A Much Compromised Lady

by Shannon Donnelly

  “But of course, milord,” Gascoyne said, his words lifted by a foreign-sounding accent. He bowed to her again, indicating the stairs with one hand. “If you will but follow me.”

  Almost, she wanted to stay with the Earl. Him, at least, she knew. But he was watching her, an amused smile turning his eyes a glittering green, and so she shot him a cool look that she hoped seemed sophisticated, and started up the stairs.

  Gascoyne led her up two flights to a room that opened into another room, that one with a canopied bed large enough for a horse to sleep upon. She could not help but walk around the room, staring at everything, clutching her small bundled, which felt even smaller now.

  The room smelled of flowers, and even though summer had not yet come masses of red rose stood in vases. Decorated in gold and greens that accented the warm wood floors and paneling, the room looked as if someone had brought the woods inside. Delicate furniture, carved and curved, made up intimate corners for conversation beside a white marble fireplace, and near the long windows and the two tall bookcases.

  Casually, she made her way to the windows and parted the drapes. The windows looked out on the back gardens, not the square as she had hoped. Ah, well, but she would find another way to let Christo know where she slept.

  The man, Gascoyne, went around the room, lighting more candles, and she could only think how very expensive that must be. Turning to her, he asked, “Would mademoiselle care for tea?”

  She could only nod. He must be French, she thought, feeling even more that she did not belong here in a place where even the servants were more refined than she.

  Gascoyne gave her a bow, stepped into the other room and opened the doors to an enormous wardrobe. “You will find all you need here. Milord ordered a little of everything to be brought today. And you have but to ring and a maid will come to help you dress.”

  A bath. A maid to dress. Tea brought to her.

  She had to sit down on one of the chairs.

  Ah, but it was worse than ever she had imagined. She had not only to fight this gaujo lord and his charm. Now she had to fight the lure of all this as well.

  * * *

  Pushing back from the dinner table, St. Albans decided it had been a mistake not to order the meal in a more intimate setting. But he had wanted to impress her.

  He had forgotten, however, that he had banished the ancestral portraits to the formal dining room, for when he entertained, it was always at his clubs, or at one of the more exclusive establishments in Covent Garden that catered to a gentleman’s taste.

  Well, she had been impressed, but in quite the wrong fashion.

  She had come downstairs, clean, smelling of lilac soap, her skin rosy from her bath, but wearing that plain, blue gown of hers. He had frowned at that. Well, no matter. The dressmaker would visit tomorrow, and while she was stripped and measured, he would have these rags burned. He would at least have her looking a proper mistress in something more provocative.

  But when she had stepped into the dining room, her eyes had widened, and the questions started.

  “Are all these your relatives? Ah, but I’ve never seen so many paintings. Who is that? Your mother? She looks very like you—very pretty. Or should I say that you look like her? Why do you not have any of your family with you?”

  Such blunt interrogation left him rather unsettled. No one quizzed the Earl of St. Albans. And he certainly did not want to discuss his family. So he directed her to her chair, gave a vague answer and began to talk instead of the delicacies he had arranged for her pleasure.

  She had allowed herself to be seated, but frowned at the table settings. “Why do you use so many forks and spoons? No wonder you need so many servants if they must clean all this. What is this small one for? Fish? Oh, thank you,” she said, directing the last comment to the footman who had just ladled soup into her bowl.

  Startled, the fellow had nearly dropped both the ladle and the Chinese porcelain tureen.

  St. Albans leaned forward. “My dear, in polite company one does not notice the footmen who wait at table.”

  “Bah—that does not sound polite!” Twisting in her chair, she glanced up at the footman. “You—what is your name?”

  The fellow turned a pale face to the Earl, and shot a panicked glance at the butler.

  St. Albans nodded at his butler, who in turn gave a nod to the footman, and a glance that clearly cautioned the man not to get too familiar with his betters, even with this invitation.

  “James, miss,” the footman said, his voice reedy and nervous.

  She smiled up at him, and St. Albans thought crossly that she certainly seemed free enough with her smile for his staff.

  “Well, James, tell me—and be honest—is it not always nicer to have a kind thank you for your work?”

  James swallowed hard, glanced at the butler once again, and straightened. “Yes, miss. It is nice.”

  Turning back, his Gypsy gave St. Albans a nod, as if she had proven herself in the right of things.

  St. Albans had given up at that point. If his Gypsy wanted to flout social convention, he would allow it. In fact, she was rather like a spring wind through this musty house—a somewhat strong spring wind, but still refreshing. And if the staff took offense at her informality, well, then Gascoyne would be kept busy hiring new servants.

  The questions continued with each course, for she asked him about any dish she could not recognize.

  Her appetite impressed him, and he thought he had not been wrong about her. Life burned hot in her, and it was going to be a pleasure to warm his hands by such a fire.

  As the last course was removed, St. Albans indicated that his gypsy’s wine glass should be refilled, and he gave his butler, Palmer, a nod that the servants should leave the cheese and fruit on the table and retire.

  Turning back to his Gypsy, he found her toying with her wing glass, one hand resting on her stomach and her stare fixed on the portraits again.

