by Anne Stuart
"What were his suggestions?"
Lina was too busy muttering imprecations beneath her breath to immediately notice her cousin's question. She was dressed most becomingly in a demure gown of soft rose, and for the first time Charlotte didn't have to worry that her cousin would succumb to inflammation of the lungs from having vast amounts of her beautiful chest exposed. Even her hat was a subdued affair, instead of the usual outrageous confection, awash with feathers and silk flowers and the occasional representation of a woodland creature.
No, something or someone had inspired the notoriously unrepentant Evangelina, Lady Whitmore, to abandon her wild ways, and Charlotte couldn't help but wonder if the vicar had anything to do with it.
"It's a waste that he's so attractive," Lina went on, half to herself. "All that lovely, diffident grace, that world-weary air, that handsomely debauched face. He'll marry some whey-faced miss who'll keep his house and present him with whey-faced children, and all the whey-faced women in his whey-faced parish will adore him, of course. He'll pretend not to notice. the righteous Mr. Pagett, but underneath he knows full well the effect he has on vulnerable women."
"Then it's a good thing that neither of us are vulnerable women," Charlotte said, more out of a wish to see Lina's response than a belief in the truth. Not that she planned to say anything about it, but it seemed to Charlotte that Lina was completely vulnerable from the top of her neatly coiffed and braided black hair to the hem of her demure dress.
And how typical. The unfairness of life was quite extraordinary. If one of them was to fall in love with a sober parson and the other with a libertine, surely their roles should have been reversed.
She made a sudden, choking sound.
"What's wrong?" Lina demanded, her concern momentarily distracting her from her anger with the vicar.
"Nothing," Charlotte muttered, secretly horrified. In love with? Where had that thought come from? It was ridiculous, absurd, sheer madness. How could anyone fall in love with a self-indulgent sensualist like Adrian Rohan? It was as absurd as thinking Lina had fallen in love with the parson.
Except that Lina had changed her clothes, her behavior, and couldn't seem to keep her mind off Mr. Pagett. And Charlotte felt her recalcitrant stomach lurch.
But she was nothing if not resilient, and she smiled brightly at Lina, not revealing her inner turmoil. "Mr. Pagett sounds most unpleasant. Which is a shame. He seemed like a most pleasant-spoken gentleman."
"Don't be misled by his handsome face," Lina said darkly. "He's a snake."
The more Lina protested the more Charlotte was intrigued. Lina was much too interested in Montague's friend, no matter how much she denied it, and Charlotte was tempted to point it out to her, then thought better of it. She was too weary to argue.
She slept, and dreamed of Adrian, his hands caressing her body, his smiling, handsome mouth brushing hers. She hoped he was suffering. Men were less able to hide their arousal, and she'd had no doubt at all that he'd wanted her, quite badly.
Was he lying alone in his bed, hard, aching, regretting his stupid, callous treatment? Probably not. He could take care of the problem himself, couldn't he? Lina had explained it to her one time—that men, that Adrian, would use those deft, beautiful hands on himself, bringing his own release.
And presumably she could do the same. She remembered waking occasionally, lying on her stomach, rocking against her fists, feeling flushed and feverish. She certainly wasn't going to do that again. She had no particular interest in getting better acquainted with the mysteries between her legs. She was for more curious about his parts. She wanted to look at him, touch him. During those long hours she'd never had a chance.
Adrian probably didn't plan to endure a night of frustration or the substitute ministrations of his own strong, beautiful hand. There would be scores of women who'd shared his bed. All it would require would be a note, or a surprise visit, and they'd lift their skirts for him as easily as she did. If he wanted to avoid entanglements he could always do what his friends had suggested and visit the notorious Madame Kate's.
He had countless ways to deal with their unfinished business, and she had nothing. Heartless bastard, she thought, feeling her bile rise again.
She made it to Hensley Court but not much farther. The carriage pulled to a stop and she took a dive out the door, not even waiting for the footman to lower the steps. She landed on her knees in the gravel and proceeded to become embarrassingly, miserably sick.
