Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  She chuckled, then said hesitantly, “I really should not.”

  Alex grimaced. “Because I am the master and you are a maid?” At her nod, he said, “I promise not to tell anyone if you won’t. Having removed that barrier, what would you like?” He crossed to a cabinet that concealed bottles of every beverage imaginable.

  “Well, if we are to drink like sailors, surely rum would be most proper?”

  He laughed. “You can if you like, but I prefer Irish whiskey myself.”

  “In that case, some cognac would be nice.”

  Alex located the appropriate bottle and poured some in a cut-crystal goblet. When Christa took it from him, she gently swirled the amber liquid, then sniffed it, giving a soft sigh of pleasure. “Your cellar is very fine.”

  “It should be. I expect that brandy is older than you are.” They drifted back to the fire, sitting in chairs facing each other.

  “Do you think so?” she said incautiously. “I should have thought it was made about 1775.”

  Alex’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, golden arcs in the firelight that sculptured his high cheekbones and long jaw. “Your palate is as well-educated as your mind. You must also be older than I would have guessed.”

  “I am twenty-four, my lord.”

  “You don’t look it.” Alex eyed her thoughtfully; he had supposed Christa to be nineteen or twenty; should it make a difference that she was older, with more experience and judgment? She looked so enticing, her lively hands still, her dark curls for once free of the ubiquitous mobcap.

  As she sipped her brandy, Christa pondered whether she should broach the subject of Annabelle and Sir Edward. When she had asked her mistress about him earlier in the day, Annabelle had changed the subject with almost feverish anxiety. Christa felt torn between loyalties: Alex had asked her to watch out for Annabelle, but she hated to carry tales, and feared that Annabelle would never forgive her for it.

  After some minutes of comfortable silence, Christa said slowly, “I have been worried about Annabelle, my lord.”

  He knit his brows and admitted, “So have I. She seems strained; I wonder if she is doing too much.” Then he gave his devastating smile and added, “Since we are private, I would prefer you called me Alex.”

  His caressing voice drove all thought of Annabelle from Christa’s mind. She should make her good-night and leave because staying under such intimate conditions was playing with fire, but while she acknowledged the danger, she made no move to depart. Christa had missed the companionship of the summer and daily contact with the three Kingsleys on an informal basis. Most of all, she missed Alex—the passing weeks had not made her feel less in love with him. To sit together companionably, talking or not talking as they chose—it might be dangerous, but she was willing to risk the price.

  “Very well, Alex,” Christa said calmly, her voice reflecting none of her longing. “Are you finding London comfortable?”

  “Much more so than I expected,” Alex admitted. “To be a ship’s captain is one of the loneliest jobs on earth. A captain must never be too familiar—it makes junior officers and sailors uneasy. The quarters are too close, and too much intimacy undermines the respect and authority the captain must have.”

  “The loneliness of command?”

  “Exactly,” he agreed. “It is a cliché, but absolutely true nonetheless. A captain eats most meals alone, walks the quarterdeck alone, has no one to talk or joke with. Did you know that a Navy captain has more power on a ship than the king himself? I could order a man flogged; Farmer George could not.”

  “Did you have men flogged often?”

  “Not often, but sometimes it was necessary. Sailors are a rough lot. Some come directly from the jails and prisons. I always told them that they started on my ship with a clean slate, and in general that worked very well. Most were good men who needed no more than a fair chance and enough to eat. But there were exceptions, and discipline is essential.”

  Alex stared into the flickering yellow flames for a few moments, then continued, “Sea captains are the last of the absolute monarchs, and some are more than a little mad, ordering their crews to share in their madness. Some preach religion, or order the decks scrubbed a dozen times a day, or insist their men wear a particular kind of hat. As long as they do their job, the Admiralty won’t interfere.”

  He smiled wryly. “I’m sure that you can imagine what a pleasure it is to go to White’s or Brooks’ or a hundred other places and relax without remembering my dignity.”

