My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  Lud, though, ’twas a wonder women did not follow his carriage or throw themselves before his horse.

  How ignorant she’d been when she’d blithely decided to satisfy the wonderings of her mind and the cravings of her body with one brief, blissful episode. Thinking she could then put it all behind her and go on unchanged, as men seemed to do so easily.

  Only now, as her eyes followed the figure on horseback climbing the hill beyond the orchard, was the sober truth sinking in to her already-sorrowing mind and her already-needy body.

  A woman couldn’t give herself to a man without losing a part of her soul. And some irretrievable piece of hers was now disappearing down the ridge beyond Eastwoods in the possession of a wandering rogue she’d never see again.

  Bemused as well as satisfied, Teagan guided Ailainn through the woods toward Rafe’s hunting box. Faith, he still wasn’t sure that he’d not just trysted with a goddess come to earth as a wood nymph.

  Certainly Valeria—he let the music of her name play through his mind—had been nothing like any mortal woman he’d bedded, and he’d bedded a fair number. No, in a world where everything had its price and everyone who permitted the Jester close demanded his best performance, she had entreated only with her eyes and a whispered “please.” Using no artifice to entice, intent not on punishing an errant husband or enlivening a selfish boredom, but on capturing wonder, she had, with her innocent yet powerful response, brought to passion a sweet majesty long since lost to him.

  Could it be he’d encountered that rarest of all jewels—a truly honest woman? One like his mother, who’d flouted her father’s authority to follow the man she loved, faithful until the day she’d died—abandoned by that man.

  The father whose irresponsible blood also flowed in Teagan’s veins.

  No, even if Valeria Arnold were gold, it was among dross that the Jester belonged, he reminded himself. With his pockets now well-lined with Rafe’s and his friends’ blunt, best to put this all-too-fascinating wood sprite out of mind and return to London immediately. After all, the winnings would last only so long. He must plan the Jester’s next performance.

  And extinguish this frighteningly intense desire to wheel Ailainn around and ride back to her.

  Chapter Four

  A week later Valeria pulled Specter to a halt before the barn. After giving the mare a final pat, she dismounted and handed the reins to the waiting groom.

  Her cheeks warmed as she watched him lead the horse into the shadowed interior. She’d not been inside the structure since her tryst the week previous, an interlude so shocking, splendid and entirely beyond the scope of her normal staid existence that she now had difficulty believing it had really transpired.

  Except for the constant, subtle hum of her awakened senses, the sharp and disquieting need that pulsed through her whenever, in some unguarded moment, her thoughts drifted back to that unprecedented morning. As all too often they seemed to do.

  Firmly arresting the insidious longing to think on it again, she jerked her attention back to her conversation this morning with Gilbert, the farm’s competent but rather taciturn foreman. Reviewing the laconic replies to her inquiries about the upcoming shearing, Valeria thought ruefully that Gilbert, having dealt with sheep all his life, seemed to commune with the beasts more readily than with two-legged beings. Given the state of her finances, however, it appeared Valeria would have a long, uninterrupted span of years in which to learn how to extract from him the information she needed.

  Unless, out of boredom and despair, she finally accepted Arthur Hardesty’s offer.

  A shudder shook her frame. After that interlude in the hay barn, she would rather embrace the genteel poverty of Eastwinds.

  She was trying, without much success, to raise her spirits out of the doldrums into which those dispiriting reflections had cast her when she spied Mercy, bonnet and apron blowing in the wind, trotting toward her.

  Since the maid had suffered an injury to her ankle in India and normally avoided walking, Valeria felt an immediate frisson of alarm. “Is something wrong?” she called as the woman approached.

  “I don’t know,” Mercy gasped, pausing to catch her breath. “There be a courier come with a message for you, sayin’ he’s to stay till you give him a note in return.”

  “A courier?” Valeria echoed in surprise. “From whom?”

