"Some can, Clare," he said, an edge to his voice. "Believe me, there are women as reckless and heartless as any man."
"I'm sure that you've known any number of females of that sort." She sighed ruefully. "What a pagan you are, Nicholas. An amoral, silver-tongued devil who can make sin look sweet. You think that if I am forced to be in your company, eventually I will succumb to your heathen charms."
He kissed her forehead lightly. "It's my fondest hope."
Her laughter was tinged with exasperation, and a little anger. He was making this very difficult for her.
It was time to determine her course. She toyed with one of his buttons as she gathered her thoughts.
First, she had to stay for the sake of the people who would benefit from the earl's aid; her sense of duty would allow nothing else. That being the case, she must strive to get through the next three months with as little damage as possible. Grimly she accepted the knowledge that staying meant she would be guilty of numerous minor offenses against morality. She would have to pray that refraining from worse sins would count for something.
A sudden, tantalizing thought struck her. Nicholas was a man of the world, used to gratifying his desires. Surely he would soon weary of mere kisses. If he became frustrated enough with her refusal to allow the ultimate intimacy, he might ask her to leave, yet feel honor bound to fulfill his end of the bargain.
Intrigued, she played with the idea, turning it around in her mind. To have any chance of success, she would have to learn to inflame his desire, while herself maintaining enough willpower to keep saying no. Sensuality was a dangerous game and he was far more skilled in it than she. But perhaps that advantage would be countered by the fact that men's passions were greater than women's. Her mind made up, she said slowly, "My conscience will not allow me to leave when staying will do so much good. But I warn you—your goal is seduction, and mine is to make you decide that I'm not worth the trouble."
He exhaled with relief, then smiled at her with breathtaking sweetness. "I'm very glad you're staying. It will be interesting to see what you do to vex me, but I don't think you'll succeed."
"We'll see about that, my lord." As she looked into his dark eyes, she felt a wicked stir of anticipation. She was no longer a helpless victim of his superior experience and strength. Her power over him was limited, but by God, she would wield it to the best of her ability.
Chapter 13
Clare peered out the window of the traveling coach, wide-eyed at the sight of London in the dusk. "I never imagined that there were so many people in the world," she breathed.
Nicholas chuckled. He was seated beside her, lounging casually against the upholstery with his arms folded across his chest. "Country mouse comes to city."
She scowled with mock irritation. "The first time you came to London, I'm sure you were utterly nonchalant."
"Not in the least," he said cheerfully. "I was seventeen and so enthralled that I nearly fell out the carriage window. One may love London or hate it, but one is never indifferent. I intend to see that you experience some of the city's variety while you're here."
The carriage swerved and the driver of a passing cart hurled a stream of filthy abuse at their own coachman. Clare listened, her brow furrowed. "Is that carter speaking a foreign language? I can't understand what he's saying."
"He's speaking a particularly dreadful form of cockney, the East London dialect, as well as using words that a well-bred young lady should not recognize," Nicholas said repressively.
She gave him a mischievous glance. "Can you explain his remarks to me?"
His brows arched. "Though I have every desire to corrupt you, foul language is not the way in which I wish to do it."
She smiled and looked out the window again. The long journey from Wales to London had been fast-paced and tiring, but she had enjoyed it. Since the painful scene at the castle had forced her to come to terms with her situation, she had become more relaxed with Nicholas, and their relationship was now marked by considerable teasing.
Better yet, she had learned that it was possible to enjoy his caresses without being overwhelmed. The single daily kiss had developed into a delightful session that lasted until Nicholas's hands started wandering dangerously. When that happened, Clare would call a halt. He always obeyed promptly. She sensed that, like her, he was holding back a little, enjoying the kisses without allowing himself to be swept away by desire.
The situation couldn't last; sooner or later Nicholas would unleash the full power of his sensuality in a really determined effort to seduce her. When that day came, she thought she would have the strength to resist, for every day she felt stronger, more his equal, at least within the narrow confines of their odd relationship. Meanwhile, she would enjoy London.
