Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  Perhaps Mandell would take one look at her and decide to send her right back home again. She touched one hand to her bare neck. Her little gold locket would have gone perfectly with the outfit, but it was still gracing the pawnbroker's dusty shelf. Anne pored over the few pieces of her jewelry that remained, but in the end opted to wear none. It would only be one more thing that she would have to remove when—

  She swallowed hard, suppressing the thought. She was already nervous enough. Her gaze flicked to the mantel clock, the hands moving inexorably toward ten.

  She had never known a day to go by so swiftly and she wondered if this was how condemned prisoners felt during their last hours. She had bitten her nails down to the nubs and her hands looked hideous. Was it considered acceptable to engage in intimate relations with a man while wearing gloves?

  The thought almost caused her to break into hysterical giggles. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Tugging on her kid gloves, she reached for her brown velvet mantle, the one with the hood.

  She had never looked more proper in her life. She appeared as though she was going to do exactly what she had told Lily earlier that day—have a quiet supper with her elderly godmother, Lady Bennington. She had even had the forethought to announce that her ladyship would send her own coach to fetch her.

  How adept she was becoming at telling these lies Anne thought sadly.

  Lily had been annoyed with her, of course. Out of all the invitations Anne had had to choose from, she did not see why Anne had to elect to spend her evening with an elderly recluse. But, Lily had remarked sourly, she supposed it was better than Anne wasting another night at home.

  Lily had already gone out herself to attend a lively musical soiree to be given at the home of some countess Anne could not remember. Her sister's absence made things easier. As easy as this night was going to get, Anne thought as she prepared to descend to the front parlor. She could pace better there until her hour of doom. The room was much more spacious than the confines of her bedchamber.

  But as Anne opened her door, she was startled by the small figure that appeared on the other side—a golden-haired sprite, with bare toes peeking out from beneath a white nightgown, a doll clutched beneath her arm.

  “Norrie, Anne gasped.

  Her daughter skittered across the threshold. Norrie held up the china doll, whose tangled tresses had seen better days. She announced solemnly, “Lady Persifee couldn't sleep again, Mama.”

  Anne cast an anxious glance at the clock. Any other time, she would have welcomed the prospect of cuddling Norrie and rocking her back to sleep. But for once Anne did not feel equal to dealing with her small daughter.

  She attempted to summon up her sternest expression, but Norrie skipped about Anne, eyeing her gown. “You look beautiful, Mama. Just like a fairy princess.”

  “More like the wicked stepmama.” Anne scooped her daughter up in her arms. “Eleanor Rose Fairhaven, you and Lady Persephone belong back in bed.”

  Norrie laid her head upon Anne's shoulder, regarding her with wide pleading eyes, giving her most enchanting dimpled smile. But her smile faded as her small frame shook with the cough she tried to repress.

  “Oh, child,” Anne murmured. “Come, we must get you tucked back up all warm again. This is no good for you, being up so late.”

  As Anne carried her daughter out into the hall, Norrie protested, “But, Mama, I'm accustomed to being waked up at night. It was awful noisy at Uncle Lucien's.”

  “That is because your bedroom must have been too near the street. But you have no such excuse here at Aunt Lily's, young lady.” Anne took the firmness from her words by giving Norrie’s smooth pink cheek a kiss.

  “But I like the sound of horses and wheels and people laughing. And it wasn't the street noises that waked me, it was Uncle Lucien. He got angry at night and broke things.”

  “Oh, Norrie, darling. I am sure Uncle Lucien was seldom at home after you went to bed. You must have been dreaming.”

  Norrie stubbornly shook her head. “I peeked out my door and saw him. But I was careful. Uncle Lucien didn't like anybody but him to be awake at night. And one time he hurt himself, Mama. He had blood on his sleeve and he kept falling down. And he smelled bad.”

