Three Weeks With Lady X

  Never mind: India had bought three large crates of “miscellaneous books” from the Temple of the Muses bookshop in Finsbury Square, and they’d arrived that morning. The shelves had been scrubbed and oiled; now they gleamed in the June sunlight, waiting to be filled. India began by emptying the crates and piling the books on the floor according to subject matter: literature and poetry (of which there were very few) here, military history and the like (at least fifty) over there, householdry and farming (three tall stacks) across the room. There were books of essays, books of sermons, and fourteen Bibles. (Apparently the bookseller hadn’t thought she’d actually look at her purchases.)

  When she had them sorted, she turned her attention to the books that remained of Jupp’s collection in order to distribute them among the piles.

  It was at that point—and perhaps she should not have been surprised—that she discovered his naughty books.

  The first one she picked up was called Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. That was followed by Venus in the Cloister: or, The Nun in Her Smock; The Rape of the Sabines; and The Amatory Adventures of Tilly Tucket.

  “Tilly Tucket”? What sort of name was that? India sank to the floor and opened the book at random, finding herself staring at an engraving of a frolicsome couple. Like a silly chambermaid, she gasped and slammed the volume shut, opened it again, and examined precisely what was happening.

  She could feel her cheeks were pink by the time she put the book to the side; perhaps she would buy a bookshelf that locked. After one quick look at The Rape of the Sabines, she dropped that one onto a pile destined to be thrown away, followed by a few others that were equally horrid.

  But then she picked up The Genuine and Remarkable Amours of a Light Gentleman and turned to the first page. The book followed the adventures of a young man called Francis Feather. “Feather” turned out to be not . . . feathery. In fact, she had no idea that men’s parts were so large. Feather’s was easily the size of his lower leg. It didn’t seem anatomically possible.

  The volume was lavishly illustrated, and there was definitely something riveting about the engravings. In one, for example, Feather and his inamorata were making love on a table.

  She could tell it was a dining table, because a teacup and two plates had smashed on the floor, presumably owing to the frenzy of their activity. It made her think differently about household cleaning, though surely the depiction was merely there to shock.

  Adelaide had explained that these things happened under the covers, in the dark. Once in a while.

  Well, maybe Adelaide hadn’t specified that, but India had inferred it.

  Feather observed no such restrictions: in another engraving, he was depicted on a riverbank, and when he did appear in a bed, he had a woman nestled on each side, just like the Greek statuary now residing in the attic.

  At that point, India turned back and began reading the actual story. She only came to herself thirty minutes later, when the light was slanting low through the library windows. Pushing her hair behind her ears, she realized that her fingers were trembling.

  It was an interesting book, she told herself. Merely interesting. She closed it, willing herself to forget the images inside. It was just that the engravings looked so, well, erotic . . . and the women didn’t appear to be shy or ashamed. They appeared to be very jolly.

  Eager, even.

  Though how could they possibly be? It wasn’t physically possible. But there was that picture of the table, with the woman’s head hanging off the edge, her hair sweeping the floor. That had to be ecstasy on her face.

  It was hard to tell. India opened to the page again and turned it upside down, the better to examine the woman’s face.

  Her mouth was open. Was she in extreme pain, or was she experiencing pleasure?

  She was mulling this over when a noise broke her concentration and she looked up. Thorn stood in the doorway, regarding her. She slammed the book shut and scrambled to her feet, feeling like a child caught sneaking bonbons. “What on earth are you doing here? You aren’t due for two days!”

  Thorn raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer my last two letters. I thought I’d better make sure you hadn’t collapsed with exhaustion.”

  “Of course I haven’t,” India said, dropping her arm so the book was hidden by the folds of her skirt.

  “I’ve been at the factory all day, so I stopped by on my way back to London.” He looked around at the stacks. “Tell me you’re not trying to organize these books.”

  India cleared her throat. “Just in a general way, by subject. I’ll put the literature in one section, histories in another.”

  “I suppose the library is one good thing that comes from owning a country estate.” He walked over to the table and picked up a book on animal husbandry. “I can send out the books I have sitting around in London. They’ve outgrown the bookshelves in my library and are stacked against the walls, much to my housekeeper’s dissatisfaction.”

  India casually slid Remarkable Amours on top of a stack of books describing travel. Thorn picked a book from another stack, and looked at its spine. “Are these all books of sermons?”

  “I’m afraid so,” India said. “That stack and the one over there, and all those on the far table.”

  “Jupp never fails to surprise. Get rid of those, will you? That will leave space for my London books.”

  India nodded. “What books do you enjoy?”

  “Anything I can get my hands on, though not sermons. What else is in here?”

