She shrugged, and a few of the loose red curls that tumbled down her back fell forward onto her creamy shoulder. “I might point out that it is difficult for women to demonstrate a skill that no one offers to teach them. I’ll take that ball.” She whipped the ball off another ball and into a corner, sending it directly into its pocket.
“Le coup sec,” Stephen said, admiration leaking into his tone. He walked over to stand just next to her. Her French perfume reached him, a promise, a smoky promise of reckless sensuality.
Bea smiled at him over her shoulder, and he wanted to bend her backwards on the table. Push the balls to the side and take her there. Anywhere.
“I thought I’d take that ball,” he said, pointing. His voice was a husky question.
She moved slightly to the side and then peered down at the ball. “Were you planning a low stroke?”
He nodded. He had just noticed that for all her calm, there was a pulse beating madly in her throat. In her beautiful creamy throat that he longed to lap, to kiss, to taste. “If I may,” he said, and even to his ears, his voice was deeper, slower, lazy. He put a hand to her back and moved her oh so slightly to the side. Then he bent over, just as slowly and deliberately as she had. He could feel her eyes on his body, on his legs.
He straightened. “This is a difficult shot,” he said, looking down at her. There was a faint, faint crimson stain in her cheeks that didn’t owe its color to art. “I’ll remove my jacket, if it wouldn’t offend you, Lady Beatrix.”
“Bea,” she said. “Please call me Bea.”
She watched as he wrenched the jacket from his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves. He knew he had a muscled body, a body a woman would admire, even a woman who had presumably enjoyed more than a few male bodies. The only way he could dispel the tension of hours spent in Parliament was to visit Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon. He’d never resorted to deliberately exhibiting it before, but for Bea—
He bent over again, lining up the shot with elaborate care, his hip nearly touching hers. By some miracle his fingers were steady. The shot went into a gentle reverse spin, glanced at another ball, danced by a third, spun sedately into the designated pocket.
“Your turn,” he said, straightening.
“Hmmm. You do have skill.”
He threw caution to the winds and let a reckless grin spread across his face. “In many areas, Lady Bea.”
“Just Bea,” she said. But there was a sparkle to her eyes.
She walked away from him, and it took all his strength not to pull her back to his side. “I believe that I shall take…that ball.” Her lips pursed. It was torture. Would she—How experienced was she? Would she do things that ladies never did? Already she had kissed him like a wanton. Would she—Images danced through his mind, tormenting him.
She was on the opposite side of the table now. She bent down, focusing on her stick, and Stephen could see directly inside her bodice. Her gown was low, and her breasts were cradled against the hard pad lining the table, resting as they might in the palm of his hand.
Stephen made a hoarse sound in his throat, and she glanced up for a moment. Her cheeks were flaming now. But, “I shall try a jenny in the middle pocket,” she said.
“You could better your grip,” Stephen said, just as she was lengthening her arm to take a shot.
She straightened, and he saw amusement in her eyes. “And I gather you know a better posture?”
“A better grip,” he corrected.
She looked at him through her lashes, a smile playing on her lips. “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, naturally I would be quite pleased to learn a new grip. I’m not a woman who chooses ignorance over knowledge. But I must point out to you that you presumably have a busy night before you.”
He raised his eyebrows. Something about her, about the way she looked at him, made him feel recklessly gorgeous, decadent, lustful, wild—all the things that a thoughtful man of words never felt. “I would never be too busy for you,” he said. “And my name is Stephen.”
She perched a rounded hip on the edge of the table. Stephen watched her, feeling another surge of animal lust. He felt in his skin, in his body, in a way he hadn’t since he was a restless, lustful adolescent. He put down his stick deliberately, and then stretched, letting his chest draw the fine linen of his shirt tight against his chest muscles.
Her eyes darkened. “Alas, I would guess that the duties of a man with a brand-new mistress leave no time for lessons.”
