by Danice Allen
“What is your name, miss?” the butler inquired. “Perhaps if I send your card up, Mrs. Descartes will recognize your name and receive you. Otherwise, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I don’t think she’ll recognize my name, but—”
“In that case—” The butler began to shut the door.
“No! Wait!” Sam cried. “Just tell her I’m the marquess of Serling’s ward.”
The butler stared through the opening between the half-shut door and the doorjamb. “Ward of the marquess of Serling, you say?” he repeated incredulously. “What can you want with Mrs. Descartes, then?”
Realizing that she was going to have to intimidate the man into letting her into the house, Sam raised her nose in the air and said, “My guardian owns this house and pays your salary, sir. Isn’t that reason enough to admit me into the premises? Or would you rather send him a note and ask his permission first? In the meantime, I’ll wait in the parlor!”
Sam slipped through the door and breezed past the butler into the hall. While he stood and watched, surprised and shaken by Sam’s confidence, she took off her light redingote and gloves and handed them to him. “Well, what will it be?” she said. “Are you going to send a note while I kick my heels in the parlor? Or will you tell Mrs. Descartes that I’m here?” Then Sam held her breath. Offering to wait while he sent a note was very risky.
But the bluff worked. The butler apparently had no desire to send a note to his employer and possibly end up causing a ruckus. “I’ll tell Mrs. Descartes that you’re here,” he said grimly, his sour expression testifying to his poor opinion of such goings-on. “Please wait in here for a moment.” And he motioned to a small room just off the main hall, into which Sam retired.
Sitting down on a striped damask sofa, Sam looked about the room and let out the breath she was holding. The chamber was small and tastefully decorated. As she ran her hands along the cool, sleek cloth of the sofa cushion, Sam couldn’t help but visualize Julian sitting there … or lying there. Did he like to make love in other rooms besides the bedchamber, she wondered? Had he pleasured his mistress in the very parlor she was sitting in? Or in the kitchen? Or … perhaps … in the stable?
Sam blushed as her thoughts ran amuck. If Mrs. Descartes was willing to talk, soon she’d know all about Julian, what he liked to do, and where he liked to do it.
Chapter Eight
“You must be mistaken, Powell,” said Isabelle, rising from her chair in front of the dressing table. She’d been powdering her nose, hiding the redness that was a result of the short spell of sniffles she’d indulged in that afternoon. She’d never cried over a man before, but losing Julian had been a blow. He had always been extremely generous and was a supreme lover.
And now her butler was telling her that his ward—the very same young woman Julian had used as an excuse to break things off with her that afternoon—was downstairs waiting to talk to her? Impossible!
“Madam, I know it seems strange,” said Powell in an apologetic tone, “but that is who she says she is.”
“What in the world could she want with me?” she exclaimed irritably. “Does Julian know she’s here?”
But how could that be? Isabelle thought to herself. Julian had claimed to be extremely busy launching the girl into fashionable society and weeding out suitors. With so much at stake, he would never allow her to walk out alone, much less to visit his mistress! Or, as of today, his ex-mistress. It must be all the girl’s idea.
“I don’t know, madam,” the butler replied. “But she said I could send a note to His Lordship to verify her identity and ask his permission to admit her into the house.”
Isabelle raised a brow. “Indeed? As if you would! However, it was clever of the girl to suggest it. I suppose that’s when you let her in?”
“Yes, madam,” Powell admitted with a grimace. “I thought it the best way to handle the situation without a great fuss being made and getting His Lordship involved.”
“Yes, we don’t want to trouble His Lordship, do we?” Isabelle said with dry sarcasm. “However, you won’t need to worry about troubling Lord Serling anymore after today.”
Isabelle observed Powell’s stricken expression with bitter amusement. “You don’t mean, madam, that you and His Lordship have—?”
“Yes, Powell,” she said, confirming the worst. “Lord Serling is no longer my protector. He gave me my congé this afternoon. But don’t worry. He left me with a generous parting gift. Your salary is secure, and I’m sure there’ll be another man of the house before we’re quite destitute.”
