atop his as he traced over the secret lines of her body. It was very possibly the greatest discipline he’d ever shown, that he didn’t lean into her, turn his face and catch her mouth when he knew she wanted him to.
“Marie-Anne,” he rasped.
“You think I cannot resist, hm?” Her eyes were closed, concentration in her face. She was trying quite desperately to keep control of herself, and it thrilled him.
“I can’t think of any reason you should,” he answered honestly.
Her eyes opened. The blue had gone smoky, unfocused. “To prove you can resist temptation. You remember?” A sleepy smile pulled at her mouth. “You try to make me so hungry that I will make it easy and give in first.”
“Well,” he murmured, trying to think clearly. He put his face closer to the warmth of her neck and inhaled the scent of her hair, her skin. She gave a delicate shudder. “There’s no need to make it so difficult for yourself. I’m right here, and the bed’s right there.”
“Mm, yes it’s true,” she sighed happily. “But you have miscalculated. To satisfy this, I do not need a bed. Or you.”
She pulled away a little away from him to lean back against the wall. There was no more little embarrassment or shyness in her. She looked directly at him as she pulled her skirt up with one hand, and slipped the other hand between her legs.
He made a sound that was somewhere between amazement and protest, only because he could not believe it. He could hardly decide where to look – the serene smile on her face or her hand moving softly beneath her skirts. “Marie-Anne.”
Her eyes drifted open to look at him, and she made a little humming sound. “Do I shock you?”
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 18
