Three Weeks With Lady X

  India had sent Adelaide—whose taste was impeachable—back to London to choose furniture from Thomas Sheraton’s and Jean-Henri Reisener’s showrooms. They would have to accept whatever was available, but she had a very good relationship with Mr. Sheraton, in particular, and was reasonably optimistic that he would give her whatever he had and tell his customers that the pieces they’d ordered had been delayed.

  A man specializing in Italian glass had arrived the day before, carting with him a true treasure: an enormous Venetian blue-glass mirror, along with the alabaster mantelpiece that would be installed after the silk was on the drawing room walls.

  And she had borrowed a master gardener from Lord Pendleton’s estate in the next county. (Pendleton was still very grateful to her for the successful birth of his child, in which frankly—since she hadn’t been the woman in labor—she had played no real part.) The sound of men working in the gardens drifted through the open windows. Already the lawns had been weeded, neatly mown, and rolled smooth enough for a tennis game. The flowerbeds had desperately needed pruning; now they looked presentable, though rather bare.

  When Thorn jumped from his carriage that evening, she was waiting respectably in the drawing room, rather than leaning in the doorframe like a night-walker. She had also taken the time to bathe and put on a gown without a speck of plaster or dust or paint on it.

  The moment Thorn walked into the drawing room she could tell that something was wrong. His body was vibrating with pent-up emotion as he strode toward her. She started to drop into a curtsy, but he leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. As if they were siblings. Not that she had a sibling, but she imagined they kissed like that.

  “We must be quick, India,” he said without further greeting. “Show me the floors you’ve paved in gold, and I’ll be back on the road.”

  “You are not merely walking through the house and leaving!”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She shrugged. “Fred plans to serve the dinner sent by the innkeeper here, if that changes your mind. We might begin in the ballroom. It turned out well.” That was an understatement. The walls had been stuccoed in the faintest pink, and the decorative molding was gleaming white. She’d had wall sconces installed with pale green blown-glass shades, a tint that matched the delicate chairs. She thought it was perfect.

  He walked through the door, looked around, and said, “It looks good. What’s next?”

  India’s mouth fell open. She put her hands on her hips. “This room is not good!”

  “It isn’t?”

  “It is utterly gorgeous. It is better than Versailles. It is better than any ballroom you’ve seen before!”

  A germ of amusement lit up his eyes, which just irritated her more. “It’s hardly my forte,” he said, not sounding in the least apologetic.

  “I had workmen in here day and night! The night before last, none of us slept because—”

  At that, his scowl matched hers. “What do you mean, you didn’t sleep?”

  “Francisco and I had to paint the stucco before it dried,” she explained. “If you don’t finish painting—”

  He took a step toward her. “Francisco and you?” His voice dropped a level, and all that anger he was carrying in his body channeled right into his words. Maybe he wasn’t as controlled as she’d thought.

  “Francisco Bernasconi,” she said, holding her ground. “He’s a master of stucco, the best in all England. Three or four years ago, he showed me how to do it, and now I always help.”

  “I didn’t hire you to do manual labor!”

  “It’s one of the reasons I’m successful,” she explained. “If I have to, I can bake bread. I can show a cook how to make mayonnaise and not break it. I can paint stucco, I can move furniture, I can—”

  “The hell with that,” he growled. “How old is this bloke?”

  India frowned. “That is irrelevant.”

  “It’s not irrelevant. How old is he?”

  “Barely thirty, I suppose. But his age doesn’t matter: what matters is that he trained in Florence under a maestro. He’s an artist.”

  “I suppose he’s in high demand?”

  “Always. It was a miracle that we were able to get him here on such short notice.”

  His eyes flared. “He came because he’s in love with you. I suppose they all are.”

  “Francisco has never said a single inappropriate word to me, ever. You do him a huge injustice to suggest it!”

  He looked at her lips and then straight down her body. “Were you wearing that?”

  “Of course I wasn’t wearing this gown!” India was beginning to feel truly incensed. Thorn had been in a mood when he’d arrived, and now he was being absurd—as if he were jealous or protective, which he had no right to be.

  “Well, at least that’s something,” he muttered.

  “What are you talking about?” she shouted at him, now losing her temper altogether. “I didn’t wear this gown, because I wore another gown, and what does that matter anyway?”

  “He watched you bend over. All night long.”

  “I wasn’t bending over!” she retorted. “Not that it makes any difference.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “India, tell me that you weren’t on your knees.”

  She didn’t speak to that, because of course she had been on her knees. Francisco and his men worked on the upper walls, on the delicate leaf work around the moldings, and she worked below. “You are an extraordinarily rude man,” she said, turning to leave. “I’ll show you the dining room walls, after which you can return to London.”

  “Those walls were painted by another Italian—Manocchi, wasn’t it? Did he too give up everything when you begged him?”

  “Mr. Marconi and I have worked together many times, and he is very loyal,” India said, tossing her head because she didn’t like his tone. She looked over her shoulder and said, with distinct satisfaction, “Moreover, you paid him half as much again his usual rate.”