  “Wouldna say, Mistress. Nor would he even hand Masters the note, sayin’ he was ordered to deliver it to you personal!” The elderly maid snorted in disapproval. “There’s wishin’ I was that your papa’s batman were still about to give ’im a right proper set-down!”

  “No matter,” Valeria replied, falling into step beside the maid. “I expect we shall soon learn his errand.”

  When they reached the manor, Mercy halted. “Into the parlor with you now. I’ll go round to the kitchen and fetch you up some tea whilst Masters tells Mr. Airs-and-Graces he can bring you the missive.”

  Within moments after Valeria had put up her whip and gloves and repaired to the parlor, Mercy entered the room with a tray of steaming tea, a young man in dark blue livery following in her wake. The maid jerked her chin at the newcomer. “Here he be, Mistress—whoever he be.”

  “Saunders, ma’am,” the courier said, doffing his hat and offering a bow. “Sent to yer with this—” he held out a sealed letter “—by my mistress, Lady Winterdale.”

  Valeria scanned her memory. “The Dowager Countess of Winterdale?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Begging yer pardon, Lady Arnold, if’n I disturbed yer house—” he glanced at Mercy, who gave an audible sniff “—but my mistress said as how I weren’t to speak to no other but you, and was ta put this straight into yer hand. She also said I were not ta be quit o’ this place till I had yer message in return.”

  “Very well, Saunders. I’ll ring when it’s ready. Mercy, would you escort him back downstairs, please.”

  After nodding a dismissal, Valeria deposited the vellum packet on the table beside her chair and poured herself a cup of tea, wondering what was so urgent that her husband’s grandmother, a woman she had never met, thought it necessary to send the news by courier.

  Word of some special bequest?

  A thrill shivered through her before she laughed, dismissing so fanciful—if appealing—a notion. For one, Lady Winterdale was obviously very much alive, and besides, if someone had bequeathed her late husband anything of value, notice of it would surely come through a lawyer.

  Seating herself, she broke the seal and began to read.

  My dear Valeria,

  It was a great sadness to me that my indifferent health precluded my attending your wedding to my grandson at Portsmouth, and an even greater one that illness prevented my journeying to Eastwoods to see Hugh before his tragic demise.

  I have heard much of your devoted care to him during his long decline. Now I beg you will show compassion for the grief of an old lady and come to London, that you might relate to me every detail of Hugh’s last few months.

  I’ve instructed my courier to wait upon your reply, that I might know when I can look forward to your arrival. Until then, I remain, yours…

  After the usual expression of compliments, the note ended with the dowager’s signature in an impressive looping scrawl.

  Valeria sat back in her chair, irritation and amusement mingling with her surprise. Summon her to London, did the countess, and with such arrogant assumption of Valeria’s instant obedience that she’d had her messenger wait upon Valeria’s reply!

  Granddaughter-in-law or no, she was not a lackey to spring to the countess’s bidding. Though she had to admit the idea of visiting the grand metropolis of London, a city she’d never seen, was vastly appealing.

  London, center of business and trade, of government, of Society. London, where the members of the ton—that privileged world to which she belonged by birth but to whom she had never been presented—would gather for the Season.

  London, where one charming and unforgettabl
e Irish rogue was doubtless now residing.

  A rush of excitement tingled her nerves. Don’t be a looby, she chastised herself. Even if she did not resent the command thinly veiled beneath the politeness of the dowager’s invitation, the cost of such a journey made it out of the question. Much as she sympathized with the old lady’s evident need to cling to every memory of her beloved relative—a need with which Valeria was all too familiar.

  Mindful of the waiting courier, she quickly composed a reply, which, while honoring the countess’s grief, was nonetheless firm in refusal. After sanding and sealing her note, she regarded it with a sigh.

  London. Like so many other exotic lands and adventures she longed to experience, distance and poverty rendered this one just out of reach.

  But one adventure she had claimed. A fierce gladness filled her that she had triumphed over modesty, upbringing and abject terror to seize the opportunity life had granted her. Especially since with the beginning of her courses, she now knew that stolen interlude had not left her a permanent and scandalous memento of her recklessness.