"Travel sickness," she said wanly when Lina and Meggie rushed to her side. "Too much jostling in the coach. I feel fine now."
Lina eyed her, unable to disguise her worry. "Have you been ill before today, dearest?"
"No, thank heavens. That is, my stomach has felt a bit off for days now, but this is the first time I've cast up my accounts."
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lina and Meggie exchange glances. 'Tm fine," she said again, nettled. "Just happy to be out of that wretched coach." Unbidden, the memory of the last coach she'd been in returned, Rohan's mouth on hers, his hand between her legs, his hot, solid body beneath hers in the velvety darkness. She groaned.
Simon Pagett met them in the massive front hall, and Charlotte had just enough energy to notice that his eyes went straight to Lina. So whatever lay between them wasn't one-sided. "Thomas is sleeping," he said. "Your rooms are ready—you may as well use the time to rest. The doctor's just been here. He's mystified—just when he thinks it's the end, Thomas rallies. He says there's no telling how much longer."
"Are you suggesting I look tired?" Lina demanded, looking to take offense.
"No, Lady Whitmore. I'm suggesting that you rode all night over rough roads and unless you're superhuman you'd doubtless like an opportunity to relax. If you'd rather go for a brisk hike in the woods and then organize a house party, I wouldn't think of arguing."
Charlotte could practically hear Lina growling beneath her breath. It was fascinating to observe. She didn't ever remember a gentleman speaking to Lina with such a deliberately aggravating tone. Most men fell all over themselves in an effort to ingratiate themselves with her. And she couldn't remember Lina reacting so strongly to provocation.
"My cousin is feeling unwell after the trip," Lina said in her stiffest voice. "She's suffering from travel sickness, and I want to make certain she's comfortable. And then I will come downstairs and sit with Monty until he wakes up, since you had a long, difficult ride. I imagine you need your beauty rest. Unless you have any objections."
Mr. Pagett stiffened, but Charlotte finally decided that even the interesting contretemps between the vicar and her cousin wasn't enough to distract her from her current state of misery. She allowed herself a small whimper, feeling truly pathetic, and Lina rushed to her side, studiously ignoring her newfound nemesis.
When they got to her rooms Meggie stripped her and wrapped her up in a fine lawn nightdress, tucking her up in bed with a warm brick at her feet and a cool damp cloth for her head. She lay back, trying to keep from sniffling miserably. She was just so bloody pitiful. She felt queasy, she had no energy, all she wanted to do was sleep. And if that weren't enough, she had the lowering feeling that her heart was broken.
It wasn't fair.
She had no reason to fancy herself in love with a selfish sybarite who cared for nothing and no one but his own pleasure. But once the idea had managed to creep into her thoughts there was no way she could banish it. If she had any kind of sense at all, that last meeting with him, in the closed confines of his town carriage, should have given her a complete disgust of him.
It only made her long for him more.
She moaned, softly enough that Meggie and Lina couldn't hear her. If she just managed to keep her distance she could probably manage to get over him. After all, she'd been recovering, albeit at a ridiculously slow rate. If only she hadn't seen him at Ranelagh, danced with him, let him lead her to the supposed safety of a hackney.
Duplicitous bastard. She liked heaping epithets on
his head, the more the merrier. He was sneaky, dishonest, amoral, selfish, mean...there weren't enough bad words to describe him. The more she saw of him the more she disliked him. Or if that wasn't precisely true, at least she was more and more determined to keep her distance from him. If she simply stayed in the country she would never have to see him again. Viscount Rohan was notoriously unmoved by the countryside, avoiding it at all costs. If she could just convince Lina to remove to her Dorset estate then sooner or later Rohan would go abroad, and maybe he'd fall off a mountain or marry a Chinese princess or be eaten by a tiger. She didn't care which fate befell him, as long as it happened soon.