  Anne strained her daughter close lest Norrie see her horrified expression. Anne had always known Lucien to be something of a rake, a heavy drinker, but alas, so were many gentlemen of the ton. Only recently had Anne begun to suspect how far gone in debauchery Lucien might be, how close to the edge of sanity. She could only thank the heavens she had Norrie safely away from him.

  No, not the heavens, she reminded herself.

  Mandell.

  It took her some little while to bundle Norrie back to the nursery and coax the child to sleep again. By the time she saw her daughter resting peacefully, Anne was horrified to hear the clock strike half past the hour of ten.

  Snatching up her cloak, Anne tore down the stairs to the first floor. But Lily's stern butler attempted to bar her way. If a coach had been sent for Lady Anne, then it behooved one of Lady Bennington's footmen to come to the door and announce the fact.

  With great difficulty Anne persuaded Firken to step aside, the dignified old man scowling with disapproval as Anne dashed out into the night. She half hoped, half feared that Mandell would have given up on her by now.

  But the outline of a coach and horses appeared drawn up next to the curb. Giving herself no more time to think, Anne flung up her hood, concealing her features. She raced toward the carriage, her heart pounding in tempo with her footsteps.

  A servant melted out of the darkness, a stocky young man attired in Mandell's distinctive livery of black and silver.

  The footman bowed. “Lady Fairhaven?”

  Anne nodded. She wondered if this solemn man knew why he had been sent to fetch her. Of course he did. Servants always knew everything. Anne blushed, shrinking deeper into the shelter of her hood.

  “I am John Hastings, my lady,” the footman said, opening the coach door for her. “My lord Mandell sent me to insure your safe arrival.”

  As he handed her into the darkened interior of the carriage, Anne asked, “Where are we going?”

  But Mandell had obviously trained his servants to be as enigmatic as himself, for Hastings closed the door without another word. He scrambled to take his place up on the box beside the coachman.

  Anne was jolted back against the squabs as the coach lurched into movement. She clenched her hands together in her lap, trying to still her desire to leap back out of the carriage.

  She supposed it didn’t mattered what their destination might be. She had placed herself in Mandell's power that night she had given him her vow, perhaps longer ago still when she had first permitted him to lead her into a moonlit garden and steal a kiss.

  There was no escaping him now.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The carriage ride was short. Anne did not have enough time to compose herself before the silent Hastings was handing her down into the darkness of a stable yard.

  “If it would please you to follow me, my lady,” he said.

  As if Anne had any choice but to do so. Huddling deeper into her cloak, she stumbled after Hastings through the inky blackness of a starless night, broken only by the bobbing light of the lantern he carried. He took such long strides she had to hasten to keep up with him, having little chance to gain her bearings other than to realize that she passed beneath the branches of some trees, through the shadows of what appeared to be a garden.

  It was not until the footman led her across the threshold of a formidable door, and her feet clattered against the cold marble tile of an entranceway, that Anne dared ease back her hood to determine exactly where she was.

  She stood in an imposing front hall, cold, elegant and austere, a stairway with a wrought iron balustrade sweeping up to a shadowed landing above her. A shock of realization pierced her and she nearly exclaimed aloud.

  Mandell's own London house. She had never been past
his front gate before, but she knew with inexplicable certainty that she stood in his reception hall. The coach could have done no more than circle the square a number of times before bringing her back here, to a house only down the street from her own sister's.

  Feeling more confused and unsettled than ever, Anne turned to question the footman, but Hastings had vanished, leaving her alone in the chill silence of the hall, the house around her a ring of forbidding closed doors.

  There was no sign of Mandell or anyone else for that matter. Now what was she expected to do? Anne wondered miserably. There was not even a fire kindled upon the hall's massive stone hearth. Hastings had taken the lantern away, and if not for the candles flickering in the wall sconces, she would have been left in darkness.

  She stood, shifting from foot to foot. The front door loomed but yards away. She could fling it open in a trice. If she ran fast enough, it would be a matter of minutes before she was back safe in her own bedchamber.