  “Would you care for anything else?” he asked.

  She shook her head, and frowned. “You still have not said why none of your relatives live with you? Is it that you do not like them, or do they not like you?”

  He offered her a blank stare, the empty one he reserved for such cheeky impertinence. She stared back at him, her expression expectant, either made immune by wine, or left too confident by his easy treatment of her. Well, if she would not leave the subject gracefully, he would give her an answer that would close the topic.

  “If you must know, my aunts—two were my late mother’s sister, and one of them on my father’s side—generally prefer the countryside. Since they bestow on me the most ghastly presents—anything with too much gilt, or my crest upon it—I presume they do not hold me utter disdain.

  “As to my uncles, I have five; four belonging to my mother’s family, and one is my father’s younger brother. And they considered their job done with after having given me a succession of tutors, and then finishing my education with a full introduction to vice.

  “Now, shall I continue with a list of my assorted cousins, second cousins, and distant connections, or would you rather I read to you the full lineage from the most recent edition of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You are mocking my question. And I thought you wanted to charm me?”

  “That was before you became a disrespectful baggage.”

  Her eyes glittered. “Became disrespectful? As if I ever respected you to start with, my lord.”

  Tilting her head, she lifted her wine glass to her lips, but kept her dark eyes on him, and he could see the speculation in her eyes.

  “Now what? Are you thinking there must be some dark secret in my past?” He kept his tone flippant. In fact, he doubted if anyone’s life was as open as his. And why not? His family never dared criticize him, for he was, after all, the Earl of St. Albans, and as for the rest of the world, he had no interest in either its good opinion or even its right to judge him.

  His Gyps
y stared at him, her eyes wide and dark, as if taking his full measure, and that set his temper to simmering.

  “What, do you think that I must live a sad, empty life not to have my family close about me? That I have wealth and little else? Do allow me to assure you that I lack for nothing.”

  “You lack for parents.”

  He stilled instantly. Oh, but she did have a sharp tongue to so expertly lay bare a scar so old that he had gone for years without remarking it. He forced himself to relax. He had long ago learned not to look into that darkness. And she was not about to bring any of it back to him.

  That he would not allow.

  Lifting one hand, he waved the matter away. “I am hardly a poor orphan. Now, shall we retire to a more comfortable room?”

  He rose and held out his hand to her. She hesitated, still measuring him, but then she put down her wine glass and rose to give him her hand.

  He took her into the smaller drawing room that overlooked the street. A fire crackled in the grate and only a few candles burned. The intimate space offered only a low couch beside the fire and two small side tables.

  Seating herself on the couch, she folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me about your parents? Did you know them at all?”

  Exasperated, he stood before the fire, his hands folded behind his back and almost tempted to toss her onto the streets. Was this her method to prevent seduction? If so, it certainly was remarkably effective.

  Staring down at her, he lifted an eyebrow, and said nothing, but the look he had mastered for leaving the haughtiest dowager fluttering seemed to have no effect on her. It must be the wine, he decided. It had gone to her tongue.

  He let out a sigh. “Very well, my curious Gypsy, if I satisfying you on this last question, do you vow that we can then allow this topic to rest?”

  She nodded, tucked her feet underneath her and snuggled into the pillows of the couch as if expecting a rare treat.

  “Very well, then. But no interruptions with more questions, mind. And there is little enough to tell. My acquaintance with my mother lasted a day. And my father quite wisely quit this earth three days before my arrival. Nothing terribly dramatic, I assure you. He broke his neck on the hunt field, and my mother went into a decline. At least that was how my aunts put it. My uncles told me rather more graphically when I was six that she bled to death from the birthing.”

  “What! Do you mean they allowed you to think you caused her death?”

  His mouth twisted. “I doubt that was their intent. At the time, I had cut myself on my father’s sword and they feared I might be a bleeder as well.” He held up his left hand to show the white line of a scar that crossed his palm. “I am happy to say, I am not. As to my parent’s death...well, accidents happen and people die. That is simply the way of the world. And the world and I long ago came to terms with each other.”

  Shocked, Glynis stared at him. The wine had dulled her mind, but it did nothing to ease the tightness that now gathered around her heart. The way of the world, he called it, as if things blindly happened. Well, it was not the way of her world. Yes, fate could be cruel. But it was not mindless. A pattern lay in the cloth of all events. Her mother had taught her that, and she clung to that belief fiercely.

  But this one, ah, he saw only an indifferent world.

  Scowling at him, she tried to think him cold for how he spoke, with that mocking distance in his voice. But she kept thinking instead that something else lay behind this cold wall he used to keep himself so removed from others.

  She knew what it was to lose a parent. But she had vague memories of her father’s arms about her, the smell of his cologne, spicy and warm, of his voice, rough and deep. And she had her mother’s stories.

  Ah, was this earl a man who stole hearts because he feared giving his own? And why did he so fear the healing warmth of love? Because it had been taken too often from him? Or never given perhaps?

  “Why are you not married?” she demanded suddenly.

  For a moment, he simply stared at her. He surprised her by giving a laugh. A real laugh, one that reached his eyes, and transformed his face.

