by Cheryl Holt
“She was about to wash me,” he claimed.
“I was not!” Mary seethed, but they ignored her.
“If you need washing,” Mrs. Bainbridge declared, “I shall tend you. Don’t pester the hired help.” She glared at Mary. “Be gone, you filthy harlot, and if I catch you sniffing around the viscount again, I’ll have you whipped.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Mary muttered, stumbling away from Redvers.
She skirted Bainbridge and hurried into the adjoining bedchamber.
Cheeks burning with mortification, she slowed, trying to regroup and ease the rapid pounding of her heart. What had just happened? And what should she do about it?
Would Redvers tattle to Victoria? Should Mary, herself, confess what had transpired? What would she say? That she’d been groped and maligned by a reprobate?
Gad! Mrs. Bainbridge had to be Redvers’s mistress, yet he’d brought her to Barnes Manor with no thought to Felicity.
How could Felicity marry him? He was depraved in a manner beyond comprehension.
While Victoria had first crowed over Redvers’s visit, she’d been brutally frank about his scandalous character. But had she been informed as to the extent of his corruption?
Victoria was a baronet’s daughter, who’d married down by accepting Mary’s father. She’d never forgiven him for her plunge in status, and she was determined to rectify her mistake by arranging a lofty union for Felicity. Victoria was set on the match with Redvers—as was Felicity herself.
Dare Mary enlighten them as to the true state of his degeneracy? Would they be concerned about it?
As Victoria often counseled, a woman could overlook many faults in order to become a countess.
Feeling conflicted but more calm, Mary was about to tiptoe away when she noticed the door to the dressing chamber hadn’t shut all the way; she could peek through the crack and spy on Redvers. And though she was positive she’d be damned for all eternity, she did exactly that.
Mrs. Bainbridge was standing very close to him, stroking a wet cloth across his chest and stomach.
“Better?” she asked as she tossed the cloth on the floor.
“Much.”
“I can’t believe you let that drab little maid assist you.”
“She was convenient.”
“If I hadn’t walked in, I suppose you’d have had her skirt up over her head.”
“Most likely.”
Mrs. Bainbridge leveled a glance that was meant to both chastise and seduce.
“You know I detest it when you dabble with slatterns.”
“And you know that it’s none of your business. Don’t presume to scold me.”
She scowled as if she might quarrel, but on seeing his stony expression, her pout changed to a smile.
“You are the worst libertine in the world,” she charged.
“I’ve never denied it.”
“Let me remind you of why you don’t need anyone but me.”
“Yes, why don’t you? My encounter with that little drab—as you call her—has left me out of sorts. Why don’t you do something interesting to earn your keep?”
“You don’t pay me any longer, remember? Not since your father snipped the financial cord.”
“Then do it for free—and get on with it.”
“Ooh, you are such a wretch! Why do I put up with you?”
“Because you’re mad about me, and you know it.”
“I know nothing of the kind.”
“Give over, Lauretta,” he chided, using her Christian name. “You’re a mercenary, and you’ve cast your lot with me. Your claws will be dug in till I’ve inherited and spent my old man’s last farthing.”
“Yes, they will, and Felicity be damned.”
“Yes,” he concurred. “Felicity be damned.”
Their cold words cut Mary to the quick. She wanted to sneak out, to escape the evil pair, but despicable as it sounded, she remained rooted to her spot.
Mrs. Bainbridge grabbed the waistband of his trousers, pulled him to her, and initiated a passionate kiss. Their lips were melded, their arms entwined, their hands everywhere, and Mary watched, agog, as they writhed and touched.
Other than a hasty, furtive embrace she’d once witnessed at the harvest fair, she couldn’t recollect ever having seen two people kissing. She hadn’t understood that it would be so physical, and the spectacle rattled her.
She felt tingly all over. Her nipples hardened and throbbed; her heart started pounding again.