With an effort, Powell schooled his face into a passive mask, hiding his disappointment. Even the servants liked Julian better than all the others that had come before … better, no doubt, than anyone she would take as her lover and protector in the future, as well. Damn the man.
“Shall I tell the young lady that you’ll be down presently, madam?” asked Powell, returning to the matters at hand in his usual professional manner.
Isabelle was about to automatically agree, when a sudden mischievous quirk came over her. “No, Powell. Bring her up here.” Maybe she’d have a little fun with the girl. It was certainly no more than she deserved … coming between her and Julian like she had.
Powell’s brows raised a notch. “Up here, madam?”
Isabelle sat down on her red silk divan and draped the diaphanous skirts of her lacy black dressing gown over the cushions. “Yes, Powell. Why not?”
The corner of Powell’s left eye twitched as his gaze involuntarily flitted over Isabelle’s suggestive attire, then round the room at all the seductive opulence of silk, satin, and gilded mirrors, finally returning to that middle distance he’d disciplined himself to stare into while in the presence of his usually scantily clad mistress.
“In twenty minutes, madam, so you’ll have time to … er … dress, I suppose?”
“No, bring her up right now. She wasn’t expected, so I don’t see any reason why I should take the time and trouble to change for her.”
Again Powell’s eye twitched, but he only bowed and said, “Very well, madam,” and marched decorously out.
Isabelle didn’t have long to wait. Minutes later Powell showed the girl into her boudoir, then bowed himself out and shut the door behind him. Just to intimidate her, Isabelle did not immediately speak, but rather insolently looked the girl over quite thoroughly.
She stood just inside the room, her back ramrod straight, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. She was dressed in an ivory walking dress of embroidered muslin and wore a demure poke bonnet in a matching shade, with a large satin ribbon tied at an angle under her chin. Isabelle could see Julian’s hand in the tasteful cut and understated elegance of the outfit. She was the image of privileged innocence.
As for the girl herself, Isabelle had to admit she was a beauty. Her style was what she’d always admired … probably because the girl was so diametrically different from herself. Short blond curls framed a small, heart-shaped face and large eyes. She was of medium height and as slender as a wraith, but she was not without curves. Her breasts were small and high, her hips as slim as a boy’s but proportionately larger than her tiny waist.
“Er … thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Descartes,” said the girl, breaking the silence by speaking first.
Isabelle looked haughtily into the girl’s blue-gray eyes. Behind the wide, frightened stare she detected a sort of flinty determination. And the way the girl held her chin just so … She had spunk. Isabelle felt a reluctant admiration.
“Powell said you’re Julian’s ward, but he didn’t mention a name. I assume you have a name?”
The girl took a tentative step forward, then stopped and stuttered, “My … my name is Samantha Darlington. But everyone—well almost everyone—calls me Sam for short.”
“What does Julian call you?”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “He calls me ‘brat.’ ”
“Because you are disobedient?” Isabelle sugge
sted. “Because you gad about town without a chaperon? Because you think it’s a lark to get a good look at your guardian’s mistress?” Isabelle lifted one long leg onto the divan, the filmy fabric of her gown falling away to reveal a goodly expanse of creamy white flesh. “Well, take a good look, then be gone.”
Sam’s eyes got even wider … if that were possible. “Oh, but I’m not here to look at you. Well, actually I am here to look at you, but not in the way you’re thinking. I want to learn from you.”
Isabelle blinked. “Learn from me? Learn what? I’m not a bloody governess, you know.”
“No, indeed,” Sam agreed. “But you know things I want to learn. Things about—Things about men. About what pleases them, what arouses them.” She blushed. “You know what I mean.” Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. She put her leg down and sat up straight. “Did Lord Serling send you here?”
“No, he didn’t. He’d skin me alive if he knew I were here,” she admitted, and Isabelle believed her.
