Her shoulders sagged with relief. He intended to make her his mistress. She knew he would honor her requirements as well. He had not said so, but she sensed that he would.
The sound of the front door closing made her jump. He was gone for now, but soon he would return.
What had she done?
Her trembling knees threatened to send her catapulting to the floor. Her palms turned clammy, and her breath came in ragged little gasps that barely kept her from fainting.
She had propositioned a man: Asked to become his mistress and then agreed when he accepted her offer.
On legs that shook, she made her way to the desk and sank into the huge leather wing-back chair positioned there. She sat not a moment too soon. All physical strength fled her.
The enormity of her actions flooded her. Her world would never be the same. No longer would she be the eldest daughter of an English baron, not in the eyes of the Polite World. Forever more, she would be labeled whore, prostitute. A woman who sold her body for her livelihood.
She closed her eyes and her head fell onto her folded arms. For moments only, she allowed herself to wallow in remorse and self-pity. Then she lifted her head and squared her shoulders. No matter what she did, she was still the same person inside that she had always been. Only she could make herself feel like dirt. In her heart, she knew she was doing the right thing, the only thing open to her.
Davenport would no more offer marriage to her than any other man of the ton. Not now, not ever. Nor did she expect that of him, had not expected it six years before. It did not matter that her heart beat faster when she thought of him or that her breathing had stopped when she saw him this morning for the first time in six years.
Nothing mattered but the welfare of her family. And she would never regret her decision. It was for others as much as for herself.
She firmed her jaw. Not giving herself further time to think on it, she picked up the quill Davenport had so recently caressed and dipped it into the ink stand. Then with determined calm, she continued the letter to Emily that she had just begun when the marquis arrived.
To her chagrin, the first word she wrote was marred by a large blob of black ink. She tried to blot the stain, but her fingers shook so badly that she only succeeded in spreading the ink more. Lavinia knew it would be impossible to finish the letter today,
Taking a deep breath to try and calm her tremors, she rose and went to the window. Outside a light snow fell. In two week’s time it would be Christmas. She hoped Davenport would send for her before then.
She'd never spent a Christmas away from her family, and she knew this one would be hard. And if she were unhappy, how would poor Emily and John be feeling, stuck at schools with no one around? At least she would have Davenport.
Just the thought of his name warmed her in spite of the chill emanating from the paned window. And the memory of his kiss was a heated brand on her lips. She was glad she'd chosen him. Her response to his kiss told her everything would be all right between them. Just as she'd instinctively known so many years before.
Oh, she would be embarrassed and awkward, but she would find pleasure with him. And if she wanted more than pleasure at his hands? In her current circumstances, anything more from him was beyond her reach. Once....
But she had given him the cut direct at her father's urgings. Davenport was a rake, her father had insisted, and rakes had only one use for green girls. And it was not marriage. She would never know if her father had been right.
Now she would have to settle for the considerations due a man's mistress, and never look back. It would never be enough to content her, but she would make it do.
The sound of the knocker reverberating off the entrance door pulled her from the ruminations. Who could it be? Since her father's death, no one, not even old friends had called.
Curiosity got the better of her, inciting her to move quickly. Outside stood a very dignified young man, his great coat pulled up around his chin to ward off the cold wind beginning to whip through the trees. White flakes sparkled on his hat's brim.
"Ma'am," he bowed, "I am Lord Davenport's secretary, Mr. Jennings. I’ve come to make arrangements for your removal."
Surprise made Lavinia step backwards. "I had not expected the marquis to act so quickly." Then she saw the young man's lips were blue around the edges. "Won't you please come in."
"Thank you, but first I must fetch Mary and tell the coachman to walk the horses."
Confused by his words, Lavinia asked, "Who is Mary and why must she come in?"
He smiled. "Mary is to pack your bags. Lord Davenport surmised that you would need help."