Lina and Meggie were whispering about her. Their voices were low, and clearly they were self-assured enough to think she'd never hear them. They'd forgotten her childhood. She'd spent many of her formative years growing up alone in the old house in Yorkshire, her parents paying no attention to her, the servants whispering their shock over the poor, abandoned child. She knew the concerned tone of the whispers, even if she couldn't make out the actual words.
It didn't matler. All she needed was sleep, and she'd feel wonderful. All she needed...
Lina found Simon Pagett on the terrace overlooking the winding canal that led to the ruins of the old abbey. It was a beautiful late-spring morning, the scent of damp earth in the air, the promise of new life...
She didn't want to be thinking about new life. She and Meggie were probably jumping to conclusions. After all, Charlotte had assured her that the blasted viscount had been careful, and from what she knew of Adrian Rohan, she could well believe it. Society would know if he had bastards littering the countryside, and from what she'd seen of the old marquess, she could well believe Adrian wouldn't dare risk impregnating a girl of decent breeding. Not that the marquess wasn't utterly charming. If he wasn't clearly so besotted with his wife she might have been tempted to see whether an older man might be the answer to her problem. Not that it was a problem, per se. Nothing like the mess Charlotte would find herself in if the tisanes didn't work and Rohan hadn't been careful enough.
There were more drastic ways to deal with things if they'd progressed to that point, but Charlotte wouldn't want it and Lina wouldn't let her. They could go abroad together, providing the bloody French didn't decide to start another war. Or simply retire to the country.
“You're looking perturbed. Lady Whitmore," Pagett said. "Is there something troubling you?"
She looked at him. With the sunlight shining full on his face she could see his ruined glory quite clearly. He must have been devastating when he'd been a hellion, she thought. Even now, with the lines of weariness and an abandoned dissipation writ on his lean face he was still quite...appealing to some-She had a great deal of sense. "My dearest friend is dying. Of course I'm perturbed."
If she'd hoped to put the vicar in his place she failed. "You've had a while to come to terms with that," he said, though his voice gentled. "I had the impression that there was something new and disturbing."
"If there is I would hardly be likely to share my concerns with you, now, would I, Mr. Pagett?"
"I don't know why you wouldn't. I'm a vicar— it's part of my job to hear people's concerns. I’m accounted to be a very good listener.”
"I'm not part of your parish, and my concerns are my own." He was standing too close to her, and she ought to move away, but for some reason she was more tempted to move closer. As a result, she stood her ground.
He looked down at her. He was somewhat above middle height, though not nearly as tall as Adrian Rohan, but she was small and he seemed to tower over her. "I could tell you that a trouble shared is a trouble halved, but I doubt you'd believe me."
"'I don't believe you'd even quote such a hoary old line at me. Next you'll be telling me that confessing ray sins to you would get me into heaven sooner."
"No," he said, looking oddly troubled. "I don't think I want to hear your sins."
"That's right, you're getting quite elderly. I doubt you have enough time left to hear everything I've done," she said brightly.
For a moment he frowned, and she knew she'd pricked his vanity. And then he laughed. "You're very good at being annoying. Lady Whitmore. I've already told you I'm thirty-five—I expect to live many decades longer, and I doubt your sins can encompass that much."
"You'd be surprised." She tried to sound merry, carefree. Instead her voice came out with a hollow
He said nothing, watching her with a contemplative expression on his handsome face. And it was a handsome face, she thought ruefully. His premature lines only made him more interesting looking—he was probably far too pretty when he was younger. It was a good thing they hadn't met then...
A sudden horrifying thought hit her. To her knowledge she had never entered the bed of anyone without having a considerable amount to drink, enough to shut out the clamor of fear and darkness, and it was possible she didn't always remember them. And he must have been very pretty.
"I didn't meet you before, did I?" she asked in a sharp voice. "When was your blinding encounter on the road to Damascas?”
He laughed, having read her mind. "No, Lady Whitmore, I can safely assure you that I never bedded you in my wild years. You would have been far too young. And if I'd run into you later I promise you, you wouldn't have forgotten."