Mrs. Bainbridge pushed him out of sight, which irritated Mary enormously. She couldn’t see them, but she could hear their groans and sighs, the rustling of fabric. A few minutes later, Mrs. Bainbridge moved back into view. There was scant evidence to clarify what had occurred, but the woman’s dress was askew and her hair had fallen from its combs.
She flashed a confident grin at Redvers. “Next time you consider embarrassing yourself with a housemaid, please recall that I’m your mistress. No one can satisfy you as I can, and don’t you forget it.”
“I’ll try not to,” he tepidly replied, yawning.
“You are such a rude beast!”
In a snit, her hips swaying to and fro, she sashayed from the room. Mary couldn’t make it to the door without Mrs. Bainbridge observing her, so she dashed over and hid behind the drapes until Mrs. Bainbridge exited into the hallway.
As her footsteps receded, Mary was anxious to creep away undetected. She peeked out, but Redvers was over by the dressing room, leaned against the doorjamb, waiting for her to emerge.
She gasped with dismay.
“She’s gone, my sly voyeur,” he said. “Would you like to continue where we left off?”
He’d seen her? He was aware that she’d been spying?
“Aah!” she shrieked.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, smirking.
She blushed a dozen shades of red. “You are the most disgraceful, disreputable person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
“I have to tell Victoria what you’re really like,” she absurdly threatened.
“She already knows.”
Mary spun and fled, his contemptuous laughter ringing in her ears.
Chapter 2
MARY dawdled in the dining room and stared out the window across the garden to where Viscount Redvers was strolling with Felicity. With him so tall and dark, and her so shapely and fair, they were a striking couple. It was difficult not to watch them.
Redvers was very dashing, very gallant, and he chatted with Felicity as if she was the most unique woman in the world. His behavior was perfect, providing no hint of the depraved character lurking inside, and Felicity appeared to be charmed.
Mrs. Bainbridge pranced along behind them, accompanied by Mr. Paxton Adair, who’d been introduced as Redvers’s best friend. He was handsome, too, but with golden blond hair and piercing brown eyes. He seemed of an age with Redvers, and he possessed a similar sophistication and refinement.
He’d bragged about being the illegitimate son of an earl and scraping by on minimal funds—as was Redvers. Both men had exhausted their fathers’ generosity. Both had been disavowed. Both were flat broke.
According to gossip, Adair made his living through gambling and vice, and he was purported to be even lazier and more wicked than Redvers.
With Redvers, Adair, and Mrs. Bainbridge as her guests, Victoria had to be hosting the most scandalous trio in the kingdom. Mary understood that Victoria hoped for Felicity to marry into the aristocracy, but honestly! Were there no limits as to what was allowed?
Apparently not.
Victoria was sitting at the table, watching Redvers, too. Her other daughter, twenty-two-year-old Cassandra, sat with her. Mary went over to them.
“I don’t like Lord Redvers,” Mary said when Victoria glanced up.
“So?”
“He’ll make Felicity miserable.”
“Every husband makes his wife miserable,” Cassandra interje
cted. “It’s the way of matrimony.”
Cassandra, a widow, was blond and blue-eyed, as pretty as Felicity but not nearly so plump. At age sixteen, Victoria had wed Cassandra to an elderly baron who’d turned out to be a brutal despot. Once, she’d been as haughty and sure of herself as Felicity, but time and cruel experience had smoothed over her more disagreeable tendencies.
She was no longer conceited or confident. She never smiled.
“I’ve heard,” Mary pressed, “that he has no conscience or scruples.”
“I’ve heard the same,” Victoria divulged.
“Don’t you care?”
“Not particularly.”
Victoria shifted on her chair, her heavy weight causing the wood to creak in protest.
As a debutante, Victoria had been a beauty, but at her current age of forty-five, her looks had faded. Her hair was a dull silver, and she had frown lines circling her mouth. She loved to eat, and as a result, was very fat.