  The naughty books came to India’s mind, but she had no idea how to refer to them. “Let’s see . . . There is a short stack of grammar books, two of Greek grammar and three of German.”

  Thorn turned up the lamps fixed to the walls, and another on the mantelpiece. “I suppose I can give those to Rose. She’s such a solemn little thing that she’ll probably work through them in a matter of a week.”

  “I found a couple of children’s books that she might like. I put them in the dower house.”

  “We’ve already made two trips to Hatchard’s bookshop,” he remarked casually, returning to the table and picking up a travel narrative.

  India felt her insides clench. If he glanced at the next stack . . .

  “I didn’t think that you would conduct such errands yourself,” she said, edging closer to the questionable volume and leaning her hip against the table. In a moment, she would nonchalantly pick up the entire stack and carry it over to a shelf.

  “Rose’s governesses have barely stayed in the house long enough to unpack. But from now on, Twink can take her to the bookshop. You know, you could have simply piled these books onto the shelves.” He laughed at the expression on her face. “I gather you’re a perfectionist.”

  “I wouldn’t be very good at this profession if I weren’t.”

  “It’s odd to hear a lady speak about a profession,” he said, turning over yet another book.

  “You must not talk to many,” she said tartly. “You are surrounded by women who work very hard at various enterprises.”

  “But they aren’t ladies,” he said, with perfect truth. He turned his head and looked at her from under his lashes. “And even more than not being ladies, they aren’t daughters of marquesses.”

  “There’s nothing about my father’s title that renders me incapable of work.”

  “Clearly that’s the case. But don’t pretend that you’re not unusual, India.” He’d reached the bottom of the stack of books. “This is the third book about Italy. I’m starting to think that Jupp bought that Cellini in his travels.”

  “In fact, I think those books came from a bookshop,” she said. “I found only twenty or thirty books here, so I had to add to your library.”

  Thorn looked up with a bark of laughter. “You bought some poor bugger’s books to make it look as if I had ancestors who knew how to read?”

  “No one is trying to disguise the provenance of the house and your ownership of it,” she objected.

  H
e snorted.

  “We are simply demonstrating that you are a man of discernment,” India told him.

  Before she could stop him Thorn leaned over and picked up Feather’s book. He turned the pages, an entirely wicked grin on his lips. “I see that I am very discerning indeed. You are showing unexpected depths, India.”

  “Thanks to Lord Jupp, you have many such volumes in your new collection,” she muttered, gesturing toward the stack on the floor. She could feel color rising in her cheeks again.

  “Damn,” Thorn said, turning the pages. “This is an adventuresome little volume.”

  “I threw a couple of them in the bin,” India said defiantly.

  “Good.”

  She hesitated, then: “Aren’t you curious about what they were?”

  “There’s sickness in the world, India. I saw some of it as a boy, more as a man . . . I don’t want it in my house, or anywhere near Rose.”

  India loved the way he was protecting Rose, so she smiled at him, a wide smile. Unguarded. Unusual for her.

  He frowned. “India.”

  “Yes?”

  “No wonder all those men are scrabbling at your feet to marry you. You could seduce a saint with that smile.” He looked back at the book and turned another page. “Did you enjoy Mr. Feather’s undertakings?”

  “I merely glanced at the volume.”

  His mouth quirked. “I stood in that doorway for a good five minutes before you saw me. I was squinting, but it looked to me as if this was the picture you found most fascinating.”

  At that, heat flooded her body. Propriety demanded that she run from the room, but she remained where she was.

  Thorn turned the page upside down, just as she had. “What on earth is so fascinating? Except the size of Feather’s tool, which definitely falls in the category of an optimistic daydream.”

  India filed that comment away to think about later. Who would wish for something that large to come anywhere near her most delicate parts?

  “Do tell, India,” Thorn said, laughing aloud now. He turned the picture the other way.

  “I was trying to see whether she was enjoying herself,” India confessed.

  “See how her hands are flying out into the air like that? In my experience—which is not slight—she’s having a fine time. Screaming, I would guess.”

  Another wave of heat concentrated between her legs. “ ‘Screaming’?” She didn’t know whether to be horrified or envious.

  “With pleasure,” he added, turning the pages. “Feather is giving her everything she wants. Hell, look at this one.” He glanced up, his eyes alight with mischief. “She’s screaming here as well.”

  India looked at the engraving for a good minute before she realized what Feather was doing with his head between the lady’s legs. And yes, the lady did seem to be experiencing an acute level of happiness. And her mouth was open, as Thorn noted.

  She snapped to herself again. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s wretchedly inappropriate.”

  Thorn shook his head at her. “Nothing wrong about it, India. You and I are friends.”

