by Liz Carlyle
“It was enough of a pleasure, my dear, simply to watch you,” he murmured into her hair.
“Liar,” she said on a spurt of laughter. And somehow, the embarrassment was over. She lifted her head, and held his gaze. “I think I should quite like to make love with a sybarite. To…be caressed by the hands of a man bent only on his pleasure—and mine.”
“Are you inviting?” He whispered the words into her ear.
Xanthia swallowed again, and squeezed her eyes shut. “No,” she rasped. “I—I shan’t ask again, Nash. You know what I want.”
He smiled. “I obviously know what you need,” he admitted, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “Though whether or not it is what you ought to have remains un—”
There was a sharp knock at the door.
They burst apart like the conspirators they were. Gareth Lloyd entered and dropped a stack of green baize account books onto his desk. He said nothing to Nash, who had returned to the window to stare at the river below. With a stiff nod to Xanthia, Gareth went to the map and frowned at it. “I have sent for your carriage, Zee,” he said without looking at her. “Otherwise, you will be late.”
Xanthia went to her desk, and ran a finger down her calendar. “Oh, Lord!” she said. “My fitting for Lady Cartselle’s masque! What is the time?”
“Half past three.”
Nash turned from the window. “You mean to attend Lady Cartselle’s masque next week?”
Xanthia was shoving papers into her bulging leather satchel. “Yes, Lady Louisa fancies herself desperately in love with Cartselle’s heir.” She jerked her head up. “Why? Shall you go?”
Nash gave a muted smile. “I never attend such larks,” he admitted. “But forgive me, Miss Neville. I am now detaining you from your work.” He turned and bowed stiffly in Gareth’s direction. “Mr. Lloyd, it was a pleasure.”
Gareth grunted at him dismissively. He was picking the yellow pins from the floor where Xanthia had dropped them. Almost ruthlessly, he began jamming them into the Arabian Sea, as if Neville’s had a whole fleet positioned strategically off the coast of India.
Nash took his hat from Xanthia’s desk. “Good afternoon, my dear,” he said quietly. “And thank you again for the lovely…view.”
The door closed quietly behind him, leaving a terrible emptiness in the room.
Gareth’s posture was rigid, a sure sign of his temper. At last he turned from the map and returned to his desk.
“Are we declaring war on Bombay?” she asked, her voice light.
Something inside him seemed to snap. “God damn it, Xanthia!” He picked up one of the ledgers and slammed it so hard pages flew. A shock of heavy gold hair had fallen forward, shadowing his face. “Just what do you think you are doing? What?”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, stalking toward the desk. “To what are you referring?”
“To your acting like a common gutter slut,” he snapped. “For God’s sake, do you know who that man is?”
Before she knew what she was doing, Xanthia had drawn back her arm and slapped him full through the face. “Yes, I know who he is.” Her voice was low and tremulous. “How dare you, Gareth? How dare you speak to me that way?”
“You know why I dare.” His words were laced with pain. “Because you should be mine, Xanthia. And you know it.”
Xanthia leaned over his desk. “So let me understand this—if I allow you certain liberties, I am ‘yours,’” she said. “But if I allow them to another man, then I am a slut? Have I fully grasped your meaning, Gareth?”
He tore his gaze from hers and looked away. She was horrified to see the mark her hand had left. “I did not call you a slut, Zee,” he whispered. “I said that—or what I meant was—”
“Never mind what you meant.”
Xanthia returned to her desk and hefted the stuffed satchel from her chair. “And by the way, Gareth, I had reason to believe that Lord Nash might require our services. This was business—at least it began that way. And if it ends as something else, then…then it really is none of your business, is it?”
He looked at her with hurt in his eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “No, apparently it is not.”
“Then I will wish you good day, Gareth,” she said. “I am sorry I struck you. It was no more excusable than your words, and I am ashamed, as I hope you are.”