  “He is in love with you as well,” Thorn stated. “Bloody hell.”

  “I can see that you’ll just make rude remarks about the dining room, so you might as well get into your carriage now.”

  “I changed my mind. I’m having supper with you,” he said. “We’ll stare at the birds on the walls while we eat. I want to make sure to get my money’s worth.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thorn’s day had started badly and had become progressively worse. Rose informed him at breakfast that she hated the governess he’d hired, after which she disappeared. Two hours of rising panic ensued as the household searched for her; it wasn’t until Mrs. Stella unearthed her from her hiding place under his desk in the library that he knew she was safe.

  At that point he had lost his temper, after which he felt even worse because Rose burst into tears and said that her father never shouted. He didn’t doubt this was true. Will might have been stubborn, but he was always sweet-tempered.

  He wasn’t. He was a prick, who’d just behaved like a prick to a little girl who didn’t deserve it.

  They had ended up in a big chair as he rocked her back and forth and tried to explain himself. “The idea that you were lost in London made my gut turn cold. In fact, it’s something of a personal triumph that I didn’t curse like a sailor.”

  Rose raised her tearful face from his chest and said, “It’s very ill mannered to congratulate oneself. Particularly when one is at fault.” A little pause, and she added, “Do you think that Papa was sent to heaven because he was a saint?”

  “From what my solicitor discovered, the British militia doesn’t train their men well enough. One of them made a mistake, and your father died as a result.” He probably should have lied and said that Will was too good for this world. Which would have made Will roar with laughter and call him all number of names.

  Once Rose was promised a governess she liked and handed back over to Mrs. Stella, Thorn went to his rubber factory, only to be told that it was impossible to pr
oduce bands of rubber large enough to hold trunks on top of a carriage. Even after three hours of trying to think their way around it, he and his manager couldn’t make it work.

  Yet now, here with India at Starberry Court, he was smiling. It was a miracle.

  “Show me the dining room, India,” he repeated. “I’m bloody well starving to death.”

  It seemed that India was a flouncer when she was cross, given that she flounced her way into the dining room ahead of him, which allowed him to appreciate her truly fine curves from behind. That put him in an even better mood.

  Enough so that he poured praise on the swallows, painted by some poor dauber who was obviously in love with India, though she never noticed him. He had figured out that the proposals she’d mentioned—of marriage and otherwise—were likely just the tip of the iceberg when it came to men in love with Lady Xenobia India St. Clair.

  She should wear a warning sign on her back. Before you knew it, you’d be in too deep to recover, find yourself on your knees mumbling nonsense, too taken by the way she burned with life and passion to save yourself.

  He himself might have ended up in the same bind if he hadn’t decided early on in life what type of woman he wanted to marry. Laetitia was exactly right. She would love him and their children in an uncomplicated way.

  India, though, was complicated. Everything about her was complicated. There was even something about her childhood that he didn’t understand. “Where is Lady Adelaide?” he asked, remembering her supposed chaperone.

  “She’s gone to London to pick out furniture. Mr. Sheraton is far too grand to send pieces here for my consideration; Adelaide has gone to coax him into giving us pieces that he has made for others.”

  “Is that legal?” he asked, not really caring.

  “Of course it is.” India grinned, apparently having forgotten that she was cross at him. “You’ll pay him much more than he would have received, so everyone will be happy. Well, except the original purchasers. But he’ll make them other pieces. Everything that comes from his workshop is superb. I told Adelaide that we’ll take whatever he will give us.”

  She sat down and began removing the tops from serving dishes arranged down the middle of the table. “Your kitchens should be operating very soon now. The chimneys have been repointed, and there are two new stoves. I am still negotiating with the cook, but I am hopeful.”

  Thorn sat down opposite her. “Did Lady Adelaide know that I was coming to see the house?”

  “Yes, of course. She asked me to give you her best.”

  “She felt no need to chaperone?”

  “Your frank adoration of Lala has put you in the category of an elderly uncle. I think of it more as brotherly love. Given the way you greeted me with a kiss.”

  He shot her an ironic look. “I have enough sisters as it is, India.”

  Fred carried in yet another platter. “Berry tart, Lady Xenobia,” he said cheerfully. Clearly he and India were now the best of friends.

  “Thank you, Fred,” India said. She turned to Thorn. “Did I mention that I found a marvelous butler called Fleming, who will arrive tomorrow? Three new footmen should be in residence very soon, and Fred can continue as head footman—unless you’d like to take him back to London.”

  “I think I’d rather port him back and forth with me,” Thorn said. “He’s a useful fellow. Just bring the food, Fred, and we’ll serve ourselves. No, wait a moment! I want a bottle of that champagne.”

  “That’s for the house party,” India protested.

  “I’ll be damned if I waste all that wine on Laetitia’s mother. I’ve been to tea again since I saw you last, and the woman is a shrew.”

  She said nothing, which meant she agreed. Hell. No wonder he had sensed Laetitia needed rescuing.

  “Champagne,” he repeated.

  “You’ll find bottles in the cellars, Fred,” India said, putting a slice of chicken on one plate, half the bird on another, and handing him the latter. “How was your day?”