  Oh, no, don’t laugh, gaujo—you are dangerous enough when you smile, she thought, struggling to resist that wicked charm.

  Sobering, he smiled down at her. “Have you, my Gypsy, never heard that it is impolite to badger with so many inopportune questions?”

  She shrugged. “Well, you know about me already—that I am the daughter of a nobleman and a Gypsy. I could tell you that I dance like my mother, and that she has the gift of second sight—ah, but you see! You raise that eyebrow at me, and give me that look, which tells me you think I am only making up another swato. So, what am I to talk about, if not you? Would you rather that I ask you when will you get me into Lord Nevin’s house?”

  “Patience, my dear. We must entice his interest in you, and not allow him to see your interest in him. But we will start tomorrow—when we are both better rested.”

  She almost told him that now he sounded like her mother, but there was wisdom in his advice. However, time favored him. Time to charm her. Time to weaken her with soft beds, and delicious food, and hot baths.

  Well, she would not weaken. She would take what he offered, enjoy it, and leave him with his empty house and his empty heart.

  Rising, she stood in front of him. “Until tomorrow then.”

  He smiled at her and took her hand, and she braced herself for his kiss. He stood very close to her, his touch warm on her skin, his thumb brushing her palm in a way that set her blood singing.

  But he only let go of her hand, and a sharp disappointment rose in her chest.

  Go, you fool, go while you can, she told herself.

  Before she could think better of it, she darted forward to press her lips to his cheek. Then she pulled away and hurried from the room, not daring to look back, scolding herself for her weakness. So what if he had been kind to her tonight—he did so only because he wanted something from her. But she would never forget that for this night he honestly had been kind. And for that, Glynis knew she owed him more than a kiss.

  With a hand to his cheek where she had kissed him, St. Albans watched his gypsy slip from the room, and listened as her steps quicken to a run. He watched even after she was gone from sight, his mood uncertain.

  What had she meant by that kiss?

  He would throttle her if she now felt an ounce of pity for him. He needed no man’s—or woman’s—pity. He had everything he wanted. Or he would once he had full possession of her.

  But it crossed his mind to wonder if he wasn’t playing a rather dangerous game here.

  He began to smile. Would that not serve him well if he fell in love with her? What a splendid irony that would be. His smile faded, however, for the truth was he was far too much a realist to ever delude himself into believing in love.

  * * *

  Glynis found her way to her room quite easily. She had learned young always to remark her path—inside a house, or a woodland. Safety lay in knowledge.

  But did it?

  She had learned too much about this gaujo tonight, she thought, her head spinning with his wine, and her heart confused. He was no longer just a gaujo. Oh, yes, he was the Earl of St. Albans. But as she pulled off her dress and corset, and slipped between sheet softer than any she had ever felt, she kept thinking about a boy with no parents, and such a very long title to wear and a very large house to live in alone.

  How could his aunts and uncles raise him in such a place as this, treating him as an earl, not as a boy? She did not understand and her mind kept turning over thoughts as a fast river turns stones. There was something important here—something that mattered. But she could not find an answer.

  Sleep, when it came, came slowly, and came troubled.

  * * *

  The couple ran from the church, laughing, hand clutching hand, him hatless and her with a red scarf that fell from her streaming dark hair. On the church steps, the vicar waved after them, and a
farmer and his wife watched, the wife wiping her eyes, the farmer dour and shaking his head over such folly.

  Glynis shifted in her sleep.

  Running with the lovers, smiling for them, she followed as the woods rose up around them—around her—deep and silent and green. Laughing, they tumbled into the grass in a small glade, and she lay under the oak, staring up at blue sky until a face rose over her—a man with Christo’s eyes.

  She let out a sigh, a deep breath, as he leaned close. The world shifted softly, so that the man who lay with her now stared down at her with a different face, one she almost knew, his green eyes not yet cynical, his face still young and unmarked by life.

  Smiling, she lifted her lips to his. As his mouth opened against hers, warmth curled inside her and kindled into something more.

  And the voice echoed in her mind—her voice and yet not hers. “I have faith. I know you will do right and tell everyone about our love someday. Someday... Some...”

  A crack like a pistol shot woke her.

  With a jerk, Glynis sat upright, clutching the bedclothes, her breath caught in her chest, her face hot and her heart pounding.

  The maid at the window blushed deeply, “Beg pardon, miss. I meant only to open the drapery to let the light wake you. His lordship said you wasn’t to sleep late, for it’s to be a full day. Would you care for tea or hot chocolate for breakfast?”

  Glynis rubbed the sleep from her eyes, shot a suspicious glance at the iron curtain rings that had rattled on the curtain rod, and muttered a request for tea.

  Dropping a curtsy, the maid left, and Glynis lay back again, a hand across her eyes.

  She felt as if she had been running all night, not sleeping. Closing her eyes, she struggled to catch the wisps of her dream. It seemed so important to remember it all.

  The couple from the church, ah, yes, her parents. Had it not been them? Her forehead knotted.

  She could understand why she should dream of her parents—particularly after last night’s conversation with Lord St. Albans. But that kiss...