With that, Xanthia pushed through the door and went down the stairs. Her entire body seemed to tremble with repressed emotion. Below, the painters were still at work—a pale yellow this time. The clerks had their heads down, pens skritch-skritching diligently across their desks, and Mr. Kemble was nowhere to be seen. She burst out into the last golden light of afternoon, and climbed into the waiting carriage, strangely blinking back tears.
Dear God, she was so angry and confused! She did not want trouble with Gareth, nor did she wish to hurt him. So often she wished that she did love him, that she loved him enough to be what he wanted her to be—a benevolent wife and mother, not just a businesswoman with a bad temper. But she did not love him enough, and it was a shame. He was a good man. A shrewd business partner. And perhaps, seen through his eyes, what she had just done was quite beyond the pale. She pondered her alternatives as the driver cracked his whip, jerking the carriage into motion.
No, she still did not mean to tell Gareth of Lord de Vendenheim’s suspicions. There was no reason to blacken Lord Nash’s name when he mightn’t be guilty of anything worse than leading a hedonistic life. And he was not guilty of worse. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly, certain.
Yes, Nash possessed a fondness for his homeland. He was filled with nationalistic pride. But were those not honorable things? He wished fervently that the Greeks would prevail in their struggle—as did the overwhelming majority of the English people. He was an unrepentant gambler and libertine—and though he apparently raised decadence to an art form, it was a behavior not unusual in London.
But was he a traitor to his adopted country? No. He had shown no interest whatsoever in rising to her bait—and she had offered it most generously. Oh, she had piqued his interest, yes, but it had been interest in her, she could have sworn. Xanthia had watched his mind mulling through it. He had been studying her face. Weighing her nature. Wondering if he dared take her up on her offer.
If anything more nefarious than that had crossed Lord Nash’s mind, then Xanthia was not the judge of character she believed herself—and she had staked half her family’s fortune on her ability to do just that. But would de Vendenheim believe her?
No. He would not. Indeed, he could scarce afford to. The Home Office had too much at stake. And that left but one possibility: Xanthia could find proof of Nash’s innocence. If she had imagined it possible to find evidence of his guilt, why was not the opposite possible? Or was she just a fool? Had she simply allowed his lips and his touch and his whispered words to addle her brain?
Lord, surely not? Xanthia collapsed against the plush banquette of Kieran’s carriage. Suddenly, it all seemed too much. She was utterly exhausted. She had a business to run; she did not have time for a life. Certainly she had no time for de Vendenheim’s intrigues. And now she had not just her costume fitting to survive, for this was the dreaded Wednesday—which meant she and Kieran must take Lady Louisa to Almack’s tonight.
Cursing men in general, Nash in particular, and praying Almack’s would soon be struck by lightning, Xanthia let her eyes drop shut and her fatigue and her worry and the rhythm of the rocking carriage lull her into a fretful sleep.
Chapter Seven
A Flap in Park Lane
T here’s been a letter from Swann, my lord.” Gibbons was brushing—well, thrashing, actually—the previous evening’s frock coat at Nash’s bedchamber window. “I am afraid the news is not good.”
Still in his dressing gown and slippers, Nash looked up from his newspaper. “Lord, what now?”
“It is his mother,” said Gibbons, energetically flapping the coat out the open window.
“I know about his m
other,” Nash snapped. “Good God, man—what are you doing to my coat?”
Gibbons straightened up, bumping his head on the window frame. “Making a futile attempt to dispel the stench of tobacco smoke and cheap eau de toilette,” he said over his shoulder. “It utterly reeks, my lord. Where in God’s name did you go last night?”
Nash gave a disgusted grunt. “Played macao with Struthers at some Soho hellhole,” he answered, returning his gaze to the paper. “Now stop waving my coat at Hyde Park before you spook a horse.”
“My lord, it stinks.”
“Take it down to the butler’s pantry.”
Gibbons shot him a testy look. “I cannot,” he said. “Agnes has asthma. If I take it belowstairs, she’ll wheeze for a week.”
Nash put the paper down with a crush. “Just how long, Gibbons, have you been brushing soiled clothes in my bedchamber?” he complained. “And precisely when did my servants become masters and I their slave?”