  “You are late, Sorrow,” a silky voice echoed from the regions behind her. Her heart thudding, Anne whipped around.

  The marquis of Mandell stood on the landing above her, his tall shadow cast down the length of the stairs. The candlelight accented the hauteur of his features, giving him an aura of almost satanic male beauty, the glow bringing a sheen to the dark waves of his hair.

  He was clad in a wine-colored dressing gown of satin, belted at the waist. The rich folds parted enough to reveal that he wore close-fitting black breeches beneath and a white shirt opened slightly at the neck. He extended one hand toward her, his signet ring glinting in the light.

  It was not so much a supplication as a silent command. Anne risked one longing glance toward the front door before drawing in a steadying breath. She raised her skirts, beginning the long climb up toward Mandell.

  When she came close enough, he caught her hand, his own fingers strong and steadying as he drew her up to stand beside him.

  “It is nearly eleven of the clock,” he said. “I have never waited so long for any lady to keep her appointment with me. I had begun to think you intended to fail me.”

  There was an edge to his voice and when she dared glance up at him, she saw that his eyes were as still and brooding as his great empty house.

  “I had difficulty getting away,” Anne said. “Norrie woke up and she needed me. I had to soothe her back to sleep,”

  Mandell's face softened. “The important thing is that you are here now.”

  “Yes, but I never expected you would bring me to your home.”

  His brows rose haughtily. “You thought I would hie you off to some sordid inn where any common knave might look at you? I have a little more regard for your reputation than that, milady. That is why I instructed Hastings to take great care when spiriting you away to me.”

  “But servants will gossip and—”

  “Mine don't. Especially not the one I sent to fetch you. I acquired John Hastings reluctantly at the insistence of my cousin Drummond. He has turned out to possess the two traits I value most in my servants, obedience and silence.

  “But I have kept you standing in this drafty hall long enough.” Mandell draped his arm about her shoulders. “My house possesses far warmer rooms.”

  Like his bedchamber, Anne thought with a sinking heart, her mind filling inevitably with that Turkish sultan's den she had once imagined, rife with shameful secrets and satin sheets.

  She allowed Mandell to guide her toward a door at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open, urging her across the threshold. Holding her breath, Anne stepped inside and blinked.

  The room was normal, almost sedate, a sitting room of undeniably masculine influence, the glow of oil lamps reflecting off rich paneled walls. A small but comfortable forest green settee was drawn up near the hearth where a cozy fire crackled, a book of Dryden's poetry left carelessly open upon a tripod table nearby. Busts of Mozart and Beethoven peered down from atop the mantel.

  Somewhat reassured, Anne crept farther into the room only to draw up short at the sight of the arch which led into the adjoining chamber. She could make out the shape of an enormous four-poster bed, the coverlets already turned down.

  Shrinking back, Anne collided against Mandell's hard frame. She gasped as he reached for her, but he was only seeking to brush back her hood.

  “Come out of hiding, Sorrow,” he said. “Your presence has been noticeably absent this past week. I wondered if you were seeking to avoid me, if you intended to cheat me out of my promised reward.”

  Anne felt a telltale flush spread over her cheeks. “Of course not. But it was not the sort of debt I could repay by posting you a bank draft through the mail. You could have sent for me sooner. I would have come.”

  “Would you have, indeed?”

  Anne could not meet his eyes. He placed his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look up. “I tried to give you a little time to make up your mind to come to me. You disappointed me, Anne, and my patience finally wore thin.”

  “And if I had tried to cheat you, what would you have done?” she asked anxiously. “Would you have sought to undo your part of the bargain?”

  “There are many things I am interested in undoing, my lady.” Mandell reached for the fastenings of her cloak. “But our bargain is not one of them.”

  His long graceful fingers deftly unbuttoned the braided froggings. Anne exhaled, telling herself she must try to relax. He was only taking off her cloak ... thus far.

  Mandell swept away the garment, draping it over a leather armchair. As he took in the details of her very proper attire, his teeth flashed in a smile of genuine amusement.

