A Much Compromised Lady

by Shannon Donnelly

  His gypsy stood at the very edge of the firelight, her people behind her. The air around her seemed to crackle with tension, as if a storm was gathering in the night.

  No one said anything as he rode away.

  Well, the lot of them would learn soon enough that what the Earl of St. Albans wanted, he got. By whatever means were necessary.

  * * *

  Glynis stood at the edge of the woods, a change of clothing and a few necessities wrapped in a bundle that weighed heavy on her arms. A breeze, cool with evening air, brushed her face, tugged loose a strand of her hair, and brought the dusty smell of roads.

  At the crossroad between Epping and Chelmsford, a black coach waited. A coachman perched on his seat at the front and two footmen stood at the back wheels.

  Glynis wet her parched lips. Her heart beat faster than it should after the walk here, and her courage was leaking out of her like sand from a tight fist.

  She had parted from Christo with an argument, and those hot words sat badly with her. No matter that Bado had only shrugged his lack of any opinion, or that her dej had said with a frown that the cards had spoken and what would be would be. Christo had voiced everyone’s misgivings—even her own.

  This earl would take her, use her as he wished, and abandon her. How could she trust a gaujo after all? Once she stepped into his coach, he could do with her as he will.

  Glynis’s anger had roused at that point. “I am three years older than you,” she had flashed back at Christo. “And I am not some simpering lady who cannot cross a puddle without getting wet! This is a chance we cannot ignore.”

  At that, Christo had stormed off, cursing her foolish stubbornness. But Glynis had made her decision.

  It was a risk. But so was picking coins out of a man’s pocket. As always, her needs—all their needs—were far stronger than any worries.

  She also knew in her bones that this gaujo had meant what he had said. It would be her choice to become mistress in more than appearance. Yes, he wanted her—but she had seen also that he wanted to prove he could make her want him. Well, let him try. She had slipped from his grasp before. She knew her own mind and what she wanted from this life, and it was not him.

  But still the words of the maids at the inn echoed in her mind—this was a man who could make any woman love him. What if that was true?

  She tightened her grip on her bundle, feeling the cloth bunch under her fingers.

  If this earl was even half of what the maids had whispered, he was far too dangerous for her tastes. Such a man would take her heart, and leave her with only memories and an empty bed, and an ache where he had lived.

  As her mother had once been left.

  She did not want such a fate, so she would be careful as she danced with this devil. She would get what she wanted and find a way to keep him distant, from her heart if from nothing else. She had the warning of the card, after all—he was the king of spades, the man who would betray as he had once been betrayed. And she had her mother’s example of twenty years alone.

  Drawing a deep breath, Glynis started towards the Earl of St. Albans’s coach, with its crest upon the door and its four black horses whose gleaming coats glinted blue in the dying sunlight.

  The coach door stood open, the steps down. As she neared, the earl stepped out onto the dusty road.

  He looked far more like a lord, with a tall hat set at a rakish angle, a beautiful brown coat molded to his broad shoulders, buff breeches, and boots that shone like black mirrors. Almost, she could imagine him a stranger.

  But a familiar smile crooked the right corner of his mouth. “I knew you had courage enough. You are indeed a remarkable woman, Glynis Dawes.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I use my mother’s name—Chatwin.”

  St. Albans swept off his hat and bowed. “Then, Miss Chatwin, your carriage awaits.” And because she looked up at him, her eyes enormous and her cheeks pale under her golden skin, he found sympathy enough for her that he gave her a rueful smile. “Don’t tell me you have any fear of a man you’ve already seen naked?”

  Her glance sharpened. “I left before you had your trousers off,” she said, and she peered into the carriage as if it were a cell in London’s White Tower.

  Oh, for..., St. Albans thought, his patience snapping.

  Sweeping his arms around her, he pinned her arms tight to her side and pulled her soft curves against him. The bundle she carried wedged between them, but he disregarded it. She struggled only a moment, only until she realized it was of no use. Stiff with outrage, she turned angry, dark eyes up to him.