Gibbons snatched the coat back inside. “Very well, my lord,” he responded. “If you cannot spare a thought for poor Agnes, then I shall take it down at once.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Nash waved his hand in obviation. “I don’t mean it. You know I do not. I’m just…out of sorts.”
Gibbons looked inordinately self-satisfied. “I know, my lord,” he said more solicitously. “We’ve all noticed it.”
“Aye, and gossiped about it no end, too, I daresay,” muttered Nash, snapping his paper back into form. “Now what were you saying about a letter?”
“She died,” said Gibbons.
Nash felt another burst of impatience. “Who died?”
“Swann’s mother.” Gibbons frowned censoriously. “He’s to be away at least another se’night, arranging the funeral and letting the cottage. He sends his profuse apologies and hopes you have no urgent need for his services.”
Nash scowled down at his coffee. The truth was, he could do without Swann for another week though he did not like it. He very much wished to know what the Comtesse de Montignac was up to nowadays, but he had not thought to ask Swann to set up a meeting before leaving town. Then there was the paperwork on his desk, which was fast becoming a dangerously teetering pile.
Still, a mother’s death was a hard thing at any age, and presumably Swann cared for his mother as much as Nash had cared for his—which was to say, quite a lot. Like many women too beautiful for their own good, his mother had been at times cruel, and always selfish, but he had loved her. Her death had marked the end of his innocence and the beginning of his new life. Life as the English heir. Life without Petar. Until she had abandoned him in England, Nash had thought himself a mere visitor to this place.
He cleared his throat and laid the paper aside. “Have you Swann’s direction to hand, Gibbons?” he asked, going to the mahogany escritoire. “I shall send my deepest condolences and reassure him there is nothing pressing.”
There was, however, one small thing which Swann had left undone, Nash thought, as Gibbons went haring off in search of the letter. But during Nash’s visit to Miss Neville’s offices last Wednesday, he had answered the question for himself. Her former fiancé—if he had ever been quite that—was Mr. Gareth Lloyd. Nash was quite sure of it.
A proposal of long standing from a family friend, Lord Rothewell had said. How many people in London had known Miss Neville in the West Indies? Very few, Nash guessed. But it little mattered. Lloyd had given himself away with his cold, hard gaze and abrupt manners. He had disliked Nash on sight, and his every gesture toward Xanthia had spoken of patronization and, less perceptibly, of possession.
He marveled Xanthia put up with it. Perhaps she still had a tendré for the fellow? The thought sent an uncomfortable chill down Nash’s spine. At once he jerked himself back from that emotional precipice. The woman’s past was none of his concern—nor was her future. If they were to have anything together, which he doubted, it would be in the here and now.
Nash had kept his distance from the woman these last few days and cleared his head enough to play a hand or two of cards. He had also begun looking about for Lisette’s replacement. But to his eye, none could compare with the intriguing Miss Neville. Where she was concerned, however, he was unsure of what next he ought to do—or even what he wanted to do. The woman was still dangerously unwed, and he was having a devil of a time making out her…well, her character. And what a strange thing with which to concern himself! He wanted only to bed Xanthia Neville—wanted it quite desperately, in fact—and character had heretofore been of no importance in choosing a woman to fuck.
Damn. He did not even like that choice of word. Not when it was used in the same sentence as her name. Where had these finer feelings come from? They were bloody annoying. And he could not escape the suspicion that such things probably mattered more to him than they did to Xanthia, for if one believed all that the lady said, her morals were decidedly ambiguous.
It was not just her obvious willingness to have sex without benefit of clergy—a notion which was shocking in itself—but in her business dealings, she seemed more than a little ruthless, which made her seem to him like…well, like your average businessman, he supposed.
Nash threw down his pen in disgust. What right had he to question someone else’s moral fiber? He had made a career of bankrupting fools for sport. He was not above bedding other men’s wives and, indirectly, impoverishing their children. He had always had his choice of highly skilled courtesans with whom to slake his baser needs. In years past, he had favored the most lecherous entertainments imaginable—with females both high and low, and sometimes all at once. Was his horse any higher than Miss Neville’s? What was the difference between them?
