Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “Pretensions!” hooted Silas, enjoying himself now. “I fail to see how returning a civil reply would encourage anyone’s pretensions.”

  “May I remind you that Lord George Canfield is the son of a duke and that he is my guest,” said Stanley stiffly.

  “Remind me all you want,” Silas said. “It’s my house and I can speak my mind if I want to. If your fine friend don’t like it, Broadhaven sports two inns—he can put up there and take you along with him.”

  Before the exchange devolved into a shouting match, Meacham opened one of the double doors and announced: “Dinner is served.”

  “I don’t know when I’ve ever spent a more diverting evening,” Sophia observed to Gillian a few hours later. “Although I could have died of mortification with the way Stanley and Canfield treated Mr. Joslyn. It was most ill-bred of them.”

  In her nightgown and robe, Sophia was seated in a yellow-and blue-striped satin chair in the small sitting room that divided her bedroom from Gillian’s. Curled up on the blue damask sofa across from Mrs. Easley, Gillian was also garbed for bed and the two women were enjoying a cup of hot chocolate before retiring for the night.

  Gillian nodded. “Stanley was certainly trying to assert himself, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was, but Uncle pinned his ears back very nicely. If he’s wise and wishes to remain at High Tower, your half brother will take care not to irritate Uncle Silas too much.”

  Gillian smiled. “I agree. Uncle was in high fettle tonight, wasn’t he?”

  “Indeed, he was. I’m surprised that Stanley and his lordship didn’t pack their bags and ride off with their tails between their legs.” Sophia shook her head. “If it had been anyone else, I’d have died of shame at Uncle’s antics, but since it was Stanley... .”

  Both women giggled.

  Sobering, Gillian asked, “Why do you think that Stanley is so determined to stay at High Tower?”

  “Money!”

  “Most likely, but why drag Canfield along?”

  Sophia pursed her lips. “You know my friend, Mrs. Barbara Lawrence, who lives in London?” At Gillian’s nod, she went on, “I received a letter from her a few weeks ago and she mentioned that one of the topics of conversation during the recent Little Season was the Duke of Welbourne’s displeasure with his youngest son.” She shook her head. “It seems that Canfield is too wild and dissolute even for his grace and Welbourne had threatened to disown him. Mayhap he has and Canfield is living off his friends for the time being.”

  Eyes wide, Gillian asked, “Did Mrs. Lawrence know what Canfield had done to cause his father’s ire?”

  Sophia shook her head. “Barbara alluded to something involving a young lady, but she didn’t elaborate.”

  Gillian looked thoughtful. The news that Canfield’s problems involved a woman didn’t surprise her. In the years following Charles’s death and that terrible night at Welbourne’s lodge, she’d learned a great deal about the Duke of Welbourne. He was notorious for debauchery and the “parties” at his lodge. She shuddered. If only she had known!

  “It must be very bad if his grace has disowned him,” she said finally.

  “I agree. My best guess is that Canfield went beyond the pale and seduced a young lady from amongst the ton. Welbourne’s predilection for wenching and whoring is legendary, but if he has any virtue at all, it is that he limits his licentious behavior to women with, ah, a certain reputation. Even he would balk at ruining a respectable lady from amongst the ton.”

  “Do you think so?” Gillian asked with a raised brow. After what she had observed that night at Welbourne’s lodge, in her opinion there was nothing too low for Welbourne and his circle of friends—especially his friend Lord Winthrop.

  Sophia shrugged. “Welbourne treads a fine line, but to my knowledge he has never crossed it. There are many things the members of the ton would be willing to overlook, but the seduction of a young lady from their ranks isn’t one of them.”

  “Well, if Canfield was foolish enough to do so,” commented Gillian, “the unnamed lady, if there actually is a lady, must not come from a family with any influence, else the scandal would have spread faster than the wind.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” Sophia bent a look upon Gillian. “And you, my dear, be very careful around Canfield. I mislike him and I don’t trust him—even when I’m looking at him.”

  “You have nothing to fear. He makes my flesh creep and I intend to avoid him like the plague.”

