A Much Compromised Lady

by Shannon Donnelly

  Only something about the scheme troubled him still, and he was in no mood to pry into his own feelings on the matter. He wanted her. He had sworn he would have her. By any means.

  And that settled that.

  Tossing back his brandy, he set his glass down, then strode to the bellpull to summons Gascoyne. He could feel his Gypsy’s eyes on him as he moved, but he avoided meeting her gaze.

  Gascoyne arrived, and St. Albans turned to him, annoyed and not even certain why he should be so, other than that this seduction seemed to be becoming a damnable tangle.

  “Miss Chatwin’s brother will be staying with us, Gascoyne. See that the green room is readied for him.” St. Albans turned to his pair of Gypsies. “I think we have all had enough stimulation tonight. Tomorrow I shall give you a far better plan than your skulking about Nevin’s house.”

  “I was not skulking,” the Gypsy said again, and at the same time his sister said, “A plan? What is it?”

  St. Albans ignored the brother and gave a tight smile to the sister, whose eager questions had managed to tease some of his ill humor from him. She would no doubt go to the grave questioning death himself.

  “Well, my dear,” he said. “For a start, I am going to take you to the Cyprian’s Ball next week.”

  * * *

  “Prostitutes! He wants you to become one of them, and he thinks by taking you to this—”

  “Bah! I know what he thinks. But if he says he has a plan, then do not underestimate him, Christo. He is a lord. An earl. He can help us if he so chooses.”

  Christopher glowered at his sister. They stood in the salon adjacent to her bedchamber, with coffee and tea and delicate china laid out on a mahogany drop-leaf table beside the window. Sunlight streamed in from between the parted, green velvet drapery, and a light breeze carried the promise of summer’s coming.

  Hunching a shoulder, Christopher scowled, his dark eyes black as night. “It is it not his help that I doubt. It is the price he will want for it. That one thinks the world is his to order. Don’t trust him, phen.”

  Glynis looked down into her tea cup. It was a measure of Christo’s agitation that he spoke in Romany to her now, and used the Rom for sister. He worried for her. Rightly so. But the Earl had said that he knew how to ensure that Francis Dawes would be at the Cyprian’s Ball. For that, Glynis would risk anything.

  Even herself.

  She had to make certain that Christo found his place in this world. For without it, she saw as clearly as her mother saw the cards that he could become a bitter, hard man.

  Looking up at him, she smiled. “A fine one you are to urge caution. You were the one who risked hanging when you stole that fine stallion from Nevin, after Dej told us the truth this spring about how our father died.”

  Christo gave a grim smile. “I cannot steal what should have been mine by rights. But what will this gaujo steal from you?” He came to her side, and put his wide hand on her shoulder. She felt his strength ease into her. His hard grip and calluses reminded her of the years they had worked side by side simply to survive.

  “Be careful, phen. It is not how this gaujo looks at you that tightens my heart. It is how you watch him.”

  She forced a smile, and covered his hand with hers. “Of course I watch him. I watch this one very carefully.”

  A soft tap on the door made them both turn. Gascoyne entered, his bow polite. Glynis had noted that since that last time she had taken back her blue gown, he had treated her with almost the same deference he gave the Earl.

  I could like being a lady, she thought. Only she was not much of one, really. Ladies did not grow up running wild in the woods, learning to trap and skin rabbits. They did not know how to light campfires with flint, and did not dance on the grass under the full moon. They did not steal from others with guilty hearts, and they did not pose as a scoundrel’s mistress.

  Well, she had done what she must. She had helped keep her family from going hungry, or getting sick. Now her skills—and her ability to handle the Earl of St. Albans—could make the difference in helping Christo regain his title. Then she could leave this city and find her quiet village and the life that she wanted.

  When Gascoyne said the Earl waited for her downstairs, she rose, said she would dress at once, and be downstairs in fifteen minutes.