She flushed, at a disadvantage, but she rallied. "I've forgotten any number of them," she said airily. In fact, a lie. She'd only forgotten one, and been aghast that she had, until the shamefaced young man admitted that he hadn't been able to consummate the evening. "In fact, if I tried to count them all I should fail sadly." Another lie. While she would have loved to have a lengthy list of her amatory triumphs, she still had a strong regard for her own health, and finding men who were both careful and game was difficult.
"Of course you should," he said in a soothing voice, clearly doubting her. Which would have made her determined to find the next man she could and bed him, but for some reason she'd lost interest in it. She was having a great deal more fun arguing with Simon Pagett.
"I must compliment you on your new taste in clothing. Lady Whitmore. The subdued colors bring out your beauty far more than the garish ones you chose before."
"I have no interest in your sartorial advice, Vicar," she said, ignoring the rush of pleasure. "You gave me no warning—my maid packed whatever was clean."
"Of course," he said in an infuriatingly calm voice, and she was determined to go upstairs and see if ham-handed Meggie was capable of immediately cutting down the necklines of her demure dresses. She glared up at him.
And then she found she had to laugh. "You really are the most annoying man in the world, aren't you?"
He smiled at her then, and the world seemed to shatter and split. "So I've been told."
She stared at him for a moment, unable to come up with a single word, as something inside her began to melt.
She panicked, though she wasn't quite sure why. "I wonder, though..." she said in the drawling voice she used to such good effect.
He looked at her warily. "Wonder what?"
"Are all men the same? Even those who've found God?" she mused.
He was very still. Like a fox, she thought, afraid a bitch had caught his scent.
"How do you mean? I can assure you I sleep better at nights. I'm happier."
"You don't strike me as particularly happy. As for nighttime sleeping situation, my thoughts were running more along those lines."
"Of course they were," he said, and there was no sling in his wry voice. "If this is your tactful way of asking me about pleasures of the flesh, I can assure you that becoming a vicar didn't castrate me."
"I'm soooo glad to hear it," she cooed. "Monty told me you'd taken a vow of celibacy, and I didn't know if that was out of necessity or inclination."
"Montague has been way too free with his tongue," Simon said, clearly annoyed. "If you're so interested. Lady Whitmore, I can tell you that I haven't taken a vow of celibacy. I've simply decided th
at I've fornicated enough outside of the marriage vows."
"You have plans to marry then?" she asked brightly, ignoring her inner pang.
"Not at this point." He looked at her for a long, hard moment. "I may change my mind.”
She breathed an unobtrusive sigh of relief, emboldened. "Be certain to invite me to the wedding. I give wonderful presents."
"If I marry, Lady Whitmore, you'll definitely be there." There was an odd note in his voice, one she couldn't decipher.
She was feeling restless, edgy, and it was a shame Charlotte wasn't there to stop her "So, has your vow of celibacy... I beg your pardon, I mean your informed decision...affected other things?" She moved closer, so close that her hooped skirts swayed against his dark-clad legs.
He stood his ground. "What other things?" She wasn't actually touching him, but she was acutely aware of him. His lean, wiry body, his narrowed eyes, his mouth. He really had the loveliest
"Like kissing," she said. And she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth against his.
20
She expected him to freeze. To stand there awkwardly while she kissed him, to shy back in horror as she teased him with her tongue, to lecture her on her impropriety while she laughed at him.
He was just inches away from her body, and his lips were motionless against hers. He reached up behind his neck and caught her wrists, pulling them down, and she knew a moment's melancholy
And then a moment later he pulled them around his waist, yanking her up against him, and he was the one who used his tongue, deepening the kiss, pushing her mouth open.
She was so astonished she could do nothing but cling to him, reveling in the feel of his hard, warm body up against hers. And hard it was. Most of the men in society were soft, pampered. He wasn't. He was strong, and determined, and she closed her eyes, her head falling back against his deliberate onslaught.