  Thorn didn’t feel like confessing that he’d shouted at Rose. “I spent most of it at one of my factories not far from here that manufactures galvanized rubber. We’ve been trying to create a band strong enough to hold a trunk on top of a carriage, but it won’t work.”

  “Is that why you were cross when you arrived?”

  “I was not cross,” he told her.

  “Irritable? Moody? Gnashing your teeth?”

  She was an imp, and the disturbing thing was that he’d like to kiss her into silence.

  “What does ‘galvanized’ mean?” India asked.

  “Galvanization is a process that stops rubber from melting.” He took a bite of chicken and forced his attention away from the swell of her lower lip.

  “Why can’t you make the band work?”

  “It’s too large for our machines.” Frustration leaked into his voice.

  “Would you be able to make a smaller band?”

  “What for?”

  “Rubber is elastic, isn’t it? I would love a band I could put around bundles of paper and playing cards. Would it be possible to make a band large enough to put around a box, if not a trunk?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Unless a box is extremely well made, the top allows dust to seep inside. It would be wonderful if a band would hold a box together so that the contents didn’t become dusty. For example, I like to have shelving built in the attics of any house I work on, with boxes . . .”

  A half hour later, Thorn emerged from a haze, during which he had drilled India with questions about every possible household use for a band of rubber. He looked up from the paper on which he had been jotting down possible dimensions to find that she was smiling at him, cheek propped on her hand.

  He was struck by another impulse to kiss her, this time so strong that his body froze for a moment. “I’m being an idiot,” he muttered, shoving the paper into his waistcoat. He poured them both glasses of champagne from the bottle Fred had unearthed. “Let’s drink to India’s band of rubber.”

  “ ‘Rubber band’ sounds better,” she said.

  He raised his glass, quite certain that his factory would survive after this. “Twenty-six men were in danger of losing employment, but your rubber bands will prevent that.”

  The champagne India had bought tasted like apples and had a powerful kick. He still preferred brandy, but this wasn’t terrible.

  “Enough about rubber,” he said. He realized his eyes kept drifting over her lush breasts, and his sense of self-preservation abruptly kicked in. “What are you looking for in a husband, Lady Xenobia India St. Clair?”

  “He must be kind and very calm,” she said readily to this complete non sequitur. “And I’d prefer that he do something with his life and leave me to run the household.”

  “My dear,” Thorn said with a grin, “he’ll do something. I can promise you that.”

  His comment didn’t seem to scandalize her in the least, perhaps because she was tipsy again. Lady Xenobia had many virtues, but an ability to handle her liquor wasn’t one of them. He poured the last of the champagne into her glass and reached over to ring the bell.

  “Did you know that many men are incapable in private?” She eyed him. “Are you?”

  “No.” That word came out more forcefully than necessary. Even though her talk of wilted vegetables and shortfalls—and now incapabilities—sounded like a challenge, India was almost certainly a maiden. True, Lady Adelaide was not proving to be the most assiduous of chaperones, but an innocence about India suggested she had never succumbed to the many men who sprawled at her feet.

  “Marriage is not about that,” India said. “Marriage is an understanding, a contract governing behavior and, hopefully, advantageous to both sides, but the advantages to each partner must be weighed. That’s why I—” She stopped.

  “Why you what?” Thorn asked.

  “I was fifteen when Adelaide asked me to organize the household of a friend of hers,” she explained. “I accepted pa
yment because my father had left me nothing but a title. Without a dowry, I was unlikely to make a good match, let alone an excellent one.”

  “Therefore you earned your own dowry.”

  “Yes.”

  She beamed at him, and Thorn felt a chill down his back. When India forgot to smile like a lady . . . He shook it off. “I would say that you now have enough negotiating power to marry whomever you wish.”

  She was toying with her glass, her slender fingers playing with the stem as if it were an instrument. The sight made his groin tighten, and he wrenched his attention back to the subject of her ideal spouse. “The most important consideration has nothing to do with title,” he said. “Personal traits make it possible for a marriage to succeed.”

  She cocked her head. “That is very wise of you.”

  “I have my moments.” He grinned at her. “I’m well aware that Laetitia wouldn’t suit everyone, but she’s right for me. Have you met your perfect man yet?”

  “To be honest, I’m generally too busy to give men much thought.”

  To Thorn’s mind, that was one reason she had been successful. Wives instinctively realized that India posed no threat to their marriages, even as their husbands acquiesced to her every request.

  She had a Cleopatra face, the kind that made men fall on their knees. He’d bet that after she gave a man the glimmering little smile she had on her lips at this very moment, he would simply give her carte blanche to do as she would with his house—precisely as he himself had.

  “My husband will have to be good at kissing,” she said, her eyes pure, slumberous devilment. “I’ve been told that I’m not very good at kissing, and I will need to marry an expert.”

  “India,” Thorn warned. This game they were playing was dangerous.

  She wrinkled her nose at him and looked so adorable that he tossed back the rest of his champagne, letting the cold wine burn a little sanity into him.