Her baronet father had been strapped for cash, so Victoria’s dowry was very small. She’d ended up shackled to Mary’s prosperous father, but his money hadn’t bought her any happiness.
She was selfish and moody and never satisfied. Not with her home. Not with her daughters. Not with her servants. And most especially, not with Mary, whom she’d never liked.
“Why are you so concerned about Felicity?” Victoria queried. “Her marital negotiations are hardly any of your business.”
“I think he’s wrong for her.”
“And who would be more right?” Victoria sneered. “He’s a viscount; he’ll be an earl. Nothing can change those two vital facts.” She waved her hand, dismissing Mary. “Go away. You annoy me.”
Mary peeked at Cassandra, wishing her half sister would offer a supportive comment, but Cassandra merely shrugged as if to say, what did you expect?
Without another word, Mary left them.
She couldn’t figure out why she was complaining about Redvers. Felicity could wed whomever she wanted. It just seemed inequitable that, while Mary constantly dreamed about marrying, Felicity would choose Redvers with barely a thought as to the consequences.
Mary had the same Barnes’s blood running in her veins, had had the same wealthy father. Why couldn’t she have a suitor like Lord Redvers?
Previously, she hadn’t minded Victoria’s obsession with making brilliant matches for Felicity and Cassandra. Mary had deemed it all so much nonsense, but recently, the unfairness had begun to gnaw at her. She didn’t even like Redvers, but he’d stirred a pot of restlessness that had her boiling with frustration.
Why couldn’t she—just once!—be the girl everyone adored?
She’d intended to go to her room and sulk, but instead, she headed for the woods and the path that led to the house where Harold lived with his mother.
As she moved into the trees, she saw Harold coming toward her, which wasn’t surprising. The supper hour was fast approaching, and he had a habit of showing up at Barnes Manor as the meal was about to be served. Victoria always invited him to stay.
He was fussy and bookish and pudgy—the total opposite of masculine, vigorous Lord Redvers.
Normally, she ignored Harold’s plain features and persnickety routines, but with Redvers’s arrival, she had grown critical. After meeting the viscount, Harold seemed ordinary and . . . and . . . boring.
There! She’d admitted it. He could be positively tedious, and it galled that she’d had to set her sights so low.
“Hello, Harold,” she greeted as he neared.
“Mary, I’ve advised you not to walk through the forest un-escorted. Why won’t you listen to me?”
It was a recurring argument she couldn’t win. “You know I’m not allowed to use the carriage.”
“Then you shouldn’t visit me.”
“But I had to see you. It couldn’t wait.”
“What is so urgent?”
“I’m tired of keeping our betrothal a secret, and I want to have the banns called at church.”
“Call the banns! Are you mad? Mother would never agree.”
“Harold, you’re forty years old! Inform her that it’s going to happen—with or without her blessing. She’ll come to accept it.”
“What if she doesn’t? What if the news sends her into a decline? I won’t be responsible for . . . for . . . killing my own mother!”
“I’m not suggesting you kill your mother,” she snapped. “I simply want to marry you. Is that a crime?”
“We’ll have plenty of time to tie the knot after the old girl passes on.”
“I want to do it now.”
“It’s out of the question.”
His obstinacy incensed her, and contrary to how she typically acted, she refused to take no for an answer. She stepped in, so close that her skirt brushed his legs. At her bold advance, he looked as if he might faint.
“What are you doing?” he inquired.
“I’d like you to kiss me. You never have, and I’m asking you to.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Kiss me. Right here. Right now.”
“You have gone mad. Mother always said you were too—”
She grabbed his coat and shook him. “Stop talking about your blasted mother! If you don’t kiss me—this very second—I can’t predict what I’ll do.”
She yanked him to her and pressed her lips to his, and they stood like two marble statues. It was awkward, it was horrid, it was embarrassing, and it was completely different from the torrid embrace she’d witnessed between Redvers and Mrs. Bainbridge.
