Three Weeks With Lady X

by Eloisa James

  Fred arrived with a second bottle, while India handed Thorn a slice of apple pie and took a piece of berry tart for herself. After Fred left, empty plates in hand, Thorn said, “India, you are not bad at kissing.”

  “You said I was.” But there was a little smile in her eyes.

  “Our second kiss wasn’t just good,” he said, “as you obviously know. It was . . .”

  He couldn’t find the words.

  “Are you saying that I’m not a terrible kisser?”

  “India.”

  She drank more champagne and looked at him, wet lips shiny. “I thought perhaps you’d offer me lessons in the art, which I would refuse, of course.”

  Every man has limits to his self-control. Thorn stood up, walked around the table, and drew her to her feet. “India, my kisses are appalling. Terrible. Would you offer me lessons?”

  She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Practice makes perfect.” And then she giggled. Lady Xenobia India giggled.

  Thorn pulled her into his arms. “You do remember that I plan to marry Laetitia?”

  “Do you imagine that a kiss or two might make me want to marry you?” The pure surprise in India’s eyes gave Thorn a quick kick in the arse.

  The daughter of a marquess would never look to one such as he, no matter how much she liked his kisses. For God’s sake, had he learned nothing in his years as the bastard son of a duke?

  India put her arms around his neck. “We are friends, you and I. I have no true friends, because I’ve never had time for them. I never had them when I was little either, because of my parents. You are my first true friend.”

  Then she kissed him. She was tipsy, and a lady, and unchaperoned. . . .

  But she wasn’t a bad kisser.

  She tasted like berry tart, like sparkling wine, like a woman . . . like India. She leaned into him, buried her fingers in his hair, closed her eyes, and let herself go. There was no tension in India’s body when she kissed; she fell into the act with the same passion with which she seemed to approach everything.

  It was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. Even so, he kept a strict rein on himself. His hands slid along her arms and felt skin as smooth as satin.

  He lifted up one slender arm and placed a kiss at the inner curve of her elbow. She caught her breath, so he licked her there. A small, remote voice in the back of his mind reminded him that they could only kiss.

  Nothing more.

  He had never paid attention to arms before. Now he put a kiss on the delicate blue veins of her inner wrist and felt himself hardening even more, as if he could come merely from the taste of her.

  When he straightened, she wound her arms around his neck and began kissing him again, her tongue retreating, setting his blood on fire, dancing forward and making his mind explode with images of what she might do with that tongue. . . .

  That’s when he knew he had to stop. It was one thing to kiss India. She was unlike any other woman he’d met: curious, brave, and independent. She was a friend. But he couldn’t take it too far.

  He didn’t want to ruin everything.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Thorn,

  I am enclosing an invoice from Thomas Sheraton for several thousand pounds. He was kind enough to give you furniture that had been crafted for another customer; I knew that you would wish to repay his generosity by giving him a generous supplement, thus I added it to the invoice. Mr. Sheraton asked me to give you his sincere thanks.

  India

  Dear India,

  The bill from Sheraton was crippling, but in comparison, the cost of a “blue mirror” was truly astonishing. Do you wish to appear blue? Do I? Is this a reference to blue blood? Do I give a damn that the mirror is Venetian? No, I do not. Return it.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  One does not “return” a work of art. You are striving to enter the upper ranks, and you will simply have to trust me to create a worthy atmosphere.

  India

  Dear India,

  Return the damn mirror.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  You’ll be happy to know the mirror and mantelpiece have been installed and look splendid.

  In other news, I have managed to secure you an excellent cook. I had to lure him away from Lord Pistlethorpe’s household, and you will be paying him somewhat more than his normal wage. But given your boast that you are—I hope I have this right—more than a “rich bastard,” I knew you would not hesitate, because excellent food can make an otherwise uncomfortable house party bearable. He arrived with his kitchen crew in tow, and I hired them as well. I trust that Lord P does not send you a challenge, but if he does, I’ve no doubt you will be the victor at fisticuffs or something of that nature.

  India

  Dear India,

  You may keep the mirror if you could restrain yourself from filching staff from other households. I have indeed heard from Pistlethorpe, who is not pleased.

  By the way, we used to call him Mortar-and-Pestle at school, owing to his nocturnal activities.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  I have no idea what you are talking about with reference to Lord Pistlethorpe, and I don’t wish to know.

  Your new butler, Mr. Fleming, unfortunately cannot be in residence until the day before you and your parents arrive. I have also engaged four upstairs maids, two downstairs maids, a scullery maid, and a stablemaster. We are on the lookout for a bootblack and two hall boys.