Lavinia flushed. The marquis knew she had no servants so he sent his own to do the work. It was a gesture of kindness she would not have attributed to him. Not that she thought him unkind, but she had never thought him to be concerned with the mundane.
As soon as Jennings and Mary returned from the carriage, Lavinia ushered them into the library where she could explain just what needed doing. Shortly thereafter, everyone was at work. Before Lavinia quite realized it, she was packed and seated in a spacious barouche with a loaded fourgon following.
After one last look at the townhouse she'd spent the past seven years of her life in, she asked her companions, "Where to now?"
Mr. Jennings answered. "To Lord Davenport's hunting box on the Scottish border. His lordship will meet us there."
"His lordship is late arriving," Lavinia said to no one in particular, being the only person in her bedroom. Mary had long since gone to sleep since midnight was long gone and the small household kept country hours.
Lavinia threw off the down comforter and donned her robe and slippers. Walking to the window, she was glad the moss green carpet had a thick pile. This might be only a hunting box with only a master suite and connecting room for the lady of the house, but Davenport had spared no expense in outfitting it.
She pulled back the heavily napped cream velvet curtains to reveal a full moon rising high in the black sky. Stars glittered around it like a celestial crown. Not a cloud marred the pristine beauty.
Lavinia took a deep breath of the cool air emanating from the glass and told herself Davenport would arrive soon. He had to. How else could she become his mistress and earn the wages she so desperately needed?
Jennings, before leaving to visit his parents, had informed her that the marquis had arranged to pay the next quarter’s tuition for her brother and sister. She was grateful, but wished Davenport would arrive.
A heavy sigh weighted down her shoulders. She prepared to release the drapery, but a movement caught her eye.
Then she saw it again. Someone or something was in the copse of oaks that were less than a hundred yards from the house. Squinting, she thought she could make out the outlines of a horse and rider. But who would be out there at this time of night?
Surely it was not Davenport. If it were him, he would ride boldly to the door.
Could it be someone with a sinister purpose? The only people in the house were herself, Mary, and Mrs. Hatchet who was the cook and housekeeper. Jaimie, a big strapping lad, was in the small stable, too far for Lavinia to reach before the horseman would be down on them.
She had to do something. But what?
Then she had it. The gun room. There was a musket in there, and she knew how to use one. Her grandfather had taught her when he was alive, wanting to take her with him hunting. While she'd learned to use the weapon, she'd never been able to kill with it.
She squared her shoulders: There was a first time for everything. She sped to the door and down the stairs, to skid on the highly polished parquet of the foyer. Catching herself, she rounded the corner and bolted into the gun room.
It took her several precious minutes to light a candle. A few minutes more and she had the musket out of its glass case and loaded. She hoped it was in good repair.
Just in time. The sound of the front door opening and then closing came to her straining ears. The air
whooshed out of her lungs. Her hands became wet from fear.
Somehow the horseman had gotten in the front door. Perhaps it had not been locked. She had thought Mrs. Hatchet locked it every night, but she might have forgotten this evening. They'd been busy planning the Christmas decorations.
Boots on the floor echoed like cannon shots to her sensitized ears. The hair on her nape stood up. She wanted to sink into the floor, or hide in the cubby hole of the pedestal desk. It was impossible. She was the only one awake, and she was the only one with the wherewithal to protect them all. Mary and Mrs. Hatchet's lives depended on her.
Careful to make as little noise as possible, she made her way to the door. She was within five feet of it when it opened. Fear, sharp as a knife, stabbed through Lavinia making her breath come in short, painful drags.
Because the light was almost nonexistent this far from the candle, she could barely see the intruder. The man was large and loomed above her. But she held her ground, bringing the musket up.
"Stop or I will shoot." Her voice sounded calm in her ringing ears, and she managed to keep the musket steady against her shoulder.
"That thing will leave a nasty bruise on your shoulder if you shoot it."
"Davenport!" His name was a catharsis, leaving her muscles as weak as fresh blancmange.