  Christa laughed. “I think that standing on your dignity could not have been easy for you.”

  “Quite right.” His laughter blended with hers.

  Looking beyond Alex, Christa saw a model ship standing on a walnut table next to a globe and a vase of flowers. Curious, she rose to investigate and found a model of a frigate, over three feet long and perfect in every detail. “This is exquisite, Alex. I had not seen it before.”

  He rose also and stood behind her as she bent over and read the name painted on the bow. “The Antagonist.” Glancing over her shoulder, Christa said, “She is your ship, then? How lovely!”

  He nodded. “Yes, this is the original shipyard model. I contacted the man that designed her ten years ago and bought it from him—it arrived two days ago. I am having a stand built.”

  Alex ran one hand lovingly down the hull, then continued, “Designing a ship of war is an art, not a science. The designer spends months working on a model like this, balancing the requirements of speed, stability, and maneuverability to get a ship that can best carry the men and supplies and cannon the Admiralty wants. Then the lines are taken from the hull, and drawings of the cross-sections are made. The Antagonist was the fastest, most weatherly ship I ever sailed in—they have built several more like her since then.”

  Christa duplicated his motion, her hand sliding the length of the hull, feeling the subtle changes in the form.

  Alex said, “You can see why ships are always called ‘she.’ With both ships and women, a man seeks the fairest curve.”

  Christa laughed. “I think most men are not so discriminating—any curves will do. Otherwise I should not have had to defend myself so often over the years. There are many women more beautiful than I, so one can only assume that most men do not care whether they bed a sloop or a light frigate.”

  “You do yourself a disservice, Christa. There may be some women more beautiful, but few are more alluring.”

  She said curiously, “I have always wondered why I am singled out, but when one has just kicked a man in the ankles, it is not a good time to ask why he tried his luck. I would swear I do nothing to provoke attack—what is it that men find desirable in a woman?”

  Alex looked down at her, his face becoming very still. Thoughtfully he said, “It is not one feature alone, but rather a quality of … perhaps ‘womanliness’ is the best word, or perhaps ‘sensuality’ is better.”

  The left side of Christa’s body was limned by firelight, emphasizing the richness of form. He continued, “For example, you have one of the smallest waists I have ever seen, almost as if you wore a corset. But you don’t.”

  Alex reached out with his left hand and placed it on her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. “And though you are slim, there is a roundness, a fullness to your figure, that cries out to be touched and explored.”

  Christa gazed up into his amber eyes, golden in the firelight. His words came slowly, as if Alex was as mezmerized as she. His hand glided up until it cupped her breast and she gave a sharp, startled inhalation as sparks seemed to race from his touch. His hand pulsated on her breast; then he gently plucked the nipple that budded under the fabric. The sensation was exquisite, touching off a reaction throughout her body as the world narrowed to the circle of firelight.

  Alex moved his hand down again, seeming to feel every rib as he followed the curve to her hip. He set his glass down, and with his other hand lifted her chin. Christa’s silver eyes were fearless and o
pen to him, mirroring the same mixture of desire and doubt that he felt himself. When he claimed her lips, it was with an aching passion that drew them both into a whirlpool of desire.

  Their bodies pressed together, seeking unconsciously to share one space, and his hands explored far beyond the limits he had observed when they had kissed before.

  Christa felt her judgment shredding away as her body responded with mindless urgency. Using her last trace of reason, she groped one hand across the table behind her until it encountered a shape her fingers remembered as the vase of flowers. Lifting it, she poured the contents over Alex’s head, drenching them both in a shower of water and chrysanthemums.

  Alex released her abruptly and backed away as he sputtered with a blend of frustration and unwilling amusement. Wiping wet gold hair from his forehead, he said with admirable mildness, “A simple ‘Stop’ would have sufficed.”

  Christa ruefully shook her head, dislodging a blossom from her shoulder. “It was impossible for me to say it. That is why strong measures were needed.” Though her body ached with the loss of his closeness, she managed a wry smile. The alternative would have been to weep.