  The gatehouse has been cleaned, with some very basic furnishings installed, as I did not know whether you would care to hire a gatekeeper.

  India

  Dear India,

  I was referring to a man’s wish to pleasure himself under the covers in the dark. Pistlethorpe treated his tool to a vigorous dubbing nightly in such a manner that every boy in the house knew it. Do women do the same? Were you sent to school?

  I suspect that marquess’s daughters are too delicate and precious to leave the parental eye, but I have no idea. My sisters were kept at home, but then we were all special cases.

  Thorn

  Dear Mr. Dautry,

  You may not write me in this manner or I shall cease to send you notice of what I am doing with your estate. I will simply forward the bills.

  Lady Xenobia India St. Clair

  Dear India,

  I surmise from the irritation in your letter that ladies do not lie about at night touching their softer parts, which is a huge loss on their part. You should try it. It’s greatly relaxing, and you seem prone to vexation.

  Thorn

  Mr. Dautry,

  I enclose the following invoices: £100 for wax candles, £50 for lye soap, and £200 for gold braid.

  Lady Xenobia India St. Clair

  Dear India,

  If you intend to fleece me out of house and home, at least send along a word or two to blunt the pain. Surely what I wrote was not so horrendous? I was under the impression that you and I were becoming friends, in a strange sort of way. But I am sorry if you are genuinely offended; I suppose ladies don’t want to hear of such things, even in jest. What the hell is all that gold braid for?

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  I have no objection to being friends if you at least attempt to be witty rather than vulgar. The gold braid trims the dining room curtains. They were hung today and they are magnificent against the silk walls.

  India

  Dear India,

  I’m not very good at wit. It’s probably to do with growing up on the streets. Can you forgive me? I didn’t say that I lie about pleasuring myself while thinking of you, after all. It was merely a polite inquiry.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  Why on earth would I share such private information with you? This is a genuinely curious question.

  India

  Dear India,

  I know from the tenor of your letters that you do it. Put the satyr in whatever room you’v
e chosen. I’m sure he’ll be inspirational, and I don’t want him anywhere near me. I’ve no mind to look at a man’s arse.

  I wish I was coming to Starberry tonight to see the gold-braided curtains myself. I would try to get you tipsy again; I have fond memories of our meals together.

  Thorn

  India had hired a housekeeper whom she’d had her eye on for some time—an excellent maid working in a London house where her abilities were underappreciated. She was younger than most housekeepers, but she had a stern backbone and would stand up to her new master. And perhaps as importantly, she would be a warrior on Lala’s side.

  Over the years, India had realized that servants played an important part in a marriage, and not simply because a good cook made everyone in the house happier.

  Lala’s bedchamber was, in India’s considered opinion, precisely what any lady would want. She had ignored Dautry’s instructions and given her a bed with barley-twist posts, hung in pale yellow silk embroidered with pansies. There was a graceful desk under the window, where the mistress of the house could glance out across the back lawn, with a view all the way to the willow trees that graced the riverbank. The bedchamber was a refuge, a place that would echo and replenish Lala’s sweetness.

  She had also purchased a large Sheraton wardrobe, with shelves of different depths on which to place evening gowns, day dresses, and even a special shelf for a presentation gown.

  Some parts of the estate would necessarily remain untouched, at least until the house had its own mistress. The dairies and the brewhouse were still in wretched condition; the nursery was clean, but bare; she had barely looked at the library, other than acquiring a few comfortable chairs and a few boxes of books. She meant to organize the shelves, but that would be all.

  The privies were now clean, but even so she had set in motion the establishment of Bramah-designed water closets, with a float system for the water tank. She’d never seen one, but she’d read about them, and although they were very new, and very expensive, she determined they should be placed throughout the house, even though it would happen after the house party.

  After spending a decade living in the margins between householders and servants, she had a keen understanding of the fact that life would be immeasurably better for chambermaids if chamber pots could be retired forever.

  Because Dautry had given her no direction as to livery, she toyed with the idea of putting his men in a deep red, simply to vex him, but in the end she chose overcoats made of Italian wool in a blue just a touch darker than a robin’s egg.

  Since the gardens had been ruthlessly pruned, they could not furnish blooms to adorn the house. Her solution was to trade an exorbitant donation on the part of Mr. Dautry to the parish church, which desperately needed a new steeple, for the head gardener’s freedom to take whatever he needed from the flowerbeds that stretched behind the vicarage.

  Already the house was beautiful: glowing, elegant yet homelike, comfortable as well as luxurious.

