A Much Compromised Lady

by Shannon Donnelly

  Nevin scowled. “Oh, I know how to get rid of Gypsies. I know exactly how.”

  * * *

  Glynis sat in the corner of the coach, one hand covering her mouth as she yawned.

  “Am I boring you?” St. Albans asked.

  She shook her head. She could see him only as shadows, but the diamond in his cravat flashed even with the dim light of the coach lanterns.

  “I hardly know what I expected,” she said. “Something more dramatic, I think.”

  “I think you expected him to recognize you. I told you he would not. A man who does not wish to see the truth will not. Nevin is a hypocrite—he will not be able to see the truth because he practices deceiving himself.”

  “How do you know that about him?” she asked.

  “Let us just say that we had a brush more than a few years ago over a certain lovely widow. And after being disappointed, Nevin actually thought he could lead Society’s in cutting my acquaintance. Instead, he made a fool of himself. The earls of St. Albans have put kings on the throne of England, and he thought to challenge me.”

  She heard the cold satisfaction in his voice and a chill trickled down her back. Curiosity also nibbled at her. If what he had done had displeased Francis Dawes, she wanted to hope that it was something that would please her. But if a woman had been involved—a widow—she was not certain she wanted to hear this story of his.

  The carriage stopped and Christo opened the door for them. He handed Glynis out. St. Albans stepped out without aid and looked him over. With a shake of his head, he moved away. “And the world calls me disreputable.”

  Worn out by the evening, Glynis wanted only her bed. She had been ready for this night to change her world—only nothing had happened really. She had thought to face her uncle, she had braced herself for potential disaster, and all her energy had been spent on that.

  With a smile she turned to St. Albans. “Thank you.”

  He glanced at her, surprised and a little wary. “For what, my Gypsy? For a lovely evening?”

  “For making it all go exactly as you said it would.”

  She hesitated a moment, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Turning, she ran up the stairs.

  St. Albans stood watching her. Becoming aware of a stare on him, he turned and saw his Gypsy’s brother watching him, his eyes dark and snapping. He lifted one eyebrow. “Such a pity you are not really my footman. It would give me such great satisfaction to sack you without notice, reference, or pay.”

  Christo offered an unrepentant grin. “Too bad, gaujo. But we shall be gone soon enough.” He started up the steps, taking them two at a time, looking light-hearted.

  His own mood darkening, St. Albans watched him. This young idiot had taken some scheme into his mind, no doubt of it. He was tempted to allow the fellow to find the hangman in his own fashion. However, his Gypsy would not like that.

  And he realized, with a touch of surprise, that somewhere along this path what his Gypsy liked had become important to him.

  * * *

  “Well, what did you find out?” Glynis said, sitting up in her bed, feather pillows plumped behind her and her bare feet tucked under the fine linen sheets.

  Eyes alight, Christo gave her a sly smile. His expression sobered and he perched on the edge of her bed. His footman’s uniform was rumpled almost beyond recognition, with his shirt open, his waistcoat undone and his coat collar turned up like a highwayman’s.

  “You first. All went well?” he asked, his tone brusque.

  She nodded. “If you call it well to have done no more than to have seen him from across the room. But he saw me. Now St. Albans says he will call. And when he does not see me, he will write and invite me to come to him.”

  Her stomach tightened and she rubbed cold hands together. “To own the truth, Christo, I was glad not to have to look into his eyes tonight. I am not certain I can do that and not spit in his face.”

  Christo covered her hands with one of his own. His eyes darkened with a reckless glint that had worry tightening inside Glynis.

  “What? What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “That you won’t have to face him until after we have the papers in our hands to prove him a liar.” He leaned forward. “I learned of another way into Nevin House.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Glynis pulled her hands from under her brother’s touch to fuss with the collar of her high-waisted dressing gown, tugging its velvet edging closer around her bare neck.

  “But, Christo, the Earl said—”

  “And what do we care of that’s gaujo’s schemes?”