“But you’ll be married soon, if Julian has anything to say about it. As a wife, there’s no reason to learn about men. Only mistresses need to know about men … about what pleases them, arouses them, and such.”
The girl stepped forward again, her hands falling to her side, her small fists clenched. “You spout the same silly logic that Julian does. But can’t anyone understand that I don’t want to be that kind of wife?” Her eyes flashed, and her mouth was set in a stubborn expression. “I don’t want my husband going to a mistress to be pleasured! I want him to stay home with me!”
Isabelle couldn’t help a small laugh. “You are an odd one. Are you sure you don’t want to change professions? Maybe you should try being a mistress instead of a wife. Sounds to me like you’ve got the right temperament.”
Sam shook her head, her expression suddenly troubled. “I’ve thought about that, but I’ve decided that being a mistress isn’t for me. I just want to be a wife that acts like a mistress.”
“Poor darling,” Isabelle clucked. “You’re hopelessly, madly in love, aren’t you?”
The pointed chin tilted upward. “Yes. Yes I am. And he’s the most wonderful man in the world!”
Isabelle cocked a brow. “Do I know this paragon?”
The girl looked self-conscious. “I’d rather not name him … if you don’t mind.”
Isabelle shrugged. “I don’t mind, I suppose. Is this … er … gentleman in love with you?”
The girl toed the carpet, her long lashes feathering against her hot cheeks as she looked at the floor. “Not exactly. I know he cares for me. He’s very kind to me, and protective. But he still sees me as a child.” Sam looked up, her expression earnest, fervent. “That’s where you come in, Mrs. Descartes. I want you to teach me what to do to make … to make this gentleman see me as a woman.”
Well, why not? thought Isabelle, chuckling gleefully to herself. It was patently clear that the gentleman Samantha Darlington was taking such pains not to name was Julian. The girl was obviously head over heels in love with him.
There was no denying she was a smart, determined chit, and brave, too, coming as she had straight to his mistress to find out what made the marquess purr. Isabelle couldn’t help but admire such a pragmatic and unsqueamish approach to romance.
As Isabelle saw it, there were two possible outcomes of this little encounter, both of which she found vastly entertaining. The first was that once she imparted her worldly wisdom to the girl, Julian would have quite a difficult time trying to control such an innocent so well versed in the ways of seduction. Indeed, Sam might become very popular with the gentlemen. Too popular.
The second outcome might be that the chit would trap Julian into marriage. It would serve the old bachelor right to be married to that spirited sprite of a girl instead of sensible, serene, boring Charlotte Batsford. Indeed, Sam would lead him a merry chase. But then maybe it was more than he deserved…
“Will you help me or not?” Sam prompted, glancing nervously toward the window. “I’ve a hackney coach waiting.”
Isabelle nodded, stifling a smile. “I see. We don’t want to keep the driver waiting, do we? How much time can you spare to learn valuable information it’s taken me a lifetime to gather?”
“Less than an hour,” Sam admitted. “Any longer, and I’ll be late to dinner, and Julian hates it when I’m tardy.”
“Does he? Well then we’d better talk fast.”
Sam’s face lit up. “You’ll tell me what to do, then?”
“As long as you don’t mind if I frequently use Julian as an example,” Isabelle said with an innocent look. “After all, he’s my most recent amour. “
Sam visibly swallowed. “No, I don’t mind.”
Isabelle smiled slyly. “Then come sit down, Sam.” And she patted the red cushion beside her.
An hour later, Isabelle had sent away Julian’s ward with a head swimming with erotic etiquette. She’d covered everything from coy flirtation to sexual positions. She’d shocked the girl, but Sam would get over it and someday—sooner or later—she’d put the knowledge she’d gained to good use.
Indeed, thought Isabelle, as she dabbed her pen in the inkwell and prepared to write a short missive to her old beau, all women about to embark on matrimony should have sessions with courtesans and given lessons on the arts of love. Perhaps then there would be fewer dissatisfied husbands.
Isabelle frowned. But then there would be less need for courtesans.