"In the frozen flesh." He took the weapon from her limp hands and strode to the desk where he laid it down. "Why aren't the fires lit? I have standing orders that fires be going in this room at all times pending my arrival."
Indignation at his arrogant demand followed fast on the relief Lavinia had felt. She jammed her fists akimbo on her hips. "If you want fires, milord, then you should notify someone of your imminent arrival. As it was, I instructed Mrs. Hatchet not to lay fires in rooms that were not being used. You may be as wealthy as Golden Ball, but there is no sense in wasting money."
"Frugality is not one of my vices," the marquis drawled, efficiently lighting two braces of candles so that the small room shone as though the sun blazed within its walls. Only then did he look back at Lavinia.
His fingers stilled on the brass candelabra. His face, lean and expressionless, tightened into gaunt planes that contrasted starkly with the shadows over his heavy-lidded eyes. But his mouth, that wide, expressive instrument of pleasure seemed to beckon Lavinia closer.
A jolt of heat flashed straight to her stomach as she remembered the feel of his lips on hers and the delight they had given her. She wanted him to kiss her again.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and husky. "Vastly becoming attire
and entirely appropriate. You are a fast learner, Vixen." His unwelcome compliment broke the spell of anticipation that had held Lavinia dangerously in thrall. No longer did she want to feel his flesh on hers. Instead, she wanted to return his taunt.
She pulled the front of her velvet robe together across her breasts before retorting. "If I am a fast learner, it is not because I've been given instruction."
His mobile mouth widened into a wolfish grin. "Do not sharpen your fangs on me, for I will show you a better use of your skills than words."
So saying, he advanced on her with slow, measured tread that made her feel as though her stomach was trying to go through the small of her back. His eyes glowed in the radiance from the candles and his white teeth, showing between his parted lips, gleamed.
The moment Lavinia both dreaded and anticipated was upon her. Davenport would take her, as their bargain gave him the right to do.
She licked dry lips. Her heart thumped until she thought it would jump from her throat. But, oh, the excitement was a delicious thrill that made her skin feel as though it shimmered with electricity, like the sky just before a lightning storm.
When he was close enough that her robe swept his Hessians, he stopped and laid his hands on her upper arms. Sliding his palms along her shoulders, he smiled down at her.
Lavinia watched his eyes darken as his hands moved over her. The breath caught in her lungs when his warm skin met her exposed neck. He cupped his hands around her throat, like a magnificent choker, and his thumbs met in an inverted V at the tip of her chin. Resolutely, he urged her chin upward until all he had to do was bend his head downward and his lips would be on hers.
Lavinia's breasts tingled in suspense as she waited for his kiss. Of their own volition, her arms lifted and her fingers curled around Davenport’s forearms, ensuring that he did not move away.
To her regret, instead of kissing her, he spoke. "Your eyes are the clear bright silver of the finest sterling. I spent many long hours in the West Indies wondering what color they would be when passion rides you."
Using the pad of one thumb, he rubbed her lower lip, sending sparks of desire streaking through her body. He increased the pressure of his strokes until her mouth parted and her breathing came in little ragged gasps.
Still, he did not kiss her. Yet, his gaze never wavered from her face and a slow, satisfied chuckle started deep in his chest. "I believe, Vixen, that when the time is right, your eyes will be like pewter; a smoky, satiny gray."
Would he never stop talking and kiss her, Lavinia began to wonder. She resisted the urge to rise on tip-toe and take what he'd been teasing her with. She was a lady - or had been raised one - and ladies did not press a man for his advances.
At last, his head lowered and Lavinia's eyelids slid down to cover the darkening of her irises as her blood heated with anticipation of his caress. After all these years of regretting the snubbing she'd dealt him, she was about to enjoy his lovemaking.
But it was not her mouth he was aiming for. His lips brushed against her temple and then he pushed her away.
Lavinia's eyes snapped open and her fingers clenched his arms. "What game do you play with me, Davenport?"