Disheartened and dismayed, she released his coat and moved away as he retrieved a kerchief and mopped his brow.
“What’s come over you?” he sputtered.
“Nothing. It was a moment of temporary insanity.”
“It certainly was, and I must tell you that I didn’t care for it.”
“I wasn’t exactly thrilled myself.”
“I’m not a spontaneous person, Mary. Nor am I the sort to appreciate a physical display. I can’t believe you’d instigate one.”
“Neither can I.”
“I’m disturbed by your behavior.”
This was the spot where—usually—she’d have profusely apologized, but she couldn’t bring herself to grovel. When it became clear that she wouldn’t, he bristled.
“I’d intended to join you for supper,” he huffed, “but I’ve changed my mind.”
He spun and proceeded for home.
JORDAN Winthrop, Viscount Redvers, gazed across the park as the little drab from the previous day marched into the trees. She was definitely on a mission, prepared to knock heads together, or perhaps rap a few knuckles with a ruler.
Who was she? What was she?
A loafing housemaid? A prickly governess? The preacher’s unhappy wife?
Any choice seemed likely.
He couldn’t explain why, but she’d caught his notice. In a mansion brimming with blonds, she was a refreshing brunette, though with her hair squeezed into that tight bun, it was difficult to discern that she had hair, let alone the shade.
She was very pretty, with a pert figure and big brown eyes, and he’d been amused by their encounter in his dressing room. He was a cad and a scapegrace who went out of his way to offend, but still, it was shocking that he’d dallied with Lauretta while knowing that an innocent spectator lurked on the opposite side of the door.
Even by his low standards, it was despicable conduct.
“Who is that woman?” he inquired of Victoria, pointing at his prey as she was swallowed up by the forest.
“No one of any account whatsoever,” Victoria replied in her usual haughty tone.
He couldn’t abide Victoria, and he was already calculating how to ensure that he never saw her again once he and Felicity were wed.
“I didn’t ask her status,” he retorted. “I asked her identity.”
“She’s my stepdaughter, Miss Mary Barnes.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware th
at your late husband had had another child.”
“Why should you have been apprised? She’s of no consequence to your situation.”
“Too true.”
Yet he couldn’t keep his attention from wandering to the spot where she’d vanished. What was she up to?
He was positive that—whatever her plans—they would be more intriguing than his. Supper and cards with Victoria, Felicity, and Cassandra would entail hours of dull conversation that not even Paxton could enliven. Jordan would much rather spend his evening teasing and tormenting Mary Barnes.
“Did Mr. Barnes leave her as rich as Felicity and Cassandra?” he asked.
“No, she’s poor as a church mouse.”
The news was so unfair. Why dower two daughters but not the third?
“So she’s never married?”
“No. She’s resided here as my ward and benefited from my charity.”
“Lucky girl.”
“She certainly is.”
Jordan was being facetious, but Victoria was too thick to realize it, and his interest in Mary Barnes spiraled. What a horrid life she must have led!
He wouldn’t want to be beholden to Victoria for anything. She was too conniving, and if Jordan’s father hadn’t cut off his allowance, Jordan wouldn’t have bothered with her. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
He’d wed Felicity, deposit her fortune in his bank account, and be forever free of his father’s domination.
That didn’t mean he had to like Felicity—or even be courteous to her. In fact, after the ceremony and consummation, he doubted they’d ever fraternize, unless he bumped into her at an occasional London party.
“And what is your opinion, Felicity?” he queried.
“About what?” she simpered.
“About your sister, Mary Barnes. Is she a lucky girl?”
“I hardly consider her to be my sister, Lord Redvers. She’s always been little more than a servant.”
“Does she brush your shoes and iron your gowns?”
“Of course,” she said arrogantly, apparently presuming he would be impressed by snobbery.
He was being facetious again. Felicity didn’t notice his sarcasm, but, like mother, like daughter, intellect was not her strong suit.