Never mind, she thought, her composure returning immediately. Passionate wives weren’t likely to become the fashion in her lifetime, so she needn’t worry.
She wrote the note quickly, read it with a smile on her face, folded it, sealed it, then pulled the rope to summon her lady’s maid.
“Give this to Powell,” she ordered when the woman came into the room. “Have him send our fastest lad to Queens Square to deliver it to the marquess of Serling. Make sure it is taken to him immediately upon arrival.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the woman, curtsying, then quickly leaving the room.
Isabelle moved from her desk to her dressing table. She sat down and began to brush her long black hair, smiling at her reflection. “Julian should be just sitting down to dinner when he gets the note. Oh, if only I could be a fly on the wall and watch him lose his regal composure…”
Sam was late. Again. First the fiasco before the opera last night, now this. Julian tapped his toe on the carpet beneath the table. He and the aunts were already seated in the dining room and the servants stood at attention, only waiting for Julian’s command to ladle the soup. He just hoped she hadn’t disobeyed him and was back in the library perusing his shelves for more books having to do with sex. God, he couldn’t take another confrontation with her on that subject anytime soon!
“Would you like me to check on her, Julian?” Nan asked anxiously.
“No,” Julian said gruffly, then added in a milder tone, “Thank you, Nan. No one should have to fetch the girl. She knows when we dine.”
“Perhaps she slept late,” Prissy suggested. “She was taking a nap earlier.”
“Clara would have waked her in time to dress. She’s probably just dawdling.”
“As a rule, Sam is not a dawdler,” Nan pointed out.
Julian did not reply, but he knew Nan was right. Sam did not routinely keep them waiting at the table or anywhere else. But he was in no mood to be fair or reasonable. He’d had a hell of a day, and waiting for his dinner did not improve his disposition.
He’d visited Humphries and been assured by the old man that he’d not let a word slip about Julian’s search for Sam’s mother. Julian believed him, largely because the fellow hardly got out anymore and had no one to tell. But his belief in Humphries’s word left Julian no recourse but to suspect those closest to him, or to imagine some sinister stranger involved somehow. Furthermore, Humphries still had not remembered anything helpful in solving the mystery of exactly who Sam’s mother was. It was a conundrum, and it made Julian decide
dly blue-deviled.
And since he’d bid a permanent farewell to Isabelle that day—thinking to focus all his energies on Sam and Charlotte, the two most important women in his life—Julian no longer had a place where he could release his pent-up energies. But it was just as well. Isabelle was getting on his nerves lately. And, whereas he’d always thought her quite beautiful in the past, recently he had begun to think her too voluptuous for his tastes. And, strangely, he’d found himself wishing she were blond and blue-eyed. Ah, well. He supposed he was just bored and ready to move on. He wondered if Genevieve DuBois currently had a lover…
“My lord?”
Julian looked up. His butler was standing at his elbow … had probably been standing there for a while as he daydreamed. “Yes, Hedley?”
Hedley lifted a silver salver on which reposed a folded sheet of parchment paper. “This note came for you just a moment ago with express orders from the lad that it was to be taken to you immediately.”
Julian recognized the pink sealing wax and the rose seal. It was from Isabelle. He wasn’t about to read a note from his mistress in front of two sweet old spinsters. And, since he’d just broken up with Isabelle, he had no great expectations of finding good news inside. The note was probably full of histrionics. “I’ll read it later,” Julian said, waving it away.
“Very well,” said Hedley, turning to go.
But as Hedley walked away, Julian changed his mind. The aunts didn’t need to know who the note was from, and, after all, he hadn’t anything better to do as he waited for that brat, Sam, to show up. “Come back, Hedley. I’ll take it after all.”
“Very well, my lord,” Hedley said, retracing his steps.
As Priss and Nan watched, trying not to appear nosy, Julian snatched up the note, popped it open and began to read. To both ladies, all the surreptitiously spying servants, and any fly that should happen by chance to be resting on the wall, it was quite obvious that Julian was not pleased by the contents of the note.