“I can be the judge of that,” he said easily, coming around the table to her. He felt like a tiger, stalking his prey. She stood absolutely still and let him come up to her. So he moved to stand behind her, just as if they were about to make love, as if he were going to bend her over the billiards table. Then he brought her body into the curve of his, tucking her sweet little bottom against his groin, and leaned down.
“If you straightened your right shoulder, your aim would improve.” It was quite a triumph that his voice sounded much as usual. He tucked her fingers back against her stick.
But Bea was no tender lamb, to be driven by a tiger. She slowly straightened, and his body moved with her. Then she turned within the circle of his arms, reaching back and bracing herself on the table.
“Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said softly, “I assume that’s not your pool cue at my backside? What precisely are you playing?”
He didn’t look a proper Englishman now. There was an open male swagger about him, a masculine vigor that she had never seen before.
“Seducing you.”
“And if I don’t choose to be seduced?”
“Don’t you?” He bent his head and brushed her lips. “Don’t you, Bea? Because I thought you told me that you were—seduceable.”
“I don’t invite married men into my bed,” Bea said gently, but there was steel in her voice.
“But I’m not married!”
She shrugged. “You are Helene’s. I do not betray other women.”
Stephen picked her up and seated her on the horsehair pad lining the pool table. Her lips were pale cherry again. The color had worn off. As soon as she allowed him, he would run his tongue along her mouth, bite her round lower lip. “As of yet, I belong to no woman,” he drawled. Then he lowered his head, finally, finally, burying his mouth against her, raking his lips against her rosy mouth.
For a second she relaxed against him and her mouth opened slightly, just barely yielding to his hunger. And then she pushed him away with all the determination of a pure-as-the-driven-snow duke’s daughter.
“Behave yourself!”
“Bea,” he said, and the word had all the hunger he felt in it. “Loyalty in matters of marriage is an entirely commendable emotion. But Helene and I have taken no vows. We are merely friends.” He looked directly at her. Her eyes were a warm brown, with just the faintest tinge of exotic green, just enough to make them tempting beyond all resistance.
“Friends?” There was an edge to her voice. “You offer euphemisms with practiced ease, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy.”
“I am a politician,” he said with a sardonic grin.
“I thought you didn’t care to take mistresses from women with experience. Too much experience,” she clarified.
He looked at her, cursing his own stupidity. “That was cruel, and rather shabby,” he said, echoing her own comment. “My excuse is that I want you so much that I—”
“I’ll take it into consideration,” she said, standing up.
Longing spread through him, coursed down his legs and made him tremble from head to foot. Dimly, he wondered what in the hell was happening to him. Why would this woman—this small, impudent, less-than-chaste woman—drive him into a fever of lust?
“We haven’t finished our game,” he said hoarsely.
She grinned at that, and the way her rosy lips curled sent his heart dancing. She had a way of smiling that made it look as if her whole body was dancing with joy. “There’s no need to finish.” She nodded toward the table. “You cannot win after my last
shot.”
He jerked her against his chest and swallowed her laughter, taking her mouth again and again, driving his tongue in a rhythm his whole body longed to repeat. “You,” he said hoarsely, “I want you, Bea.”
Her eyes slowly opened, and now they had that slumbrous interest he remembered. She melted against him and silenced him with her mouth, with a trembling sweetness, a speaking silence.
“Might I seduce you with poetry? I gather it is a method that you recommend.” His voice was dark and slow, and his hands ran down her back with unsteady promise. She looked at him, and her eyes seemed more green than brown now, all exotic beauty and one dimple. But there was something in her face…. She had expected him to react this way. What he glimpsed now was not an aching lust akin to his but the faintest hint of satisfaction.
Men no doubt wooed Lady Beatrix all the time. Her beauty and her reputation would bring them like moths to a flame. She dressed to please, to attract; she made up her face so that she looked even more exotic—and approachable. She dared them all to come to her, and Stephen had no doubt but that they came.