  He smiled at her. “Yes, I am stronger than you. I could easily force my will on you.”

  For a moment, it was almost too tempting to do just that. He burned for her. He wanted to kiss her until her resistance melted and her resolve fled. He had waited too long for her already. But she had raised the stakes for him last night, and now it would not be enough simply to have her.

  He wanted her willing and desperate with longing. He wanted her aching with need. He wanted her on his terms.

  He knew a thousand ways to seduce a woman. One of them would work with her. She had set her will against his, and had set him a challenge to break her with fair means and foul. She would be the who gave in to his desires.

  Releasing her, he smoothed the arms of her gown, swept her cloak back to cover her shoulder from where it had fallen away. He lifted her chin with one gloved finger.

  “There now, the worst that could happen has not. So there’s no need for you to cower in a corner of my carriage.”

  She lifted her chin from his touch, and gave him a cool stare. “I never cower. And I have your pistol with me—loaded now. And if you had not let me go, I would have shot you in the foot, and that, I think, would have dampened your ardor. Now, do you help me into the coach, or does your mistress have to fend for herself?”

  For a moment, he did not believe her. Glancing down, he saw that she had indeed slipped a hand into the bundle she carried. It had not been a bluff. She had been ready to shoot him if need be.

  He smiled, delighted. She was going to be more than a challenge. She might actually be his greatest conquest.

  With a bow, he handed her into the coach and climbed up after her. The footmen put up the steps and closed the doors as he settled himself in the corner opposite her, his legs stretched diagonally across the carriage so his boots brushed her skirts and touched her ankles.

  “How do you care to pass the hour or so that it will take us to reach London? Cards, perhaps?” He pulled out the king of spades from his pocket.

  She reached for it, but he held it away.

  “I take it it’s a good card?” he asked, staring at the dark king’s painted image. He glanced at her.

  She gave a small shrug. “What is good for one person can mean harm to another.”

  His mouth twisted. “I suppose it could. Does that mean you do not believe in evil, only in the harm caused by someone else’s good?”

  “No. There is evil. And perhaps the worst evil is when harm is done under the pretense of good.”

  Her words came out tinged by bitterness, and he wondered if that was a barb meant for him, or someone else. “That is certainly the worst hypocrisy...but are there not seven deadly sins? Are those not evils as well?”

  Again, she shrugged and turned to look out the window, although there was little enough to see in the dusk of twilight.

  Give her time, he warned himself. Go slow. These affairs are always over too fast as it is.

  Tipping his hat down over his eyes, he crossed his arms and settled himself against the carriage squabs. “Well, we all look after our own interests. As I intend to do so now. You will forgive me, my dear. Rest yourself, if you can.”

  He relaxed, but he listened to her breathing as he pretended to sleep. Truth was, however, that he was fatigued. He had ridden to London last night, for he’d had arrangements to make, and he had paced his room until dawn, wondering if she would mee
t him or not. He could not recall the last time he had expended such energy for a woman. Had he ever done so? Once perhaps, when he was young and still had dreams. But why expend so much energy now?

  Pondering that, his mind began to drift, and his last conscious thought was a surprising realization that a feeling of relief had swept over him when he had seen her step from the woods. St. Albans was still wondering about that as his breaths slowed and deepened, and he fell asleep.

  From her corner of the coach, Glynis stared at the earl, with his tall beaver hat pulled low over his eyes and his shoulders relaxing against the plush velvet of the seat, and his chest rising and falling in even, slow measures.

  Either he had no conscience at all, or he had a cat’s ability to sleep when he pleased. Yes, that would suit him.

  Leaning forward, she glanced outside the coach’s glass window, ignoring the luxury around her of velvet and drapes and such comfort as she had never known. She could not enjoy it, not with her nerves tight and her fists clenched around her bundle.