  Despite her good intentions, Gillian was not able to avoid Canfield. Late the next afternoon, Sophia had gone ahead and Gillian had remained behind for a few minutes’ conversation with her uncle before going upstairs to join Sophia and change for the evening. She had just shut the door of the salon and was heading for the stairs when Canfield waylaid her.

  He stepped out of the alcove near the base of the stairs and said, “A word with you, Madame?”

  Gillian didn’t like the expression in those blue eyes, and a feather of unease brushed her neck. Canfield had obviously been waiting for her.

  Wanting to get away from him, never breaking stride, she continued toward the stairs, asking sharply as she passed him, “What?”

  His hand on her arm startled her and her step faltered. His grip tightened and in one easy motion, he halted her progress and pulled her into the alcove.

  Smirking at her, he murmured, “Just a private word with you, if you please.”

  “And if it doesn’t please me?” she demanded, her eyes shimmering with anger.

  “I don’t think you understand the situation, and I should warn you—annoy me and you’ll regret it.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Twitching her arm from his grasp and taking a step away from him, she added, “I’m afraid that you have a mistakenly high opinion of yourself—I don’t care one whit whether you are annoyed or not. And if you dare touch me again, my uncle will hear of it—right after I box your ears.” Her chin lifted. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  The smirk wiped from his lips, he grabbed her arm again and pulled her next to him. His face inches from hers, he growled, “I wouldn’t act so haughty if I were you, my pet. I know things about you that I don’t think you’d like made public—such as what you were wearing”—an ugly smile curved his mouth—“or not wearing when Winthrop entered your room that night at my father’s hunting lodge.”

  Gillian froze. Her eyes searched his and what she saw there chilled her. She swallowed and tried to brazen it out. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” he said, aroused by the quickly suppressed fear he glimpsed in her eyes. “I know of the bargain your husband made with Winthrop.”

  Devastated, for a moment she couldn’t think beyond the awful knowledge that someone else was aware of Charles’s shameful agreement with Lord Winthrop. Discovering that Canfield knew what had gone on in that bedroom between her and Winthrop left her shaken and questioning if she’d ever be able to put the events of that night behind her. How many others, she wondered, feeling ill, knew of Charles’s perfidy and her humiliation? How many others thought her a slut, an easy woman willing to be handed over to any man her husband chose like a piece of booty, as well as a murderess?

  She’d always hoped that someday Charles’s murderer would be unmasked and that her reputation could be redeemed. At least, I wouldn’t be called a murderess anymore, she thought numbly. Her presence that night at one of Welbourne’s gatherings might never be explained away, but she had comforted herself with the belief that the trade Charles had made with Winthrop would never come to light. Canfield had just shattered that belief. And how many more gentlemen, she wondered miserably, were familiar with Charles’s infamous bargain?

  “Not so proud now, are you?” Canfield gloated.

  Unwilling to let him know how devastated she was, Gillian met his eyes steadily. “Why, yes, I believe I am,” Gillian said. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of.
And now, if you will excuse me ...”

  His mouth thinned. “Don’t be a fool!” He leaned even nearer. “No one needs to know ... if you are nice to me.”

  She drew back as if confronted by a demon. Contempt in her gaze, she said, “You are a guest in my uncle’s home. I will be polite to you—provided you give me no cause to act otherwise.”

  He shook her. “Don’t you understand: I know.”

  Telling herself that she dared not weaken, dared not let him gain any advantage, in a calm voice that would have done Sophia proud, she said, “I don’t know what you think you know, but it does not concern me.”

  “You think so? I have your husband’s vowels.” At the dawning horror in her face, he went on silkily, “I won them from Winthrop a few weeks ago in London before he left for his estates for the winter.”

  “You’re lying,” Gillian managed from a mouth gone dry.

  “Oh, it’s true,” Canfield said smugly. “He may have been drunk when we met, but Winthrop regaled me with the entire tale. It was folly on his part, but the old fool kept Charles’s vowels as souvenirs of a bad bargain and a lost opportunity. His only regret was that he hadn’t forced you to honor your husband’s debt.” His eyes skimmed down to her bosom. “When the moment comes, and it won’t be far off, I’ll not make the same mistake.”