  She suppressed a grin when Masters appeared practically the instant she rang the bell pull. No doubt her servants were as agog to learn the courier’s message as they were insulted by his method of delivering it.

  “Would you tell Saunders I have his message ready?”

  “At once, my lady.” However, Masters hesitated. “I trust nothing of an…alarming nature has occurred, ma’am?”

  “No, Masters. My husband’s grandmother merely wished to convey her sympathy on my recent loss.”

  The momentary crease of his brow told her Masters found that excuse for a courier-delivered message unconvincing, but he forbore further questioning. “I’m relieved to hear that,” he said, and bowed himself out.

  As she awaited the courier, Valeria mentally reviewed the list of small, dull, but necessary chores that would occupy the rest of her day. Another sigh escaped. Valeria Arnold, good soldier’s daughter, would do what she must without further repining. Still, how exciting it would be to be reviewing instead the plans for departing to London!

  A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her lapse into melancholia. “You may give your mistress this, with my compliments,” she said, holding out the letter.

  Saunders took it and bowed. “If’n I may be so bold, Lady Arnold, when can I tell my mistress ye’ll be comin’?”

  Taken aback, Valeria hesitated. It seemed odd indeed that the countess would have made her servant aware of her invitation. “I shall not be going to London,” she replied.

  “Then, begging your pardon, ma’am, my mistress said I was to give yer this—” the courier reached into his vest to extract another folded square of vellum “—n’ this.” From his trouser pocket he produced a fat leather purse.

  Valeria heard the distinctive clink of coins as he transferred the articles to her outstretched hand. Her heartbeat leaped as her palm dipped under their weight.

  For a moment she simply stared at him. “I—I shall require another moment, please,” she said. After he bowed himself out, she hurried over to lay the money bag reverently on the desk, then ripped open the countess’s second note and rapidly scanned the contents.

  With numb fingers Valeria set the missive aside, loosened the pouch’s drawstring and poured the coins onto the desk. Ten, twenty—there must be fifty golden guineas! No wonder the courier had been instructed to confide his message to none but the recipient.

  Her mind still a swirl of disbelief, on knees gone suddenly weak she sank into her chair and, slowly this time, reread the countess’s note.

  My dear Valeria, I feared when my grandson went off soldiering, he would neglect his estates such that, with the barony’s assets passing to Hugh’s cousin upon his premature demise, he left you little beyond that wretched farm. Hardly a fitting repayment for your devoted care!

  Lest a lack of funding prevent your accepting my invitation, my servant has been ordered to advance this sum and arrange your food and lodging for the journey. I shall live in happy expectation of meeting you shortly.

  A rising excitement swamped any lingering vestiges of irritation over the countess’s high-handedness.

  Gilbert could handle the shearing without Valeria, and the small tasks awaiting her attention could just as easily be accomplished a month or two from now. Could she but persuade herself to accept the countess’s largesse, she had no compelling reason to refuse the invitation.

  Ah, to escape this dull backwater—and in London! Premier city of England, seat of government, finance and Society…residence of Teagan Fitzwilliams.

  ’Twas ridiculous how her breath fluttered at the very thought. Even should she go, London was a huge city. A half-Irish gambler of dubious reputation would hardly frequent the same circles as the Countess of Winterdale.

  However, were Valeria to go, she should be able to steal a few hours in which to explore the fascinating metropolis Elliot had described to her so enthusiastically. The soaring heights of Westminster Cathedral and the perfection of Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, St. Paul’s. St. James’s Palace, surrounded by its vast park, and the grim silhouette of the Tower brooding over the Thames. The pleasure gardens of Vauxhall, illumined at night by thousands of lights; the docks by day crowded with ships unloading cargos from exotic lands she so longed to visit.

  Awe at actually being able to view such glorious vistas scoured away the remnants of her resistance. Swiftly she withdrew more paper and sharpened her pen.