The streets gradually became cleaner and quieter, and eventually the carriage lurched to a halt. The coachman opened the door and lowered the steps and Nicholas helped Clare down. It was almost dark, and all she could see of Aberdare House was the broad classical facade. "Is this place also in dire need of a housekeeper?" she asked.
"Several days ago I informed my London agent that I would be coming, so the house should be clean and have a temporary staff." He offered his arm. "Of course, as mistress of the household, you may make changes as you see fit."
Wryly she realized that this was another, subtler, form of seduction. It was intoxicating to be treated like a lady, to have her opinions respected. Knowing that the situation was temporary helped her keep it in perspective.
As they climbed the marble steps, her sense of well-being began to erode. Until now, it had amused Nicholas to have Clare for a companion. But London would hold many other, more exciting amusements. In fact, he might become bored with her and send her home before the week was out.
Then she would have won, wouldn't she?
* * *
The grand rooms and lavish furnishings of Aberdare House proved to be in good condition, though years of emptiness had given it the impersonal air of a hotel. Nicholas blandly introduced Clare to the small staff as his cousin, as he had when booking separate rooms at inns on the trip to London.
At first, the servants didn't know quite what to make of Clare. She guessed that she seemed too dowdy to be an aristocratic relation, but she was an even more unlikely candidate to be a mistress. However, the servants were Londoners and hard to shock, so they shrugged their collective shoulders and obeyed her orders in return for their generous pay. She found that she was indifferent to their private opinions of her; there was much to be said for living among strangers rather than with people whom she had known her whole life.
Clare awoke to her first day in the city bubbling with excitement. When she came downstairs, Nicholas was already in the breakfast parlor, drinking coffee and reading the Morning Post. He rose politely when she came in. "Good morning, my dear. Did you sleep well?"
"Not really—Mayfair is almost as noisy as the Penreith mine. But I expect I'll get used to it." Clare glanced at the Morning Post. "Imagine, being able to read a newspaper the very day it's published rather than weeks later! Such luxury."
Smiling, he poured her a steaming cup of tea. "London is the center of the world, Clare. Much of the news is made here."
After she had selected a breakfast from the heated dishes on the sideboards, they both took seats. Nicholas said, "I've been looking at the society notes. No mention of Lord Michael Kenyon or the Earl of Strathmore, but the Duke of Candover is in town."
Clare felt a touch of alarm. "A duke?"
Accurately interpreting her expression, he said, "That's Rafe. Don't worry, he may be a duke and richer than Croesus, but he never allows it to make him insufferable. He's a great believer in restrained gentlemanly behavior."
"I've always been curious about what makes a man a gentleman, apart from money and the right ancestors."
He grinned and folded the newspaper. "According to Rafe, an English gentleman is never rude except on purpose."
"I don't find that
a comforting definition," she said with a smile. "I suppose the Earl of Strathmore is your friend Lucien."
"Precisely. Don't worry, exalted though they might be, my friends are a tolerant lot—they have to be, to put up with me." He smiled remiscently. "I met Lucien at Eton when four boys decided that anyone as dark and foreign-looking as I should be beaten. Lucien thought the odds were unsporting, so he came into the fray on my side. It cost us both black eyes, but we managed to drive the others off and have been friends ever since."
"I think I approve of the Earl of Strathmore." Clare finished her eggs and sausage. Not as good as Mrs. Howell's, but quite acceptable. "Are any of the Fallen Angels married, or is that against the Code of the Rakes?"
"As far as I know they're all single, though I've been away so long that anything could have happened." He dug into his pocket and pulled out several banknotes, then handed them to Clare. "Take this. London is an expensive place, and you'll need some pin money."
Clare gave him a bemused smile and fingered the notes. "Twenty pounds. The same as my salary for a year's teaching."