  Gillian fought to escape, but his hand gripped her arm tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I expect you to be very nice and accommodating to me,” he said, ignoring her struggles, “or else I’ll just have to take that pitiful cottage you and your cousin live in to cover the debts.” His eyes cold, he said, “I can take everything you own—even the clothes on your back. So keep that in mind when I have you in my bed.”

  Rage and terror gave her strength, and she tore her arm from his grasp. Breathing heavy, her eyes as cold as his, she snarled, “And I’ll see you in hell first!”

  Picking up the skirts of her gown, she dashed from the alcove and fled upstairs. Reaching her rooms, she ran inside, slamming the door to the sitting room behind her. Heart banging, gasping for breath, she leaned back against the door, her eyes closed.

  Having heard the door slam, Sophia hurried into the sitting room wearing a hastily donned dressing gown, followed by Nan Burton. Sophia took one look at Gillian’s white face and rushed to her.

  Sophia’s expression concerned, she laid a gentle hand on Gillian’s arm and asked, “My dear! Is it Uncle Silas? Has something happened?”

  Gillian gave a vehement shake of her head. “No. Uncle is fine.”

  Relieved, Sophia asked, “If all is well with our uncle, what is it that has you looking so miserable and unhappy?”

  The tears she had held back in front of Canfield leaked down Gillian’s cheeks and she choked back a sob. Opening her eyes, she looked into her cousin’s face and cried, “Oh Sophy! My life is over! We are ruined.”

  Sophia smiled. “I hardly think so. Now come over here, sit down and tell me all about it.”

  “Would you like a nice cup of tea?” asked Nan anxiously. She hadn’t seen her mistress so distraught since the night Charles Dashwood had been murdered, and she’d hoped never to see that expression on Gillian’s face again.

  “That’s an excellent notion, Nan. Please see to it,” Sophia said, urging Gillian to take a seat on the sofa. As Nan vanished from the room, Sophia sat down beside Gillian. Taking both of Gillian’s hands in hers and rubbing them, she commanded, “Now tell me what happened.”

  Gillian fought for control of her emotions, and once she was certain she wouldn’t burst into tears, she muttered, “It is Canfield.” Her face full of misery, she cried, “Oh Sophy, he knows everything!”

  Not by a flicker of an eyelash did Sophia show her own distress. Her voice as calm and comforting as always, she asked, “Are you certain, my dear? He is an unpleasant young man, but not I think stupid. He might just be guessing.”

  Gillian swallowed what felt like sand in her throat. “I’m certain. He caught me just as I was coming upstairs and dragged me into that little alcove.” A shudder racked her at the memory. “He told me that he had won Charles’s vowels from Winthrop a few weeks ago.” Her mouth twisted. “His lordship was drunk and told him everything.”

  “I see,” Sophia commented evenly, hiding her turmoil. “And what does he propose to do with the vowels? You have nothing. The only thing of value you were able to save from the debacle following Charles’s death was our small cottage—” The expression on Gillian’s face told her everything she needed to know. “Ah, of course. The nasty little maggot threatened to take the cottage away to cover Charles’s debts if you don’t allow him ... certain liberties.” Her dark head bent, Gillian said thickly, “He wants me in his bed, where I am to be ‘nice and accommodating’ to him, or else he’ll throw us out onto the streets.”

  Sophia searched for words of comfort, wondering if she’d go to hell for despising a dead man and wanting to get her hands around Canfield’s neck. There was no question of Gillian submitting to Canfield’s demands, and if Gillian thought about it for a moment, she’d realize that Canfield had no power over them. Even if Canfield carried out his threat, they would certainly lose the cottage, but Uncle Silas would be delighted if they lived with him—he’d mentioned it in his letters in the past and he’d already made it clear during their visit that he’d like their stay to become permanent.

  Lifting Gillian’s chin up, Sophia smiled at her. “Well, I think this is a tempest in a teapot. I’ll miss our little cottage to be sure, but I’m positive that Uncle would have room for Matilda, the cow, and can even find a place for Angel, the sow.” She looked thoughtful. “I wonder, should we bring the chickens?”

  Brushing away signs of tears, Gillian swallowed a bubble of laughter. “Oh Sophy! What would I do without you? You make everything seem so simple.”