  The world had darkened to shadows, but she though she glimpsed a rider, following at a distance. Christo, looking after her, perhaps? She hoped so. Her arms still burned from where this gaujo had held her tight, and her skin still tingled. And she was not certain that, had he really kissed her, she would have shot him.

  She glanced back to the devil seated across from her. He did not seem so bad like this, with that mouth of his softened, and without its usual twist. What had put that twist in his smile? And did he think only of himself because he had never had anyone else to think about?

  Uncomfortable with this image of him—not as an earl, or as a gaujo, but just as a man—she turned her stare back to the window and the darkness outside.

  * * *

  St. Albans woke to the clatter of iron horseshoes on pavement. That meant that the London road had been left behind and the carriage had gained the paved streets of Mayfair. Sitting up, he pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. He caught a glimpse of Glynis as the carriage passed near the flambeaus that illuminated one of the great houses.

  She lay curled up on the seat opposite, her head pillowed on one arm, her feet tucked under her skirts. Her dark cloak spilled off her shoulder and one hand lay in nerveless relaxation over her slim, cloth bundle.

  Watching her, he realized he had never before watched anyone sleep. The women he bedded, he never slept with. Pleasure was pleasure, and for rest he sought his own solitary bed, as he had all his life.

  But it was rather pleasant to watch her now, her face relaxed and unguarded, her hands curled close to her chin, her chest rising and falling with slow, deep breaths. She frowned in her dreams, her brows tightened, and she hunched a shoulder, as if to shake off some trouble.

  What is it you really want, my gypsy? Will you ever tell me?

  Only he could not imagine why she would ever tell him anything, other than another one of her stories. He was the enemy. A dreaded gaujo. And she was a wild Gypsy who lied and stole and schemed.

  For some reason that image sat badly with him tonight. She did not look a Gypsy just now. She looked a lady with troubled dreams. A lady in need of shelter and strong arms about her. A lady who...

  His mouth twisted. Such nonsense. Despite her lovely voice, she was no lady. She was a Gypsy. She had been ready to shoot him earlier if he presumed too much with her. As she would probably shoot him now if he sought to press his advantage with her. He really ought to confine his imaginings to his own concerns, only she was his concern now. He wanted her happy, for that would make her compliant.

  What did his Gypsy really want of Nevin?

  The carriage rocked to a halt. St. Albans glanced out, and when he looked back, his Glynis had stirred and now sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her expression cross.

  She sat bolt upright. “London! And I missed seeing it?”

  She sounded so upset that he had to smile. “It’s dark already, with little enough to see. I shall take you driving tomorrow, and you may look your fill in the daylight.”

  “But I wanted to see it from afar. And the city gates. Are there really hundreds of chimneys?”

  “Thousands, I expect. Do you wish me to hire you a balloon, so that you could sail over them in the air?”

  Frowning, she shook her head. “A balloon? No. I saw one of those once in the midlands, after it came down to tangle in the trees. But if there is a hillside that overlooks the city, you can take me there.”

  He smiled, and vowed he would someday have her aloft in one of those hot-air contraptions. The coach door opened and he descended, and turned to hand her out. But she paused in the carriage, staring up at his house to ask, a touch of awe in her tone, “What is this place?”

  “Winters House,” he said.

  Reaching out, he fit his hands around her waist and lifted her down. She was far too busy gawking to pay any heed to him, so he allowed his hold on her to linger. She had a trim waist. A nice fit, indeed, for the span of his hands.

  A voice behind him interrupted his thoughts before they could get properly started. “Well, I never!”

  St. Albans turned to find his neighbor—Lady Monmouth—staring at him from her front steps. The door to her townhouse stood open behind her. The lanterns beside her doorway and his own illuminated her—and himself—quite clearly. As he watched, her ladyship’s coach came around the corner and drew to a halt next to his own.

  It had not occurred to him before, but now it did, that he was about to scandalize London. Gentlemen did not bring their mistresses home with them. No, they kept their interesting connections in separate houses in less fashionable neighborhoods, as if the loose morals of those women were somehow infectious and must be kept at a distance.