"If you're implying that the world is an unfair place, I won't argue the point. Perhaps the Penreith school endowment should raise your salary."
"Twenty pounds is generous—there are schoolmasters in Wales who earn as little as five pounds a year, though usually they have other jobs as well. I also receive gifts of food and services from many students and their families. I don't know if I belong in a world where twenty pounds is pin money." She started to slide the notes back across the table.
"You can belong in any world that you choose," he said sharply. "If twenty pounds seems extravagant, keep it for running away money. You'll need it to return to Penreith if I become unbearable, a possibility that can't be ruled out."
As usual, his nonsense distracted her. "Very well, though it seems strange to take money from you."
His eyes twinkled. "If I were paying you for immoral purposes, I wouldn't be getting my money's worth. However, the twenty pounds is to defray the costs of my bringing you to London against your will."
She surrendered and pocketed the notes. "You're very hard to win an argument with."
"Never argue with a Gypsy, Clare—we're not constrained by either logic or dignity." He got to his feet and stretched luxuriously. "When you finish your breakfast, it will be time to do something about your wardrobe."
She looked quickly down at her teacup. There was something downright indecent about the way he stretched; his catlike sensuality was enough to distract the soberest lady.
Once she had thought herself sober, but that was getting harder to remember all the time.
* * *
The elegant dressmaker's shop had the name "Denise" discreetly painted on the small sign that hung above the door. There was nothing discreet about Denise herself, though; as soon as they entered the salon, a buxom blond squealed and boldly hurled herself into Nicholas's arms.
"Where have you been, you Gypsy rogue?" she exclaimed. "I've been breaking me heart for you, I have."
He lifted her into the air and kissed her soundly, then patted her generous backside when he set her back on her feet. "I'm sure you say that to all the lads, Denise."
"Yes," she admitted candidly, "but in your case I mean it." Dimples emerged. "At least, I mean it as much as I ever do."
Clare watched in silence, feeling invisible and slightly homicidal. While she had known that Nicholas was free with his kisses, she didn't enjoy seeing the proof, especially not with a blowsy wench like this one.
Before her temperature could rise to dangerous levels, Nicholas said, "Denise, this is my friend Miss Morgan. She needs a complete wardrobe from the shift out."
The dressmaker nodded and slowly began to circle around her new customer. When she had completed her survey, she announced, "Rich colors, simple lines, provocative without being vulgar."
"My thoughts exactly," Nicholas said. "Shall we begin?"
Denise ushered them into a lushly carpeted fitting room, where they were joined by a seamstress and a very young apprentice. Clare was ordered to stand on a platform in the middle of the room. Thereafter she was treated as an inanimate dummy while Nicholas and Denise draped her in fabrics and discussed styles, colors, and materials.
Denise's cheerful manner encompassed Clare as well as Nicholas, and soon Clare's initial irritation faded. It tickled her sense of humor to have the full attention of two people who cared more about her clothing than Clare herself did, particularly since the garments under discussion were so different from what was considered appropriate in Wales. If she had had to select a wardrobe on her own, she would have given up from sheer confusion at the number of choices.
To occupy her mind, she thought about what she would like to see and do during her visit to London. Only once did fashion break into her preoccupation, when Denise draped a length of blue silk around her shoulders and said, "Perfect color, isn't it?"
"Your eye is unerring," Nicholas agreed. "That will make a splendid evening gown."
As they began to discuss possible designs, the apprentice came forward to rewind the silk on the bolt. But as the material rippled around her throat, Clare involuntarily caught a handful, unwilling to let it go. It was the loveliest fabric she'd ever seen, shimmering with every shade of blue imaginable and with an exquisite, cloudlike texture. She pressed her cheek into the silk and rubbed against it like a cat until she saw that Nicholas was watching her. She dropped the fabric in embarrassment.
"There's nothing wrong with enjoying something that is beautiful," he said with gentle amusement.