  “We care because everything he said would happen tonight, did happen—exactly as he said it would. He knows how Francis Dawes thinks. He knows how to lay traps that neither you or I could ever build, and he has the power and influence that we lack. If we listen—”

  “Listen!” Rising, Christo strode away from the bed. He turned, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “How do we know this gaujo is not leading us into one of his traps? One baited with our own desires! He is like the devil, that one. He knows what we most want, and then he smiles and just names the price of your soul for it!”

  “Bah! He doesn’t even believe in his own soul. What he wants is to make trouble for Nevin.”

  Christo’s hand dropped from his neck. “What he wants is to make you as corrupt as he! He wants you in his bed. And when he has you there, do you think you will come away with no mark upon you? I know you, phen. It is not just your body you will give when you give yourself. But how will you feel after, when he discards everything else you offer?”

  Crossing her arms, she hunched one shoulder. “How I feel about anything is my concern.”

  “And it is mine, as well. If you really wish to jump off a cliff, I cannot keep you from it. But I can warn you of the jagged rocks at the bottom.” He came back to her and sat down again on the bed next to her. Her glance slid to where his hand lay, so brown in contrast against the white linen.

  She did not want to look into his eyes. She knew all this. She needed no reminder.

  He let out a long breath, and said, “Ah, phen, I wish I could tell you to just take your pleasure from him as he wants to take his from you. Some women are made so they can do that—as are some men. But some of us cannot separate our souls from our bodies, and we cannot separate our hearts and our heads. And so what is easy for others becomes something tangled for us.”

  Gently, he lifted her chin so she had to look at him. Sadness touched his eyes and his smile. “Jek rat, jek jakha, jek dji, jek porh, jek bat.”

  The Romany phrase echoed in her. Same blood, same eyes, same soul, same belly, and of one happiness.

  He let go of her chin. “Sometimes you cannot help where fate takes you, but there are heartaches enough in this world without seeking those that can be avoided. You do not have to settle for the little this gaujo has to give you in return for what you can offer him. Wait. Wait for a man who can love you as you deserve.”

  She stared up into her brother’s dark eyes, a hollow ache in her chest. “But what if I cannot love any other?”

  He smiled at her. “If you can learn to love one, you can learn to love another.”

  “Mother never did.”

  His smile faded, and she was sorry that she had allowed those words to slip out.

  Ah, but she did not want to walk in her mother’s steps. She did not want to fall in love with a high-born lord. She wanted a simple life. An easy life. Instead, it always felt as if she struggled up a hill that never crested.

  Covering her brother’s hand with hers, she smiled at him to take away some of the worry her words had caused him. “But we are both talking by moonlight, and you know that Dej says that is a time for dreams, not plans. Go to bed, Christo. Tomorrow we’ll talk, and make our plans in hard daylight.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it tight. Rising, he strode from the room, taking with him his restless soul and his dark moods.

  Glynis let o
ut a sigh, and curled up on her side, staring at the candle that burned steady on the table beside her bed. She left the flame aglow. She did not want the darkness tonight. She did not want her thoughts, either, but she could not seem to let go of them as they spun in an endless circle.

  Rain began to patter on the window, a soft tapping. The soft rhythm began to sooth her. She could almost imagine it drumming on a tent as she lay on a carpet settled over leaves. Only such a bed was never as soft as this feather one, and a tent was never as warm—as free of drafts—as this lovely room. Ah, but this earl was seducing her, with comforts that he would one day tell her to leave and promises he might not keep. But what else could she do but keep walking the path she had started down?

  Slowly, her eyelids became too heavy to hold open. Exhaustion numbed her arms and legs. Her breathing slowed and uneasy dreams claimed her night.

  * * *

  The drumming rain changed to hoofbeats—thudding into mud as the horse galloped down the road, its sides wet and hot, its breathing labored. Cold chilled the night, clouds hid the moon and stars, and the rider’s cloak snapped and fluttered like a warrior’s banner.

  My father is dying, I must get home.