  Dear Thorn,

  I offered the satyr to the village church, as you suggested. The vicar was so offended that you have had to make a major donation to repair the church steeple. Perhaps the Cellini should be relinquished to the Bank of England, where it could wait in a vault for your further instructions?

  India

  Dear India,

  Is the dower house progressing? I think Rose would like a rocking horse. She told me today that Antigone does not like the new governess (the second I hired), and when I found the time to investigate, I learned that the lady had already given her notice. We shall arrive with a nursemaid and the much-beloved Antigone.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  I have completed the mistress’s bedchamber, which means the house is very nearly ready. I was unable to find a rocking horse here; perhaps you can locate one in London? The dower house awaits Rose.

  India

  Dear India,

  I shall arrive in three days, Rose in tow. I sent my new butler out for a rocking horse and he found only a rocking cow. Rose thinks the cow is stupid, and I have similar concerns about the new butler. She named the cow Buttercup.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  A good milking cow is never a bad investment; your future offspring might like her.

  You will be happy to know that the privies are now functioning, and the bedchambers furnished. Yesterday Lady Adelaide and I left the Horn & Stag and moved to Starberry Court.

  India

  Dear India,

  Did I tell you that I’ve invited my friend Vander, the future Duke of Pindar, to the house party? I know the two of you are a perfect match in that you have the bluest of blue blood. Lately, I’ve been thinking that I should give him advance warning. It’s the least a man can do for the brotherhood.

  Like wearing garlic to ward off a vampire.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  I’m worried that after Laetitia gets to know you a bit better, she’ll choose the local doctor—a very handsome young man—over you. I summoned Dr. Hatfield to warn him of Lady Rainsford’s imminent arrival. As you may be aware, her ladyship requires daily medical attention for any number of ailments. I promised Hatfield two pounds for each day that he dances attendance on her.

  India

  Dear India,

  That’s probably the first expense of which I heartily approve. Here’s hoping that Hatfield can keep the lady in check. I met her only twice, but I live in fear.

  Thorn

  Dear Thorn,

  You really mustn’t speak of your future mother-in-law in such a jocular manner. Perhaps you should begin an earnest study of polite manners. It would be a shame to do all this to the house, only to have Lady Rainsford take a virulent dislike to you. As she is bound to do if you don’t play your cards better.

  India

  Dear India,

  You are my trump card. I expect your next career will be in matchmaking. At any rate, I am just back from meeting Laetitia in Kensington Gardens, and I am too much at ease with the world to squabble with you. I am feeling like a lucky man.

  All the best,

  Thorn

  For some irrational reason, India had kept all of Thorn’s notes. She liked the way his sentences tore across the page in a strong, slanting hand. By this point, she had a quite a pile, as they’d kept messengers going back and forth to London for days. But she tossed this letter in the library fireplace.

  Of course, she was glad that he was happy. Thrilled. Lala would be able to coax him into displaying his dimple on a daily basis. Lala was adorable, that’s what she was. Adorable the way little bunnies and babies and all the sweet little things in the world were.

  These days, India felt herself to be the very opposite of adorable. She looked haggard. She was so exhausted that she felt as if a horse had ridden over her. Everywhere she looked, she saw more things that needed attending to. Indeed, as she watched Thorn’s letter burn, she realized that the space over this fireplace needed a painting.

  A family portrait would be perfect: perhaps Lala and her children in the garden, and Thorn leaning against a tree just behind them, with that fierce look he had, and the contained power of his body.

  She shook her head, taking herself out of the room nearly at a run. She wouldn’t answer his letter.

  In fact, she shouldn’t answer any more letters at all.

  Dear India,

  You will be happy to learn that I have solved the problem of the governess. I found a tutor instead, a young sprig by the name of Twink. He graduated from Cambridge about three and a half minutes ago, but he’s a good fellow. He laughs, which Rose needs.

  Her nursemaid’s name is Clara. She’s a good girl from the Highlands and will probably fall in love with Twink, but there’s nothing I can do about that. They will both accompany us to Starberry C. and stay in the dower house.

  Thorn

  India had spent the whole of the afternoon in the library, sorting through books in
order to shelve them, and she still wasn’t finished. In her opinion, a library was the heart of a house. A library’s book-filled shelves conveyed the impression that a family has lived in one place for generations: curious minds bequeathing their collections for their descendants to read.

  Obviously, Thorn didn’t have that.

  Nor, it seemed, had Jupp. Either he hadn’t owned many books, or an especially literate thief had ransacked the library, since most of the bookshelves had been bare.