  But he did not want to install his Gypsy in a house elsewhere. After taking so much trouble to catch her, he wanted her close to him. So he had brought her to Grovesnor Square and Winters House, and if his neighbors did not care for such company, they could retire to their county estates a few weeks early, before the usual summer exodus.

  Now, as he stared back at Lady Monmouth, who glared at him and his gypsy as if they were a contagion, the devil inspired him.

  Tipping his hat, he gave Lady Monmouth a slight bow. “Good evening, my lady. May I have the pleasure of presenting you to my new mistress?”

  Beside him, Glynis drew in a breath. Lady Monmouth’s eyes widened, and she drew her velvet evening cloak tighter about her.

  “Well I...I never!” she muttered again. She turned away from St. Albans, her stare fixed on her own coach. Well, that was one more acquaintance with a dull dowager that would no longer bother him, he decided.

  Amused, he turned back to find his Gypsy watching him, her stare reproachful. He lifted an eyebrow, and she shook her head.

  “You are like some...some little boy who has to pull every petticoat you see, just to see the ladies jump.”

  “I beg your pardon. I thought you were here to pose as a mistress, and what better time to start than the present? Lady Monmouth will have the gossip spread before midnight. Now, would you care to dine?”

  Glynis glanced at St. Albans, and at his even more imposing house. All carved stone and glittering windows that would cost a fortune in window tax. Lanterns burned beside a double door large enough for ‘Lisi and their cart to fit through with room to spare on each side. A black iron fence surrounded a tidy front garden where roses twined and leafed. It looked—well, it looked all too intimidating and grand.

  However, St. Albans’s next words wiped away her hesitation about entering.

  “And perhaps you would care to wash off the dust of traveling with a bath?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “A bath?” she asked, the word conjuring images of comforts she had almost forgotten existed.

  A bath. A heated bath. In the summer, she bathed in whatever river lay nearest to their camp. In the winter, she sponged herself clean with water heated by the fire. But she had had a real
bath once before.

  As a child of four, on that awful night after Bado had saved them, when she had been caked with his blood and some of her own, her mother had taken them to an inn. Glynis shivered even now at that long-ago memory. She could still remember the warmth of the water, and the smell of lavender soap, and how afterwards her mother had held her wrapped in something soft and she had felt safe then.

  It was the last time she could remember feeling safe. After that night, they had always been traveling. Always looking back in case someone followed. Someone who had been paid to see to their deaths.

  And now she followed this gaujo, trailing after him and his promise of a bath. He led her into a hall so vast that she had to tip her head back to see the ceiling, which was painted with an intricate design, and at its center a knight rode a black horse. She stared around her. Everything seemed so impossibly elegant. White walls, rich tapestries, polished floors of black and white, a curved staircase with a red carpet that wound up its steps. It smelled sweet from beeswax and lemon oil and the fragrance of the spring flowers that spilled from the glass vase on a round table in the hall’s center.

  She pulled her cloak tighter, for her dress felt suddenly thin and drab, and she was aware of her ragged boots and the dirt under her fingernails.

  “Where is the bath?” she asked, clutching her bundle. Her voice echoed in the hall, almost making her wish she had spoken in a whisper. Ah, but she did not feel welcome here.

  St. Albans turned from his two servants, tall men, though not as tall as he, she noted. They dressed in dark clothes, and they did not smile. The Earl had given them his hat and gloves. Now he waved them away, and snapped his fingers.

  A small, thin man strolled into the hall, his reddish hair brushed into gleaming curls. He dressed almost as well as the Earl, in a pale blue brocade waistcoat and a dark blue coat, white breeches, white stockings, and black shoes. He seemed to come from nowhere. Did these servants stand out of sight, waiting to be summoned?

  “This is Gascoyne,” St. Albans said, indicating the small man, who gave a deep bow to her as if she were a lady. “Gascoyne, this is Miss Glynis Chatwin. You will see to her comforts. She will have a bath, then we dine at ten.”