  Glynis stirred in her sleep, both saddle weary and yet not, hunched over her mount’s neck, and also hovering above the world, watching with fear tight in her chest.

  The rider drew rein momentarily at a crossroad. He lifted his face, considering his choices, and in that instant in the dark, she saw both herself and Christo in the lean, hard profile of Edward Dawes.

  Word had come, she knew, by the way that word came to those who traveled the road, from one mouth to the next until it reached the man who needed to hear it.

  Lord Nevin is dying.

  How long had it been since the argument? Four years? Five? He could not leave that between them. He had to go back, even thought the children were babes still. Even though his Anna begged him not to. He had to go back.

  And so he rode.

  With a troubled sigh, Glynis turned again. Urgency filled her. Anxiety and fear. And she drifted deeper.

  Edward burst into the room—his father’s room. It was too late. He knew that from the black crepe that hung on the front knocker, limp and dripping from the rain as if even the house mourned the baron’s passing. He knew it from the silence in the house and the darkness of his father’s chamber, where only a fire burned, its embers red and themselves dying.

  His cloak hung limp and wet from his shoulders. His hair laid slick against his head and the rain had chilled him through.

  He ought to have come back sooner, and regret lay on him, heavy on him as his dragging cloak. He strode to the bed, and looked down at his father’s face, now peaceful and pale. He covered his father’s cold hand with his, the skin so much colder than his own.

  “I will make you proud of me. And so will my son.” The vow came out from a voice cracking with emotions, a voice he hardly recognized as his own. But he meant it. He had never intended it to end this way.

  Turning, he saw his brother in the doorway—Francis, with his eyes glowing angry and his face livid and red, as if he now stood in place of their father, with his pride and his scorn.

  Francis’s face darkened. “So, you’ve a Gypsy bastard?”

  Anger flared in Edward. He did not want this again. It had been bad enough with his father, but he would not stand for this from Francis.

  “My son is no bastard. I married the woman I love.”

  “You killed him,” Francis said, stabbing a finger towards the still figure on the bed. “For a Gypsy whore.”

  Two strides and then Francis lay on the floor, his mouth bleeding, and Edward stood over him, rubbing his knuckles. “Don’t you ever, ever refer to my wife with anything but respect. I am Lord Nevin now, and she is my lady-wife.”

  He started for the door, his cloak swirling around his ankles, those unforgivable words between him and his brother. Francis had never understood. He had always been too like their father—too ready to put himself above the rest of the world. Well, that ended now. His Gypsy wife would bring her laughter into this cold house, and his children would bring their voices and dancing.

  Thinking of them, he started down the stairs.

  A voice made him stop and turn on the top step.

  Francis came forward, the vein on his right temple throbbing. Edward glanced down at the pistol in Francis’s quivering hand. He looked up at his brother again.

  “You won’t shoot me,” he said, utterly certain of it. Francis was many things, but he would not shoot his brother.

  His face twisting, Francis stopped in front of Edward. “How dare you come back!”

  Edward glanced at him, sorry for what his brother had become. Sorry that their father’s rancor had found so ready a home within Francis. He could only shake his head, and be grateful that his Anna’s love had saved him from that. He did not even recognize in this man the boy who had once tagged along at his side.

  Well, Francis followed him no longer.

  Bitter fury twisted Francis’s face. “Get out!”

  Turning away, Edward started down the stairs again.

  “Get out!” Francis yelled again.

  The jarring blow fell on Edward’s shoulder. The pistol butt struck him, so strong it shook him off balance, tangling his wet cloak around his feet, tripping him. He clawed for a handhold on the railing but damp fingers slipped. He could not stop himself and the world turned upside-down.

  Glynis screamed.

  She came upright in her bed, shaking, the image of her father’s broken body at the base of the stairs lingering, more vivid and real than the darkness around her. Heart still pounding, blood surging in her veins, she drew in a ragged breath and fisted the linens in trembling hands.

  The sob came out on its own, shaking and lost.

