My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  The countess’s expression softened. “Aye. You loved him well, did you not?”

  “Yes.” But he didn’t love me. Surprised by the acuteness of her lingering pain over that bitter fact, Valeria could think of nothing further to say.

  “Sit.” The countess indicated a wing chair next to her. “Aside from the several letters I believe he dictated to you, I know nothing of how Hugh fared after he was wounded. So, tell me everything.”

  “Of course.” Pausing only long enough to sip gratefully at the hot tea the butler brought, Valeria described to his grandmother the shock of viewing Hugh’s bloodied body, rigid with pain and incoherent with fever as he was unloaded from the transport ship. Then the desperate first weeks when he hovered between living and dying, the slight improvement that allowed him to be conveyed back to the small farm at Eastwinds where he’d grown up…and the final, slow decline.

  “You were with him at the end?” the countess demanded.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Did he have any last words?”

  Lydia…Lydia?

  The echo of Hugh’s hoarse whisper invaded her ears, unleashing a cache of infinitely painful memories.

  “H-he was not speaking very clearly toward the end,” Valeria evaded. She didn’t want to recall the anguish she’d felt at discovering her husband had never stopped loving the girl who’d refused his suit—anguish mixed with anger at his approaching death, and despair that she was helpless to prevent it. Or the stubborn, hopeless love that had prompted her to comfort despite the blow his words had dealt her.

  “I’m here, my dearest,” she’d whispered back.

  “Kiss me, Lydia,” he’d gasped. “One…last time.”

  And so she’d pressed her trembling lips to his hot, cracked ones, cradling his emaciated body close while her tears fell and evaporated off his fevered skin, her heart splintered by the knowledge that she could ease his final suffering only by pretending to be someone else.

  Once more tears gathered. She swiped at them, angry with the countess for exhuming the ugly, hurtful truth.

  She looked up to find the old woman staring at her. “He thought of her, didn’t he? His precious Lydia.”

  For a moment Valeria could not breathe. Then, the habit of replying truthfully too ingrained for her to quickly dredge up a lie, she sputtered, “He…I…how dare you ask?”

  “Don’t trifle with me, gel! I’ll have an answer. Or did you think to come to London and wheedle me with lies, mayhap claim some of the bounty that would have been Hugh’s, had he lived?”

  Valeria felt her face whiten, then suffuse with color. Slowly she rose to her feet.

  “I have provided as full an account of Hugh’s demise as I can. That being done, you can have no further use of me. Thank you for the tea, Lady Winterdale. You needn’t summon your butler—I can find my way out.”

  Too furious even to consider how she was to manage the expense of the return journey, Valeria curtsyed and whirled around, intent upon summoning Mercy and quitting the house as quickly as possible. Only to find her wrist caught in the grip of one thin, clawlike hand.

  “Here now, where do you think you’re going, you silly chit?” the dowager said, tugging on the arm she’d captured. “Sit back down! I may be old and invalidish, but my sources among Society are excellent. You have no friends or relations here. A lady don’t stay alone at a hotel, though if that wretched pig farm leaves you with more than a feather to fly with, I shall own myself astonished.”

  “Sheep. We raise sheep,” Valeria replied through clenched teeth. “And Eastwinds is doing quite well. If you will kindly release my wrist, I wish to leave.”

  “Well, I don’t wish it,” the Dowager returned. “’Tis one of the few privileges of age, missy, to conduct oneself badly and get away with it. But I intend to explain myself, so climb down from the boughs and hear me out.” When Valeria remained stiffly upright, the countess gave her wrist another shake. “Sit, I say!”

  After briefly entertaining—and discarding—the notion of arm-wrestling her husband’s elderly relation, reluctantly Valeria sat.

  Waiting a moment, as if to make sure Valeria would not spring up and quit the room if she released her, the old woman let go of her wrist.

  “Since you require it, I shall remain,” Valeria said. “However, I shall not answer any further questions, nor do I possess any interest whatsoever in any bequest you might have intended for Hugh.”