  It took twenty-five, because her maid argued with her about what she was to wear. Glynis saw no reason not to done her blue gown. It was the best she owned, and she only wore the gowns St. Albans had had made for her when she was to be seen with him in public.

  However, when the maid began to look fearful, insisting his lordship had requested riding attire, Glynis submitted. The dress clung to every curve, and she secretly loved the fabric, a wool so soft and light that it seemed alive. Black braid trimmed the gray habit, and it had a matching shako that delighted her. She knew she looked well in it, but she found it hard to think of herself as anything but a barefoot, ragged Gypsy.

  When she came downstairs, she found the Earl waiting for her, standing quite still and staring at the clock in the hall, his hands folded behind his back and tapping his riding crop on the back of his boots. His black coat and riding breeches contrasted sharply with his golden hair and his white shirt and buff waistcoat.

  She bit her lower lip, and came down the stairs. “I hate being late. I am sorry.”

  He turned and smiled, his expression amused, the corner of his mouth quirking. “I thought you enjoyed making me wait.” He took her hand. “For everything.”

  Keeping his eyes on hers, he raised her hand, turned it over and pressed his lips to her palm.

  Heat shot from the touch of his mouth, up her arm and then pooled deep inside her. She struggled to hide her reaction, but she saw the satisfaction glimmer in his eyes.

  She frowned at him and pulled her hand away. “I only know one way to ride—astride, without a saddle.”

  “Then you have something new to learn.”

  He bowed, indicating for her to step outside. She did so, and then stopped on the top step to stare into the square.

  A groom led St. Albans’s black horse up and down the pavement. Next to the large animal walked a smaller one, dainty with huge dark eyes, delicate hooves, and an equally black coat.

  Glynis glanced at the Earl. “Do you not own a single horse that is not black?”

  His mouth quirked. “No. I do not. It is one of my conceits. Now come meet Martif. She is a half-breed, like you, so you already have that in common. And she is almost pony-sized, although you will have to ride side saddle, unless you would rather shock London by doing without all that leather.”

  Glynis wrinkled her nose and thought about it. In truth, she was not a very good rider. Christo was far better. She did not get enough practice, and she preferred their pony ‘Lisi, with her broad back and comfortable paces, to the bad-mannered horses that Christo bought to retrain.

  However, she did not want to show any weakness in front of St. Albans, so she gave a shrug. “It does not matter. But why are we riding? Why not drive? And why so early in the day?”

  “Always questions. Well this time, my sweet torment, you must wait until you’re mounted to have your answers.”

  He led her down the steps and took her by the waist before she could do more than open her mouth to protest. His hands tightened and her breath seemed to lodge near her heart. Lifting her, he tossed her into the saddle as if she weighted nothing.

  The black mare stood quite still, as patient as if a baby had been sat upon her. Gratitude warmed Glynis, for both the mare’s steadiness and St. Albans’s hold. With both of her legs dangling on one side of the horse, she felt as if she could tip off the other side if she so much as leaned an inch that direction.

  St. Albans gave her instructions. Sit straight, not twisted. Keep her balance in her seat. He put her foot into the single stirrup, and made certain her right leg hooked over the single pommel horn. She was too busy trying to sort everything out to do more than absently notice
how his hands seemed to touch her everywhere.

  When he had her seated to please himself, he strode to his own black gelding and swung lightly into the saddle, looking very pleased with himself and the world.

  She envied how easily he did that, and wondered if he would teach her that trick of swinging up without the stirrups. Getting on even stout ‘Lisi usually involved a lot of struggling, wiggling, and breath-stealing effort on her part.

  “Now, shall we ride to the park and talk about your attire for the Cyprian’s Ball? It’s fancy dress, and should be something to attract Nevin—beg pardon, I mean Francis Dawes’s attention.”

  Her horse placidly fell into step next to St. Albans’s mount, and for a moment Glynis had to concentrate on the odd sensation of being seated sideways. But her black mare moved like spring water—fresh and smooth. She began to relax.