  And then from the darkness strong arms enfolded her. She let go the bedding and threw her arms around blessedly strong muscles. Burying her face against warm flesh and soft fabric, she breathed in his scent, and tried to blot out the images.

  A dream. A nightmare. That was all.

  But still her heart raced, and her stomach quivered.

  Could it really have happened?

  “Oh, God,” Glynis murmured, shivering, unable to stop the trembling, and ashamed that she could not control herself.

  Thankfully, the arms tightened around her, and she clung to them, not caring who held her, but only needing to feel safe. Tears coursed down her cheeks, wild as a flooding river.

  “What is it?” St. Albans said, his voice low and harsh, and the now familiar tone of it soothed her.

  Glynis shook her head and simply clung to him, pulling in deep breaths between the sobs.

  Impotent fury swept St. Albans, replacing the blind panic that a moment ago had propelled him into her room. He had been awake—as he often was at this hour—nursing a brandy in his own rooms when he had heard that muted cry of utter terror. He had not even paused to fetch his pistol, but went to the secret connecting door between their chambers, cursing himself for misjudging Nevin, certain the fellow had sent someone after her.

  Only when he stepped into her dark room, he saw nothing but her white face, and heard nothing but her sobs.

  He shifted on her bed, uncomfortable and with his arms full of weeping woman. What in blazes was he to do with that?

  The rain had stopped and moonlight streamed into the room, bathing it in silver light that turned the world bleak silver. She smelled of lavender and an intoxicating musky woman’s scent that stirred his body, but he hardly could seduce a woman who quivered in his arms like a wounded bird.

  Taking her shoulders, he held her away from him. “What in blazes is wrong?”

  She blinked, and glanced around her as if she had been lost somewhere else and had just returned. Back stiffening, she brushed at the wetness on her cheeks and said, her voice gruff, “Nothing is wrong. Or everything. I don’t know.”

  Her voice qu
avered on the last words, and he heard the rest of the tears she fought to stem.

  Irritation with her swept away the last of his fear. He did not like weeping woman. And he hated to be clutched at so desperately. That conjured all too unpleasant memories of Alaine. How she had clutched at him, and wept after he had bedded her, and then he had told her that that was all he had ever wanted from her.

  That had been such a lie.

  But, God help him, Alaine had lied to him. She had said she loved him. And she had smiled as she married a duke, as her family wished.

  Revulsion sickened him. He had acted an idiot to fancy himself in love with Alaine, and then he damned himself by seducing her. He got what he wanted from her. He had his revenge. And he paid for it with the memory of how she had wept in his arms afterwards—her tears and anger and begging mixing into a miserable mess. Much later, she’d given him her cold hatred, after he’d seduced her far more willing sister.

  But those damnable feelings he had thought long buried stirred in their graves again. And he could almost hate his Gypsy for reminding him of the shameful sense that had forever haunted him that he was missing some vital part which everyone else seemed to have. He did not know how to care for others.

  And his arms quivered with the desire to strike out at something. Because he did not know what else to do.

  She wept in his arms, and he did not know how to give comfort, or whatever else it would take to stop her tears. He knew far better, in fact, how to make her cry again. He knew how to look after himself, and that was all he knew.

  He had already proven to himself, time and again, he was heartless. He might as well prove it to his Gypsy.

  Releasing her, he rose from her bed, and stood there, staring down at her. Lord, but she was lovely by moonlight, her skin made pale, her shift slipping off one round shoulder. If he were a gentleman, he would ignore those stirrings of lust that she roused in him. He would leave and allow her time to reassemble her armor. She looked so vulnerable.

  Thank Hades and Heaven, he was no gentleman.

  Bending down, he kissed her. Kissed her long and hard, and thank everything that stopped the flow of tears. Her lips moved under his, opened to his touch, and he cupped a hand around her neck, and deepened the kiss. He explored her mouth, set himself on fire with that touch of his lips to hers. And only a hiccupped sniff from her interrupted.