  “If you haven’t any interest in additional funds, you’re a nodcock, girl, and not the intelligent lady I believe you to be! Not but that I don’t think the better of you for being offended by my plain speaking. No sly-smiling, weasel-faced flattery from you, which just confirms the good I’ve heard of your character.” The countess nodded approvingly.

  Rendered off balance by the sudden shift from attack to praise, Valeria sat silently, a sliver of amusement piercing the defensive shield of her ire.

  Before she could formulate a suitable reply, the countess continued. “First, let me assure you I consider it the best of good fortune that the bird-witted Lydia Fontescue refused Hugh’s suit! Oh, she claimed to love him—” the countess paused to give a disdainful sniff “—until she learned he meant to go fight with Wellington. Not for Miss Lydia to chance being left on the shelf, should her fiancé die in some heathenish land!”

  The discomfort Valeria might otherwise have suffered at being forced to endure a discussion of the woman her husband had loved was blunted both by surprise at the countess’s outspokenness and a grudging sympathy with the ill-will the woman obviously still harbored toward the lady who had rejected her grandson.

  Allowing Valeria no chance to insert a comment, Lady Winterdale continued. “Lydia snagged herself the viscount she wanted. Already running to fat, Aylesbury is, with barely a thought in his head beyond the cut of his coat. And he ruined her figure, getting her with three puling imitations of his spavin-shanked self.” The old woman shook her head in disgust. “Still, Lydia wasn’t the only lackwit, if by the time of his death Hugh hadn’t come to appreciate the lady he did wed.”

  “Please, Lady Winterdale, I don’t want—”

  “There now, girl,” the countess said, patting her hand. “You mustn’t think too badly of him. You were married so briefly, and then him coming back more dead than alive…But he was ever a smart lad, and had the good Lord granted him more time, I’m sure he would have overcome that silly infatuation and learned to value you as he ought.”

  His grandmother believed Hugh might have come to love her? Once again tears stung Valeria’s eyes. How many long, lonely months had she hoped and prayed for that eventuality, until the final crushing disappointment?

  Before she could master herself enough to reply, the countess sighed. “Enough about the past, then. We must decide what’s to be done with your future.”

  “M-my future?” Valeria stuttered, once again disconcerted by the dowager’s abrupt shift.

  “Of course, yours. My sources tell me that your papa, apparently as lackadaisical about what was owed you as my grandson, never gave you a Season. How are you to reestablish yourself in Society if you’re not even out?”

  “It is rather difficult to arrange a Season from Bombay, and then Papa was ordered straight from India to the Peninsula,” Valeria retorted hotly.

  “Ought to have sent you back home, even though your only relations are cousins several times removed. Still, your mama’s people never stir from that medieval pile in Westmoreland and your papa’s kin in Devon are just as bad. But we’ve matters of more import than abusing your relations, gel,” the dowager continued, cutting off Valeria’s protest. “So you may cease looking daggers at me. Something must be done now. You’ve had sufficient time to mourn Hugh. You’re still young, of excellent birth, and sufficiently attractive that your chances of remarriage are quite good. I mean to present you, missy.”

  “Present me?” Valeria echoed, both bemused and annoyed by this further evidence of the counte
ss’s high-handedness. “My lady, I cannot conceive how—”

  “True, you’re a bit old,” the lady continued, dismissing Valeria’s interruption with an imperious wave, “and though that lamentable farm will provide little enough dowry, once we’ve gotten you suitably attired, I have every expectation of bringing some respectable candidates up to snuff. My health don’t allow me to go out, so I’ve arranged for my niece, Lady Farrington, to squire you about. Alicia will arrive tomorrow and escort you to the mantua-makers the instant her trunks are unpacked.” The countess surveyed Valeria with a grimace. “You’re not to stir from the house until your new wardrobe is delivered.”

  “Do I have no say in this whatever?” Valeria demanded when the countess at last paused for breath.

  “You may thank me,” she replied, the hint of a smile belying the tartness of her tone.