Yet he sensed that Bea didn’t succumb herself. She found pleasure, but not delirium. He wanted to bring her delirium, or nothing. “On second thought, perhaps I won’t seduce you after all,” he said, dropping his arms from about her and rolling down one sleeve. He watched her through her lashes.
She looked surprised but not particularly heartbroken.
“I shall wait for you to woo me. After all, I shall be quite busy in the next few days, as you kindly pointed out.”
“I don’t woo,” Bea said, her small nose in the air.
He leaned back against the billiard table and looked at her. He had never, ever, felt as if his body were so valuable. Deliberately he spread his legs and watched her glance catch for a second and then fly away. “Did you never see a man whom you wanted rather desperately?”
“I have been fortunate in that—” and she stopped. Clearly something—or someone—had occurred to her.
He let his eyes glide over her breasts, linger where she was most sensitive. “It will depend, of course, on whether you think that I am worth competing for.”
A corner of her mouth turned up wryly. She was no green girl to be brought directly to heel, that was clear. “I shall have to consider the matter,” she said gravely. “You see, I am not altogether certain why Helene desired to summon you to her side. You, a sober party official, seem an unusual choice.”
“Can you think of nothing?” The question hung in the air between them.
“I suppose there’s your voice,” she said.
Mentally, Stephen cheered. She liked his voice! He walked over to her, and his words came out in the dark, liquid language he had used to convince reluctant politicians but never a woman before. “I shall have to hope that this voice is potent enough so that you enter the fray.”
She stared at him, eyes dark. He tipped up her chin and saw in her eyes the expectation of a kiss. So he bent and kissed her hand instead. “Lady Bea,” he said. “I wish you good night.”
She was surprised, he could see that. He doubted any man had ever left her company without begging for greater liberties. He hooked his coat with a finger and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked to the door, feeling his body in an unfamiliar masculine swagger, in a walk so unlike him that he almost laughed.
“Stephen?” Her voice was so soft that it was no more than a whisper in the night air.
But of course he stopped. Whether she knew it or not, she was a siren, and he would follow her anywhere.
“Are you certain you’re worth it? Two women vying for your attentions?”
His smile was as proud as a sultan’s. “I’ve no doubt of that, Bea. To my mind, the only real question is—which of you will win me?”
She shrugged. “Not me. I don’t woo.”
“A pity, that,” he said, and turned on his heel to go.
Bea stared at the closed door in blank astonishment. No man since Ned had ever walked away from her. In fact, she saw her role in society as a fairly simple one. She adorned herself; they came.
He was infuriating, if intriguing. But she’d be damned before she would chase a man, she who already had the reputation of a demimonde. That was one thing that was quite clear in her mind. She might have taken lovers—although far fewer than Stephen appeared to believe—but she had never, since Ned, allowed one of those men to believe that she was desperate for their company. Because she never was. She enjoyed male company. That was all.
And if Mr. Fairfax-Lacy wanted some sort of vulgar exhibition of interest, he was bound to be disappointed.
18
In Which Curiosity Runs Rampant
Rees Holland, Earl Godwin, was in a pisser of a mood, as his butler put it belowstairs. “Got some sort of note from his wife, he did,” Leke confirmed.
Rosy, the downstairs maid and Leke’s niece, gasped. “I saw a pantomime on my last half-day where the husband poisoned a love letter and when his wife kissed it, she died. Maybe the countess saw the pantomime as well and she’s poisoned him!”
“He deserves it then,” grunted Leke. He found Earl Godwin difficult to work for, and he didn’t like the irregularity of the household. On the one hand, his master was an earl, and that was good. On the other hand, the man had a dastardly temper, not to mention the fact that his fancy piece was living in the countess’s quarters.
“And there’s something to clean up there as well, so you’d better get to it.”
“Don’t tell me he spilled coffee on all them papers again,” Rosy said, scowling. “I’m finding another position if he doesn’t pick up those papers. How can I clean with that much muck about my ankles?”