  “By god, madam, you could be on your way to church. Have you brought your prayer book as well?”

  “No, but perhaps I should have,” Anne retorted “No doubt you could use a few prayers said for your soul.”

  “Alas, milady, it is far too late for that.”

  Anne flushed under his sardonic regard. “I told everyone I would be visiting my elderly godmother this evening. I had to dress accordingly.”

  “Your godmama finds you quite charming, but far too pale as usual. Come, let me offer you some food and drink.” He waved her toward the window, where the heavy velvet draperies had been drawn, shutting out the night. Anne saw that covers for two had been laid out upon a small table, some silver-covered chafing dishes being kept warm on a sideboard.

  “You intend for us to dine first?” Anne asked incredulously,

  “Would you have me seduce you on an empty stomach?”

  Her stomach was tensed into a thousand knots. How could he possibly expect her to eat? When Mandell began to draw back her chair, Anne shook her head.

  “I am not hungry.”

  “Let me at least offer you a little wine then.” He picked up a glass of delicate crystal and reached for a dust-covered bottle, a rare vintage that must have graced his cellars for some time.

  “If you insist, my lord. But I should warn you it takes very little wine to make me fall asleep.”

  Mandell paused with the bottle suspended in midair, that expressive brow of his arching upward. “Then perhaps I had better send down to the kitchen for some lemonade.”

  “I am not thirsty, either,” Anne snapped. She did not sound very gracious, but she had never felt more nervous or out of her depth in her entire life. Not even on that dreadful night she had made her debut at Almack's.

  “All this politeness is not necessary, my lord. Whatever you want to do with me, I wish you would just do it and get it over with.”

  “Some pleasures are not to be rushed.” Mandell set down the wine bottle. He stepped closer, framing her face with his hands.

  His poor Lady Sorrow. It was difficult to remember at this moment that she was a widow, a woman who ought to know a little something of the world and men. She looked young, vulnerable, and scared, as though she expected him to pounce on her, tear off her clothes, take her right there on the floor.

  It was not as though the
desire burning inside him waxed too cool for such a thing. But he had ever been a man of iron control and possessed more finesse than that. He had taken far too many pains over his conquest of the virtuous Anne, planned too carefully to ruin all by a clumsy burst of passion. He wanted her beneath him, hot and willing, trembling not with fear but with a fire that would match his own.

  “I'll have no martyrs in my bed, milady,” he said, tracing his thumbs over her cheekbones. “I do not intend to proceed until I feel you are ready, my beautiful one.”

  “Oh, don't,” she cried, clutching at his wrists, seeking to push his hands away. “Don't feel obliged to say things like that, to try to pretend that I am beautiful.”

  “Pretend? And whatever makes you think that you are not?”

  “I have only to look in a mirror.”

  “Then you have been looking in the wrong one. You should seek your reflection only in my eyes.” He kissed her brow, reveling in the sweet fresh scent of her, the warm silky texture of her skin.

  “Before this evening is over, Anne Fairhaven,” he vowed, “I shall not only have you willing in my arms, but also convinced of how beautiful and desirable you are.”

  “That could take a very long time, my lord.”

  “We have all night. So if you truly have no wish to dine, go sit by my fire and warm yourself. You seem quite chilled.”

  She obeyed him, marching over to perch upon the edge of the settee with a resigned sigh. Mandell drifted about the room, extinguishing all the oil lamps until the chamber was lit only by the glow of the fire. When he moved to take his place at her side, she sat ramrod straight, her gloved hands clenched together in her lap.

  He eased himself down, stretching one arm behind her along the back of the settee, taking as great a care as though she were a skittish dove that would flutter away at his slightest movement

  “You have exquisite posture,” he said. “Were you ever in the military?”

  His teasing succeeded in coaxing a half smile from her.

  “No, but I did have a very strict governess who I am sure could have out-generaled Wellington himself.”