  Alex turned abruptly away from her, leaning his forearms on the back of a wing chair and looking down at his laced fingers as he struggled to regain control. When he finally spoke, the words came haltingly, chosen with great care. “Christa, I have never wanted a woman as I want you.”

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I would like you to be my mistress. You would have a house, and an income that will keep you comfortable for life.

  “But I do not want to buy you. If you would accept them, I would be happy to give you the same things even if you would not accept me. I want you to have the freedom and the security you deserve.” She saw his fingers tightening as he continued, his voice ragged, “And I want you to want me.”

  Christa felt a sudden sharp sting of tears behind her eyelids and she turned quickly away so he couldn’t see her face. Damn the man! Why did he have to make it so difficult for her, by caring how she felt?

  If he had merely offered money in return for her body, this proposition would have been essentially the same as that offered by Lady Pomfret’s husband—the oldest bargain on earth, and one she could turn down without doubts or questioning. Alex’s terms would be better than Sir Horace’s, but the transaction no different. Instead, he cared enough for her to want her desire. If only he wanted her love as much as she wanted his …

  She moved aimlessly across the room. Stopping at a table that held a porcelain bowl of potpourri, Christa sifted it with her fingers, feeling the light crispness of dried rose petals, smelling the mixed scents of flowers and spices. Why should she not accept? She loved him, and for a while at least, she would have him. The house of d’Estelle was no more; there were none left to point a finger at how she had fallen. Most of her countrymen in England would applaud her enterprise in finding such a comfortable situation. Who would know or care?

  A faintly amusing thought passed through Christa’s mind: her mother would know. It was exactly the sort of thing her mother would know, wherever her spirit was now. She would not necessarily condemn; Marie-Claire had always followed her heart. But would she approve if her daughter gave her love to someone who didn’t love in return? That was the crux of the question.

  Christa’s voice was very low when she answered; had the room not been absolutely silent, Alex could not have heard her reply. “And how long would it be for, my lord? Till you tired of me? Until you took a wife? Or would you keep me on then, passing from her bed to mine?”

  His face was open and vulnerable as he replied, “I cannot imagine any of those things happening. It is more likely that you would tire of me.”

  Her throat tightened until she could not have spoken to save her life. Tire of Alex, with his humor and mischievous intelligence, his warmth, his beautiful tawny body? She had once heard of an elderly duke who kept the same mistress for over fifty years. They had walked together daily in St. James’s Park, elderly lovers, objects of amusement and derision. Is that what would happen to them—Lord Kingsley and his servant-girl mistress?

  Or should she say: “I will not be kept by you, but I was born a countess and you may marry me if you wish”? Her resolve stiffened at the thought. Alex had spoken from lust, not love. He was honest, and she admired that, but she was a d’Estelle—her pride was as much a part of her as her blood and marrow.

  Christa’s voice was stronger now, and she could meet his gaze. “I think I shall regret this all my life, but I cannot accept. I was not raised to be any man’s mistress.”

  Alex was silent for long moments. “Will you let me give you the security and the freedom you said were your dream?”

  Her half-smile was sad as she answered, “I shall doubtless regret this also, but again, I cannot accept. Whatever security I have, I will earn with my own two hands.”

  “I do not want you to be angry with me.”

  Christa shook her head. “I am not angry.” She paused, then said steadily, “But it might be better if I left this house.”

  “No!” Alex caught himself and continued in more moderate tones, “This is your home. Annabelle needs you. I promise I will never ask you again.” With a ghost of a smile, he added, “Unless you wish me to.”

  She sighed. The part of her that still burned with the memory of Alex’s touch wished that he had not spoken with her, not treated her as a woman he respected. It would have been so much easier if he had devoured her with kisses, overpowering her logical mind with passion until it was too late to turn back.

  “Good night, my lord Alex.” On impulse, Christa crossed the room and placed her hands on his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to press her lips to his in one short, fierce kiss filled with all her love and regrets. Sensing her feelings, he made no move to take her in his arms or prevent her from leaving the room.