“Don’t you touch his papers,” Leke said. “It’s worth your life. Anyhow, it’s not coffee this time. ’Twas a vase of flowers the strumpet was foolish enough to put on his piano.”
“It’s a wicked temper he has,” Rosy said with relish. “How the strumpet puts up with it, I don’t know.”
The strumpet was Alina McKenna, erstwhile opera singer and inamorata of the bad-tempered earl. The term strumpet wasn’t truly pejorative; both Leke and his niece rather liked Lina, as she called herself. Not that one could truly like a woman of that type, of course. But she wasn’t as hard to work for as a great many more virtuous ladies, and Leke in particular knew that well enough.
He shrugged. “Thank the Lord, the master’s taken himself off, at least.”
“Where’d he go?”
“How could I know? Something in response to that letter from his wife, I’ve no doubt. Time for you to go about your duties, Rosy, before the strumpet makes her way home.” The only reason Rosy’s mum allowed her to work in such a house of ill repute was due to her uncle’s presence. He took his responsibilities seriously and did his best to arrange her duties so that she rarely encountered one of the inhabitants of the house.
“I’d best go clean the sitting room then,” Rosy said. It was a rare moment when the master wasn’t in there pounding on one of them three pianos he had. And now there was likely water all over the floor.
A moment later she flew back downstairs, finding her uncle polishing silver. “I found the note,” she said. “The note from his wife. He’d crumpled it up and left it right there, on the piano.” She stuck out her hand.
Leke hesitated.
“Go on, Uncle John! You’ve simply got to read it—you know you do!”
“I oughtn’t to.”
“Mum will just murder you if you don’t,” Rosy said with relish. And that was true enough. Rosy’s poor mum, Leke’s only sister, was stuck in the house caring for Rosy’s little sisters. She lived for stories about the goings-on at the earl’s house that Leke and Rosy brought from the great house. That and the discarded gossip papers that the strumpet read and threw to the side.
Leke pursed his lips to indicate disapproval and then flattened the piece of paper. “It’s from the countess all right,” he confirm
ed. “Looks like she’s staying in Wiltshire somewhere.” He peered at the direction. “Can’t really make it out. Perhaps Shambly House? That can’t be right.”
“Never mind where she is!” Rosy said, dancing with impatience. “What did she say? Where’s he gone to, then?”
“‘Rees,’” Leke read, “‘I’ve contracted pleurisy. If you wish to see me alive, please come at your earliest convenience.’”
Rosy gasped. “No!”
Leke was reading it again. “That’s what it says, all right. I’m thinking it’s a bit odd—what is pleurisy, anyhow?”
“Likely some awful, awful disease,” Rosy said, clasping her hands. “Oh, the poor countess! I only hope she’s not deformed by it.”
“You’ve never met her. Are you crying?”
For Rosy was wiping away tears. “It’s just so sad! Here she’s probably been pining away for her husband, and longing for him to come back to her, and now it’s too, too late!”
“Use your head, girl. If you were the earl’s wife, would you be pining for him to return?”
Rosy hesitated. “He’s very handsome.”
Her uncle snorted. “Like a wild boar is handsome, maybe. Face facts, Rosy. You wouldn’t like to be married to the man, would you?”
“Well, of course not! He’s awfully old, and so messy, too.”
“The countess was better off without him. Funny, though, about that pleurisy. Pleurisy. What is pleurisy?”
“Mum would know,” Rosy said.
“Neither of us has a half-day for another fortnight,” her uncle said dismissively.
“But you could go over this afternoon, Uncle,” Rosy pleaded. “You know you could. The master’s gone to Wiltshire, to his wife’s deathbed!” Her eyes were huge with excitement.
Leke hesitated and looked at the paper.
“That’s our own mistress dying. We must needs know why. What if people ask?”
“I don’t see what difference it makes. If she dies, the only thing we need are blacks. That is, if the master even sees fit to go into blacks for her death. Mayhap he and the strumpet will carry on just as usual.”