"That silk is vain and extravagant," she said sternly, though her skin still sang where the fabric had caressed it. "There are better ways for you to spend your money."
"Perhaps," he agreed, his amusement increasing, "but a gown made from that will do wonderful things for your blue eyes. And you'll feel wonderful when you wear it."
She wanted to deny that she would derive any special pleasure from having such a beautiful, useless garment, but she couldn't; her treacherous heart yearned for the blue silk. She had known that accepting Nicholas's challenge would test her virtue, but it was depressing to see how susceptible she was to greed, vanity, and worldliness. Mentally she recited every scriptural passage she could remember that warned of the folly of vanity.
It didn't make her stop wanting the blue silk.
After styles and fabrics had been chosen, Nicholas asked if there were any finished garments available that would fit Clare. Denise produced three gowns with the tart comment that since the lady who had ordered them hadn't paid for the last lot, she could jolly well wait for these.
To try on the first dress, Clare withdrew behind a screen. Assisted by the seamstress, Marie, she donned a shift of muslin so fine it was almost translucent. Then the seamstress laced her into a short, lightweight corset. Clare expected the worst, for she almost never wore stays, but the garment proved less uncomfortable than she had expected.
Marie murmured, "Mam'zelle has such a small waist that this is scarcely necessary, but it will improve the line of the gown." The seamstress took her measurements to use in making the other dresses. Then she dropped a gown of rose-colored challis over Clare's head. The back fastenings were complicated; Clare was beginning to see why fashionable ladies needed maids.
Before allowing Clare to look at herself in the wall mirror, Marie produced a sprig of creamy silk roses and tucked them into Clare's dark hair. "Tres bien. Accessories and a different hairstyle are needed, but this will please Monsieur le compte."
When Clare was finally permitted to see herself, she blinked in surprise at her image. The rose challis made her skin glow and her eyes look enormous. She looked like a lady—an attractive lady. Even, heaven help her, rather dashing. She studied the neckline of the gown uneasily. Not only was it cut alarmingly low, but the stays pushed her up in front. Though Clare knew herself to be modestly endowed, in this fashionable gown she looked quite... bountiful.
Suppressing the desire to cover her bare chest with her hands, she shyly emerged from behind the screen. Nicholas and Denise broke off their discussion to stare. While the dressmaker nodded with satisfaction, Nicholas circled around Clare, his eyes glowing with approval. "I knew this gown would become you, but even so, I'm impressed. Only one alteration is needed."
He used the edge of his hand to draw a line across the front of her bodice. "Cut the décolletage to here."
She gasped, as much because he was touching her breasts—in public!—as because of the shockingly low neckline he wanted. "I refuse to wear anything indecent!"
"What I'm suggesting is rather moderate." He drew another line across her breasts, this one barely clearing her nipples. "This would be indecent."
Appalled, Clare glanced at Denise. "Surely he's jesting?"
"Not at all," the dressmaker said briskly. "I have customers who won't buy a gown unless they're in danger of popping out. Keeps the gentlemen interested, they say."
"I should certainly think it would," Clare muttered, unmollified. "But it's not for me."
"You smolder better than any woman I ever met." Nicholas gave her his devil's smile. "The décolletage I am suggesting is more daring than you want, and more conservative than I would like. Isn't that fair enough?"
She had to laugh. Reminding herself that she would never wear these garments in front of anyone she knew, she said, "Very well. But if I catch lung fever, on your head be it."
"I'll keep you warm," he said, the gleam in his eye definitely dangerous.
Hastily Clare retreated behind the screen, telling herself that it didn't matter that these strangers assumed she was his mistress. The next garment was a day dress and the neckline was somewhat more respectable, though still low enough to raise every eyebrow in Penreith.
During a moment when there was no one near enough to hear, Clare quietly asked Nicholas, "What sort of clients does Denise have? I don't have the feeling that this is an establishment for the extremely respectable."