  As the door closed behind Christa’s proudly erect figure, Alex retrieved his glass of whiskey and returned to the chair he had abandoned earlier. The pain in his side was back with a vengeance, and he winced as he lowered himself into the chair.

  Staring into the dying flames, he felt a perverse pleasure in Christa’s integrity, in the honor that could not be bought. And when he closed his eyes, he could remember with painful accuracy the taste of her last kiss, feel the softness of her body under his hands.

  With deep sadness, Alex knew she would not change her mind, and as a man of honor, he could not try to persuade her otherwise. With a wintry smile he finished his whiskey in one gulp. A pity he could not consign his honor to the devil.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Annabelle woke late the next morning, feeling languid and drained. It took her several moments to remember why she felt so oppressed: Edward. She had promised to meet him today, and he would certainly renew his pleas for her to run away. If they were to go to Scotland and return in time for her ball, they would have to leave almost immediately. She propped herself up in the bed and brushed strands of blond hair out of her face. It felt as limp as she did.

  An elopement was very romantic in a novel but not at all what Annabelle had envisioned for herself. She would really much rather get married at St. George’s, Hanover Square, with half the ton in attendance and Alex to give her away. She could feel traces of headache beginning to return. It was really very bad of her to be so shallow and selfish. What did the ceremony matter if she was to be united with her darling Edward? Thinking of his Greek-god face, his adoring eyes, made her feel better immediately. Of course she wanted to marry him. And perhaps he was right in saying that it would be easier to present Alex with a fait accompli. Didn’t someone once say that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission?

  Christa entered carrying a tray with hot chocolate, crescent rolls, and a rose in a crystal bud vase. “You are feeling better, Miss Annabelle?”

  Annabelle nodded as Christa arranged the tray. “Yes, your willow tea was a great help. I’ve often wondered, where did
you learn so much about herbs and teas and medicines?”

  Christa shook out the linen napkin and spread it for her. “From my grandmother. She worked in the stillroom of an estate and was very skilled in all manner of old country lore. She was also something of an amateur physician, and I often assisted her when people came to her with illness or accidents.” Her grandmother had also owned the estate, a fact Christa did not mention.

  After observing Annabelle for a moment, Christa said hesitantly, “You have seemed blue-deviled lately, miss. Has it anything to do with Sir Edward Loaming?”

  Annabelle concentrated on buttering her croissant, not meeting her maid’s eyes. “Why would you say that?” she parried.

  “Well, you have”—Christa paused and said ironically—“ ‘happened’ to meet him often lately, and you always seem agitated afterward. Has he been behaving improperly?”

  “Why, what a foolish thing to ask!” Annabelle’s laugh was brittle. “Sir Edward is a perfect gentleman. And what could he possibly do that is improper in a public park?”

  Christa’s snort was answer enough, but it was obvious that Annabelle was not going to confide in her. After a pause she said, “I will get the morning’s invitations and messages for you to look at after you have finished eating.”

  Annabelle’s gaze followed Christa from the room. She had been sorely tempted to tell her abigail about Sir Edward; the French girl was much more worldly than her mistress, and her insight would be welcome. But the habits of a lifetime are not easily changed, and Annabelle had always been secretive, fearful of telling her mother anything of importance for fear that Lady Serena would somehow spoil it for her. Besides, darling Edward had cautioned her about telling anyone of their love, for fear that they would be separated. Her temples were starting to throb again. Why did it have to be so difficult?

  Sir Edward came to the park in his phaeton on this day. Setting his groom down beside Christa, the baronet took Annabelle up for a turn around the park. Christa stared after them as they rattled toward Rotten Row. The baronet’s carriage was a conspicuous vehicle in sky blue with silver trim, pulled by a team of flashy white horses. She sniffed in contempt—it was exactly the sort of rig she would have expected of Sir Edward. “All show and no go,” she said.