Self-derision was rife in his reply. "I don't play with green chits, Miss Russell. What you and I share will be much more than parlor games. But not tonight."
If he'd slapped her, he could not have discommoded her more. How dare he make such a cake of her.
Her hands dropped away from his arms, and she drew herself up stiffly. "I see, my lord. You have a headache."
Not waiting for his answer, she twirled on the ball of her foot and fled from the room. His rich, deep laughter followed her into the hall and up the stairs.
Slamming her bedroom door, Lavinia paced the room. She had worn her heart on her sleeve, had let him see the ardor she had sworn to herself not to reveal. And he had acted like an avuncular uncle toward her.
Not only was her heart bruised, her pride was pricked. And furthermore, unless he made her his mistress, she could not collect the monies she needed so desperately. Something had to be done and done quickly: For John and Emily's happiness, if not for her own.
She advanced on the dressing table and stared into the oval mirror. The faint, yellow glow of a single candle showed her exactly what she was afraid it would. Freckles dotted her nose and cheekbones like those of some sun burnt waif. No wonder Davenport had only brushed her temples with his mouth. He was too experienced a man to be interested in a woman who looked more child than seductress.
With a disgusted mutter, she slathered an extra amount of Roman Balsam into her skin. The mixture of barley flour, almonds and honey was supposed to get rid of freckles. But in the ten years she'd been using it, she'd only managed to make them fade, not go away entirely.
Adding an extra dab, she told herself it was better than nothing. And nothing seemed to be all she was going to get from Davenport if she did not do something to turn the situation around.
Early the next morning, Lavinia was conferring with Mrs. Hatchet about the best places to find greenery for the Christmas Bough and other decorations, when she heard Davenport's deep tones in the hall. He was talking with Jaimie. No doubt, about the care of his horses. Davenport had a reputation as a neck-and-neck rider, and his cattle were reportedly the finest in the realm.
Lavinia stepped outside the dining room in time to catch Davenport.
"Milord?"
He turned at her question and his gaze traveled from her head to her toes, but no smile curved his mouth. "I am on my way out to the stable."
His curtness made her bristle, but Lavinia held tight rein on her temper. If she were to earn the monies she so desperately needed, then she must be in his proximity. A place her heart wanted to be in spite of their past and, it seemed, their present.
She enthused her voice with brisk matter-of-factness. "That is perfect, Davenport. Jaimie can hitch up the pony cart, and you may escort me to several of the places Mrs. Hatchet has recommended for gathering holly and yew."
One of his dark brows rose. "Yew?"
"To ward off witches, of course," she said briskly, almost laughing at the look of disbelief on his face. Not giving him the opportunity to refuse, she took her heavy wool pelisse from the side table she’d laid it on earlier and allowed Jaimie to help her don it.
She smiled her thanks at Jaimie. "Besides, Davenport, while this may not be your principal seat and my brother and sister are not here, it is still only four days until Christmas. And there is no reason why we should not enjoy the season. On Christmas Eve you will have to go with Jaimie and get a Yule Log. I trust Mrs. Hatchet has a piece from last year's log put by to light this year's choice."
Davenport propped his left shoulder nonchalantly against the wall and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You are a managing baggage, and I have not even installed you in my household on a permanent basis."
Her fingers paused infinitesimally in buttoning up her pelisse, but she refused to let his words hurt. "Do not be snide, Davenport. It does not become you."
"Neither does a ring through my nose."
But he pushed away from the wall and followed her to the stables where he helped Jaimie harness a complacent mare to the cart. After assisting Lavinia into the vehicle, he spread a warm blanket across her lap. That done, he jumped lightly into the vehicle.
Beside her on the narrow slat, his thigh a hot brand against hers, Lavinia had to stifle the little gasp that rose in the back of her throat. As though he sensed her reaction, his glance turned roguish so heat glazed her cheeks.
The Christmas Gift (A Regency Novella) Page 2