  Valeria shook her head, trying to gather her disordered thoughts. Had she possessed sufficient funds, she probably would have chosen to come to London and enter Society after her year of mourning ended. Still, generous as the countess’s plans were, she wasn’t at all sure she should—or wished to—place herself under such obligation to her husband’s imperious relative.

  “’Tis all so unexpected. I must reflect—”

  “What is there to reflect upon? You’d be a looby to refuse such an offer, and you know it. Now…” the countess turned her compelling, black-eyed gaze upon Valeria, and once again the old woman’s resemblance to her grandson reverberated painfully through her “…there’s naught to do but be sensible, thank me prettily and begin considering which new fashion will best become you.”

  “But I’m not so sure I wish to remarry,” Valeria countered stubbornly. “Even were I fixed upon it, there’s no guarantee, despite your generous support, that I would in fact attract an offer that would be acceptable to us both. I should not wish you to invest funds in an endeavor so uncertain of success.”

  “Perhaps you’d not find a suitor to your liking,” the countess conceded. “But you must admit, Miss Contrary, that you’ve a much better chance of finding a suitable candidate here and now than at any other time or place. I’m not set on marrying you off, child. Should you end the season unwed, I’ll consider my duty to Hugh done, and that’s an end to it.”

  Silently Valeria reconsidered the countess’s proposal. As the old woman said, should she ever wish to remarry—or more importantly, to have children of her own—she would be foolish to turn down this singular opportunity. And in addition to that possibility were the attractions offered by the city itself.

  Ah, to have months to explore it, rather than a few days. And after years of struggle, heartache and poverty, the prospect of simply enjoying the frivolity of Society life, garbed in a wardrobe of fashionable new gowns, was wonderfully appealing.

  Reluctantly, Valeria tried to close her eyes to this attractive vista. ’Twas one thing for her to allow the countess to pay her way to London, that she might render the old woman some service, quite another to accept from this near stranger the staggering sum Valeria suspected a Season would cost. “I must again thank you for the offer, but I cannot feel I could accept such great largesse. Despite my marriage to Hugh, I have no claim upon you.”

  “Pft!” The countess made an impatient sound. “’Tis all well and good to be independent, gel, but don’t whistle away a golden opportunity out of misplaced pride.”

  A pride she’d undoubtedly be forced to swallow over and over, were she to remain here, subject to the whims of this imperious and unpredictable woman. Perhaps her modest sheep farm—with Arthur Hardesty as a last resort—was not so unappealing an alternative.

  Her hawklike gaze on Valeria’s face, the countess must have seen the conflicting emotions mirrored there, for after a long moment she sighed. The fierceness seemed to drain from her and she sagged back against the sofa cushions. For the first time Valeria caught a glimpse of how truly ill the old woman was.

  “My husband, children, grandchildren have all left me,” she said quietly, her voice now subdued and weary. “Except for the foolish Alicia, who cowers every time I speak to her, I’ve no near relations still living. I like your spunk, my dear, your independence—and your devotion to Hugh. The doctors tell me I haven’t long left. It would…comfort me to have you with me until the end.”

  The countess turned to look directly at her, and Valeria could read in her eyes how much it cost the proud autocrat to have to admit her weakness. “Would you not humor a sick old woman, and remain in London?”

  Though her lips had been poised to utter a refusal, that sudden change from dictatorial to vulnerable touched something deep within Valeria. She, too, knew what it was to lose all those dear to her, to dine at a solitary table, sit before a solitary fire with only loneliness and memories for company. Neither wealth nor title could save the countess from the same fate.

  Valeria could.

  “I…I hardly know what to say.”

  Once again the dowager reached out to take her hand, her grip this time trembling, uncertain. “Say yes. You’ll not need to suffer my company long, if the sawbones are correct. Can you really be so contemptuous of pleasure that you could not enjoy yourself in London for a few months? You need not remarry if you do not wish it. Stay, and let me repay the debt I owe you for nursing Hugh in spite of…everything.”

  “I loved Hugh,” Valeria said. “No repayment is necessary.”

  “Then stay out of kindness for the grandmother who loved him, too. Please.”