  Tilting her head, she studied St. Albans. “You went to all this trouble to take me from the house to talk about this ball? Why—because of Christo?”

  The lines around his eyes tightened. “He is—”

  “Hot tempered? Yes, I know. Difficult also. And perhaps also, for you, inconvenient?”

  St. Albans’s smile widened. “Very. But I do not want to spend this lovely day talking about him. Here are the gates. Do you feel able to do more than sit a walk?”

  That lovely chin lifted, as St. Albans had known it would. His Glynis could pass up many things, but not a challenge. She was like him in that fashion.

  “Of course,” she said, although he noted with a smile that she wrapped a few fingers into the mare’s black mane.

  He spurred Cinder to a slow canter, knowing the mare would follow. It was a fast pace, but a smoother gait than the bouncy trot. For a moment, Glynis’s face paled, but her mare moved steady and sure, and she began to smile. A moment later, she gave a laugh of pure delight.

  Lust, fierce and uncomplicated, shot through St. Albans. And a curious tightness gathered in his chest as well. He frowned at himself and looked away, uneasy, but his stare found its own way back to his Gypsy.

  Why am I taking so long with this? Why do I give her such patience?

  Now he sounded like his Gypsy—all questions. And that irritated him. He had set the pace, he reminded himself. Did not the story of Tantalus show that it was those things just out of reach that tempted the most. He wanted her tempted—tempted and teased and tormented.

  Slowing his mount to a walk, he gave her a smile.

  She leaned down to pat her mare, and beamed at him. “Ah, but Christo would love this one. Only we are not to talk of him, are we. Well, then tell me what you are thinking now—you have on that pleased-with-your-own-cleverness smile.”

  “I was thinking of the story Tantalus. Do you know it? He lived in ancient times, and when he displeased the Gods, they condemned him to live forever in water to his chin. When he bent to drink, the water fell away. And when he raised up to eat, the wind pushed the sweet, luscious grapes overhead just out of his reach.”

  She brushed the black mare’s mane. “But if he was to live forever anyway, he did not really need food or water, did he?”

  St. Albans’s mouth twitched. “That is not the point of the story.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “It sounds to me as if it is. He did not need food and water—he just wanted it. I wonder sometimes, which is worse, to want something desperately—or to get it? I worry for Christo sometimes that way. He wants so desperately his place in this world. Only perhaps he wants it too much. What will he do with it, when he has it?”

  Frustration simmered in St. Albans’s chest. He had known this brother’s appearance would be a bother. And now he could not even flirt properly with his Gypsy.

  Reaching out, he covered her hands with one of his, pulling her mount and his to a halt. “I would rather know what it is that would make you desperate with desire?”

  She smiled up at him, and his senses danced.

  “My desires? Ah, they are so simple, you would laugh.”

  “Would I? Try me.”

  She glanced at him, her dark eyes uncertain, and she slipped her hands out from his. She turned her attention to brushing her mare’s arched neck. “All I have ever wanted is a house. A cottage really, with a garden. And a cow. And maybe a cat, too. And it should have a sitting room with a fireplace that looks into the garden, and it should be in a small village—a place where I belong, where people know me and accept me.”

  She glanced up at him, her chin lowered, and her dark eyes huge. “There. I told you it would seems as nothing to you, but to me, it is all I have dreamed of since I was a girl.”

  He stared at her, and said, his voice rough to his own ears, “I could give you that.”

  She looked at him, a hard edge of mocking laughter in her eyes. “Oh, yes, you would like to give me a cottage, wouldn’t you. And would you also then buy for me a warm welcome from those who lived there, so they would not scorn your mistress?”

  He glared at her. That was not what he had meant. Or had he? His anger began to simmer. “There are ways to do these things without occasioning talk. Besides, what does it matter to you what others think?”

  “So long as I get what I want, you mean? Well, you may not care about anyone else’s feelings, gaujo. I am not made that way. I do care. I am an outsider by birth, but I am going to find a way to belong someplace, gaujo! And I will find that without the strings on one of your gifts.”