  “That’s because it usually is, my dear.” Rising to her feet, she said, “Now Nan should be back with that tea any minute. We’ll speak no further on this matter for the time being, but I suggest we have a talk with Uncle Silas after dinner tonight and apprise him of the situation.”

  Gillian looked away. “If only there was some other way ...”

  “There isn’t,” Sophia answered crisply. “Unless, of course, you’d like becoming Canfield’s mistress.”

  Gillian stared at her in horror and Sophia smiled. “I didn’t think so. We’ll talk to Uncle after dinner.”

  A flush staining her cheeks, Gillian asked in a small voice, “Do we have to tell him everything?”

  “Yes, my dear, I’m afraid we do.”

  Chapter 5

  Gillian and Sophia decided that a note to their uncle requesting a secret meeting with him tonight after he retired to his rooms would be the easiest arrangement. Gillian gave the note to Meacham and begged him to deliver it to her uncle before Silas went downstairs for dinner.

  “And Meacham,” she said as she pressed the note into his hand, “please do not let Stanley or Lord George Canfield see you giving this to my uncle.”

  Meacham studied her strained face a moment before nodding and saying, “The master is currently in his dressing room—I shall deliver it to him immediately ... and wait for any reply.”

  “Oh Meacham, thank you!”

  While Sophia placidly plied her needle on a piece of embroidery, Gillian paced the confines of the sitting room waiting for Meacham’s return. Fortunately for the state of the blue and cream rug beneath her feet, Meacham was not gone more than ten minutes.

  At the knock on the door, Gillian leaped across the room to answer it. Seeing Meacham standing there, she dragged him inside the room and shut the door. “No one saw you?” she asked.

  “No one, Madame,” he said. A look of distaste flitted across his face. “I believe the two, er, gentlemen are in their own rooms dressing for dinner.” He handed her a small, folded piece of paper. “Here is your reply.”

  “Thank you.”

  Meacham hesitated and Gillian looked
at him. “Yes? What is it?”

  He cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening. “It isn’t my place to speak out,” he mumbled, “but should you need help of any sort, do not hesitate to call upon me. It would be my pleasure to serve you and Mrs. Easley however I may.”

  Gillian flashed him such a dazzling smile that he blinked. “Oh Meacham! Thank you. You do not know how much we appreciate your support.”

  Blushing right up to the top of his bald head, Meacham bowed. “Thank you, Madame,” he managed and strode from the room.

  Gillian opened the note and read the few lines. She hadn’t expected that Uncle Silas would deny them a meeting, but relief washed through her when she read his reply.

  “Uncle has agreed to meet us after dinner—once he escapes from Stanley and Canfield,” she said to Sophia. “He suggests that after we’ve eaten, we retire upstairs as soon as politeness allows. When it’s time, Meacham will come for us and take us to his rooms.”

  The hour was late when the two women, escorted by Meacham, slipped into Silas’s rooms. The evening seemed interminable, and only the wink Silas had given her when she’d entered the salon where they gathered before adjourning to the dining room enabled Gillian to act normally. It helped that Stanley was on his best behavior, determined to redeem himself in his uncle’s books—and when Stanley wished, he could be quite charming. Beyond taking an insulting scan of her body through his quizzing glass when he first spied her, Canfield behaved himself. Somehow Gillian managed to act civilly to him, but the unladylike desire to land him a facer was never far away.

  Dinner behind them, not wishing to arouse suspicion, Gillian and Sophia, as was custom, left the gentlemen to their wines and removed to the salon for tea and cakes. The gentlemen joined them before long and shortly afterward, the ladies retired to their rooms.

  Gillian had thought of nothing but the coming meeting with her uncle, and she couldn’t deny a growing reluctance to confess all to him as Sophia insisted. Every instinct rebelled at involving someone else in the situation, and she wished for the time and the wisdom to think of another way of dealing with Canfield. Embarrassment cascaded through her. She felt such a whining little fool running to her uncle for help, but at present, there didn’t seem to be another solution. Her lips thinned. Unless, as Sophia had suggested, she reminded herself, she wanted to become Canfield’s mistress. Her stomach roiled. No! Never that. But did she have to tell her uncle everything? Could she hold some of it back?