  Crafty old beldame, Valeria thought, more than half convinced she was being cleverly manipulated. To refuse largesse was one matter, but how could one turn down a dying grandmother-in-law’s last request?

  “Very well, Lady Winterdale. I will stay.”

  The countess nodded. “Good. And you may call me ‘Grandmamma,’ as Hugh did. Now, if you will leave me, my dear, I fear I must rest.”

  Shaking her head at how brilliantly the countess had out-maneuvered her, Valeria curtsyed and walked away. But as she paused to open the door, she looked back to see the woman already asleep, something that looked suspiciously like tears seeping from under her eyelids.

  Valeria paused, her cynical suspicions softening. Perhaps the old woman genuinely wanted her company—or at least a more worthy opponent with whom to clash swords than the apparently timorous Alicia.

  As Valeria silently tiptoed out, a surge of excitement buoyed her spirits. She’d send her London maid out for a guidebook this very afternoon. Since it appeared she’d be treated to a several-month sojourn in the city, Valeria intended to profit from it—and not restrict her explorations solely to the handful of residential squares and business streets frequented by the ton.

  No, she meant to discover all of London, even those less fashionable districts where she might chance encountering one handsome, charming half-Irish gambler.

  Chapter Five

  T hough the early spring sunshine a month later did little to drive the chill from his chamber, the golden beam caressing his face was intense enough to roust Teagan from slumber. Rubbing a hand over the rough stubble at his chin, he squinted and sat up, a precipitous action that sent sharp pain lancing through his head. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back against the pillow.

  The cotton dryness of his swollen tongue and the bitter taste in his mouth must be relicts of the cheap brandy at the gambling hell Rafe Crandall had taken them to last night. The results of his evening’s play were scarcely sweeter than the brandy residue.

  Slowly this time, he eased himself to a sitting position and fumbled for the water pitcher on the bedside table. After cautiously opening his eyes just wide enough to pour a glassful, he shut them again and gulped it down.

  Mhuire, but he was tired of drinking and dicing, the smoke and stink of stuffy, crowded rooms, the feverish eyes of brandy-soaked men caught in gaming’s thrall, the endless charade of playing the reckless, jovial rogue. Laughing at coarse jokes he’d heard too many times, forced
by necessity never to be able to turn down a wager over cards or a billiard cue, spending his nights in the company of men whose endless pursuit of superficial pleasures he cordially—but silently—despised.

  He took another long draught of water and reached for the breeches he’d flung on the bedside chair near dawn this morning. After inspecting those pockets and the slim money pouch he extracted from the waistcoat dangling off the chair back, he reclined against the pillows once more.

  Despite the brandy, his memory was only too correct. Though Teagan had not lost the entire stake he’d brought with him into the hell last night, his precious cache of coin had been severely reduced.

  Sighing, he rose and walked to the washbasin. His landlady, Mrs. Smith, bless her, had the pitcher filled and a clean towel set out. For a moment he lost himself in the simple pleasure of scrubbing away the night’s grit and smoke, reveling in the feeling of freshness despite the clanging set off in his head by the motion of bending over.

  He would come about again, he told himself as he toweled his face dry and contemplated the effort necessary to shave. As a man whose whole income derived from gaming, he’d developed a strategy that for the last ten years had kept him, if not in luxury, at least one step ahead of the magistrate. Avoiding contests whose outcome depended solely on chance, he concentrated his efforts on games in which skill—a skill he’d worked hard to perfect—normally balanced out the capriciousness of pure luck.

  Normally. But every so often, as if mocking his attempts to circumvent her, Lady Luck seemed to send him a succession of hands so bare of promise that even his experience and expertise couldn’t manage to turn them to advantage. He’d just suffered a month of such hands, and the tidy bankroll of winnings he’d brought back with him from Rafe’s house party had dwindled dangerously low.

  A knock on the door interrupted his glum reflections.

  “Thought I heard ye stirrin’, sir!” His landlady entered with a bundle under her arm and a steaming tray. “And by the time it were when ye brought yerself home this morning, I expect ye could use a bit o’ this.”