  Spurring her mount forward, Glynis pulled away, angry with him for mocking her dreams. He had no intention, she knew, of giving. No, she saw how he tempted her now with his offer—and how later he would want something from her in return. It was a bargain he offered her, not a gift. Meaning he would make the terms, and could remake them as he pleased.. And it shamed her that part of her anger came from a desire to take that gift, strings and all.

  He rode after her, but she would not look back and would not slow to talk to him. She did not rein up until they were before Winters House again where Glynis swung off her mount without waiting for assistance.

  A footman hurried from the house to take the horses. St. Albans tossed Cinder’s reins to the fellow and strode after his Gypsy, his temper in tatters.

  How dare she speak to him in such a fashion! How dare she criticize him! And how dare she turn away from him, dismissing him as if he were some...some lackey.

  In the hall, he took hold of her elbow and swung her around. He took her chin in his gloved hand. She tried to wrench away, but he tightened his grip, forcing her face upward until she had to look at him. Her eyes blazed, but his temper burned even hotter.

  “You are here, my Gypsy, because of my indulgence. Do not forget that. And since we speak of desires, let us talk plainly. You have already made yourself my mistress in name, if not in fact, by living in my house, and your attendance at the Cyprian’s Ball will make you much compromised indeed. So do not fool yourself into thinking yourself an innocent who can after this game reclaim her virtue by changing her locale. Desires always have a cost, my dear. And if the price of gaining your brother’s respectability is your own, that is a choice you make. So do not throw my generosity back in my face as if I offered you less than nothing.”

  She stiffened, and for a moment he glared down at her, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing, heat radiating from him.

  His anger provoked a matching one inside Glynis. But in her heart she knew that deep anger always covered a deep hurt. She wanted to lash out because his words stung. And for him to claw at her now meant that she had hurt him.

  Ah, but she had thought him invulnerable. A man without a heart. She had feared his power over her, so she had guarded herself so carefully—and she had not given a thought to any harm she might do him. She had scorned him, and his offer, because all of it tempted her too much.

  But now she saw the glitter in his eyes, and she knew he did not live above others. He lived apart from them. Ah, but she knew how lonely that was.

  Taking his hand in hers
, she eased his tight hold from her chin and lowered his hand. The heat in his eyes softened.

  She nodded to herself and lifted her chin. It was as her mother had said—what would be, would be.

  “You are right,” she said, and she kept hold of his hand within hers. “It is my choice. So what do wish me to wear to this Cyprian’s Ball?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Something changed between them. Glynis felt it at once, but she could not name it. That pull she had felt to him from the very start intensified, and she could only stare up into his eyes, hold to him as if she could not let go. He stared back, his gaze searching her face, only she did not know what he was looking for.

  However, she knew that if she took but a breath, brought herself but a little closer to him, he would kiss her. And, after, she would go wherever he led.

  Ah, but she wanted her arms around him. She ached to hold him, to touch him, to cradle his cheek in her hand, to lie with him. She wanted to ease the loneliness of life for him—and herself.

  But whatever they might have for a short time could only lead to heartache. To a parting that must come, for he had no place in her life, and she had none in his. Except for this moment’s desire.

  And still she wanted it.

  His twisted smile slipped back into place, and his eyelashes, tipped golden at the very ends, lowered to hide whatever lay in those wicked green eyes of his.

  Lifting her hand—the one she held him with—he kissed the back of it, his lips warm as summer, and he said, his tone casual, as if nothing had happened, “Why, my dear, you shall go as a Gypsy, of course.”

  * * *

  He was mad. And she was mad to follow. Christo had told her so. She told herself so. And still she listened to St. Albans’s plans. He had a far more devious mind than either she or Christo. That worried her, but she began to believe that he actually might help them. Or perhaps he was simply helping her down the path to losing her virtue.