Ah, from society’s standpoint, that question was easy to answer. She was a gently bred, unwed female. She should be demure, kind, and not just virtuous, but naive, too. Her innocence was to be preserved at all cost, for it was the vehicle by which blue-blooded privilege would be borne forth into the next generation. Once she had married and performed that noble duty, however, Miss Neville could whore herself pretty much as she pleased. That was the dirty little secret of British aristocracy. And the thought of her being—good God…
He prayed Rothewell meant what he said. He hoped no one would push that vibrant creature into a marriage of convenience. For so sensual a woman, it would be like trapping an exotic bird and throwing a dark cloth over the cage. It would be hell. But she was almost thirty. She really was quite on the shelf, and of her own doing, too.
All this left him with too many unanswered questions. Who was Xanthia Neville? Was she the cunning, perhaps faintly duplicitous business owner? Or was she the sensual, breathless almost-innocent he had found in his arms? The duality of her nature troubled him. There was something…something lurking there, just beyond his mental grasp. Something which did not ring true—but it would come to him in good time.
Just then, Gibbons came back into the room, a folded piece of foolscap in hand. “Here we are, my lord,” he said, placing it on the escritoire.
Nash thanked him and picked it up. “Gibbons, you have been handling my invitations in Swann’s absence,” he murmured. “Tell me—what became of that card for Lady Cartselle’s masque?”
“It is still on your desk downstairs.” The valet had commenced thrashing the frock coat again. “I am to send your regrets, I collect?”
Nash was tapping the edge of Swann’s letter pensively on the desktop. “Actually, Gibbons, I think I shall go.”
“My lord, it is Lady Cartselle,” Gibbons cautioned. “I fear the affair will be a little tame for your—er, your tastes.”
Nash flashed a wry smile. “Ah, but perhaps my tastes are changing?” he suggested. “Or perhaps it is just old age setting in. In any case, I shall need a costume—something which does not involve the total annihilation of my dignity.”
“Indeed, sir.” There was a hint of excitement in the valet’s voice. “Something in keeping with your character?”
�
�Precisely,” said Nash. “Have you an idea?”
Gibbons had tossed the coat down on the bed, and was already rummaging about in the dressing room. “You have only to put yourself in my hands, sir,” he said through the door. “I shall prepare just the perfect thing.”
“Well, Xanthia, you are nothing if not creative.” Lord Sharpe stood in the center of his wife’s sitting room, turning this way and that before her gilt cheval glass.
Xanthia and Lady Louisa circled him assessingly. From the divan, Pamela clapped her hands. “Oh, Sharpe, pink flannel really does become you,” she said. “And your bald head—well, it does look perfectly porcine once the little ears are attached.”
Louisa knelt behind her father. “Hold still, Papa,” she said. “I am going to pin your tail on now.”
“A tail?” Sharpe craned his head to see. “Oh, good Lord, must you?”
“I think it’s very fetching,” said his wife.
“There!” said his daughter, standing.
“Mind your tail feathers, Louisa,” said Xanthia, stooping to untangle Louisa’s costume. “They are getting caught in my purple train.”
Pamela laughed. “My dears, I hope you make it to Lady Cartselle’s with all your bits and pieces intact,” she said. “Circe and the Sirens! And Circe’s pig! What a mythological trio you make. Now, Louisa, which siren are you again?”
“Pisinoe,” said Lady Louisa. “The one with the lute, I think? It seemed best, since my singing would not lure anyone to do anything—except flee.”
Xanthia looked on admiringly. “Nonetheless, you make a beautiful half human half bird, my dear,” she said. “Your wings and your tail feathers—well, Lord Cartselle’s son cannot but notice you tonight, I am sure.”
“Let us pray he is quick about his business, then,” said Sharpe a little peevishly. “I shall never hear the end of this in the House.”
“But it takes a bold, confident man to wear a pig costume, my love,” said his wife solemnly. “Besides, you will be masked. Oh, I wish quite desperately that I was going.”