  But as she rapidly composed her acceptance, a guilty excitement that had nothing to do with cathedrals, cargoes or commerce thrummed through her.

  Three weeks later, Valeria sat beside Mercy in the comfortable carriage Saunders had arranged, anxious for her first sight of the countess’s town house. Though in India she’d viewed sprawling cities and the opulent splendor of a nawab’s palace, she still found the vastness of London impressive, and the classically designed and detailed dwellings of Westminster and Mayfair most beautiful.

  Lady Winterdale’s residence, she discovered as the carriage halted at last, was a three-story brick residence set on the lush green expanse of Grosvenor Square.

  “’Tis lovely, is it not, Mercy?”

  “As long as the roof don’t leak nor the chimney smoke, I shall like it well enough,” the maid replied prosaically.

  “I expect you can count on that!” But as Valeria ascended the stone stairs, sudden nervousness afflicted her, and she smoothed her wrinkled pelisse with anxious fingers. The owner of such magnificence was certain to be pained by her outmoded, rather worn apparel.

  The gesture didn’t escape Mercy’s sharp eye. “No use fretting yourself, Miss Val. Lady Winterdale knows how you’re circumstanced, and if she don’t, she ought to!”

  True enough, Valeria reassured herself as she entered the vast marble foyer. It really did not matter whether or not the old lady approved of her. Valeria was here only to recount the episodes Hugh’s grandmother had requested, and after that would be on her way back to Yorkshire.

  The butler, a forbidding personage with a stiffly starched collar and expression to match, directed Mercy to meet the housekeeper, and bade Valeria follow him to a guest bedchamber.

  “Lady Winterdale will receive you after you’ve refreshed yourself from the journey,” the butler said. “Molly can assist with whatever you require.”

  An apple-cheeked young servant awaited her within a spacious chamber furnished in Chippendale mahogany and rose satin. After the butler departed, the girl confided that the countess had assigned her to be Valeria’s personal maid for the duration of her visit.

  Eagerness to remove the grime of the road and curiosity to meet her benefactress spurred Valeria to make quick work of repairing her appearance. After insuring every braided hair was in place and her dowdy gown as presentable as a few moments’ ministrations could make it, she rang the bell pull.

  The butler led her to a much larger bedchamber whose tall Palladian
windows overlooked the gardens behind the town house. The figure reclining on the ivory brocaded sofa in the room’s center looked up as she entered.

  “Lady Arnold of Eastwinds,” the servant intoned.

  “Countess, thank you for your kindness in bringing me to London,” Valeria said with a curtsy.

  “Come closer, gel, and let me have a look at you,” the countess said. “Jennings, bring us sherry.”

  The butler hesitated and cleared his throat. “Your physician recommends only tea, my lady.”

  The countess grimaced. “Impudent sawbones! If I can’t have a glass of sherry to celebrate the arrival of my grandson’s wife, I might as well cock up my toes now.”

  Valeria thought she heard a sigh escape the butler before he turned to her. “Tea for you, Lady Arnold?”

  “If you please.”

  “Old retainers,” the countess muttered after the butler left. “Never know their place. Now come, give me your hand. I shan’t bite, you know.”

  Valeria approached as bidden and held out her hand. As the dowager took her fingers in a surprisingly robust grip, each woman silently appraised the other, Valeria searching for signs of the man she’d loved.

  With her slightly hawked nose, broad brow and well-shaped lips, the countess must have been striking rather than handsome as a girl. Though the face and figure gave little testimony to the closeness of blood between this woman and Valeria’s late husband, the sharp, piercing black eyes that watched her every step were so reminiscent of Hugh’s that Valeria felt an automatic pang.

  Just so had Hugh scrutinized her, when he’d first accompanied Elliot to her father’s billet. An impetuous fifteen-year-old delighted by her beloved brother’s visit and overwhelmed by his handsome friend, she’d pelted the two with pebbles as they rode up the lane, desperate to attract their notice. Caught in bittersweet longing for those long-ago days, she said, “Hugh had your eyes.”