  That stopped her on the very edge of flight. “Friends? You look at books of this nature with your friends?” Frankly, it was a scandalous notion.

  “No, only with you. Come take a look at what he’s doing here. I’ve never tried it.”

  “No!”

  “I’ll come to you, in that case.” India rapidly backed away, until she found herself stopped by the bookcase.

  “I don’t want to see it!”

  Thorn stopped just in front of her, trapping her with his large body, so close his shoulder rubbed against hers, and she could smell his spicy, fragrant male smell, even hear the sound of his breathing.

  “I suspect you’ve had to live like a nun in order to avoid being tossed from society, haven’t you? How old are you?” He looked her up and down. “Twenty-two?”

  India sighed. “Twenty-six.”

  “You’ve had to wrap yourself in virtuous white for twenty-six years. No wonder you’re retiring. That’s hellish.”

  His smile, she registered, was dangerous to her peace of mind. And her virtue. She cleared her throat. “I must return to work, Thorn. And this conversation did not happen.”

  “You mean that nuns aren’t allowed to ogle Feather’s better parts?” Thorn grinned at her. “I like this picture; don’t you?”

  India glanced down and discovered that a young lady was bouncing on top of Feather, their bodies connected only by his extraordinary . . . whatever. And they appeared to be lying on a tree limb. “No!” she exclaimed.

  He closed the book and dropped it on a shelf, leaning even closer and bracing his right arm over her head. “Those pictures are exaggerations. You do know that, don’t you, India?”

  She scowled at him. “The matter is irrelevant.”

  “It’s not irrelevant, because you’re about to marry. During my years at Eton, I saw hordes of men starkers. I can tell you this, India: whoever you marry will not compare to Feather.”

  India felt, irrationally, that she should defend her future husband. “You don’t know that,” she objected. “I’m sure that he will be . . . everything that a man should be.”

  Thorn’s grin was making that hot and muddled feeling spread all over her body. “It’s really irrelevant,” she repeated crossly.

  “Maybe before you decide on the man, I should take him for a dip in the horse pond and take a discreet glance. It would be awful if you went to your wedding night with images of Feather in mind, only to discover your beloved is the size of a thimble.”

  “He won’t be!”

  “How would you know? I would feel terrible if a book I owned corrupted you and consequently you never enjoyed your marital life.”

  India gave him a little push. “Back away, if you please. I’m going to my chamber.”

  “I know; you’re about to tell me again that this conversation never took place. Do you know that you’re the first female friend I’ve ever had?”

  “I don’t think we’re friends,” India observed.

  “In that case, what are we?”

  She ducked under his arm and walked away without answering, because there was no good reply to that.

  He shouted when she had almost reached the door. “India!”

  She turned.

  “You forgot your nighttime reading!” The book hurtled through the air, and she instinctively put up her hand and caught it.

  That smile again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Early the next evening

  The drawing room, Starberry Court

  India, darling, I insist that you go to bed early this evening,” Adelaide said. “You look half-dead.”

  India felt a pulse of pure shame. The truth was that she had stayed up far too late, absorbed in the exploits of Francis Feather. “I cannot. I have only one day left before the duke and duchess join us.”

  “I am exhausted myself,” her godmother said. “I shall take supper in my room, and I recommend you do the same. When do Mr. Dautry and Rose arrive?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” India said.

  “That young man will have to mind his language in the next week. I’m astonished that dear Eleanor wasn’t able to do more with him. After all, he lived in their house from an early age.”

  In India’s estimation, it wouldn’t matter at what age Thorn had entered the duke’s house: it would have been too late.

  “Of course, he is his father’s son,” Adelaide continued. “Those eyes are his father’s, and that hair, all the rest of it.”

  “But for the personality,” India pointed out. “I have always found the Duke of Villiers to be as courteous as he is witty.”

  “That’s because you know Villiers only after he married. Years ago he reveled in upsetting people: imagine the scandal when he first appeared in society after bringing six illegitimate children, from five different mothers, to live under his roof.”

  “I don??
?t believe that Mr. Dautry is emulating his father’s footsteps by strewing children across the countryside,” India said.

  “I agree.” Adelaide walked out of the drawing room, heading for the stairs. “In my experience, people whose parents led irregular lives tend to be quite conservative. Just look at you, my dear.”

  India followed her up, automatically checking to make sure that every speck of dust had been removed from the shining banister. “What have I to do with this? I am not the product of an irregular union.”

  “Of course you are not! Your parents were married in St. Paul’s Cathedral on an absolutely beautiful day, though it did rain later in the afternoon, as I recall. But they were not, shall we say, entirely traditional in their nurturing, were they?”

  As most parents didn’t send their children out into the woods to forage for mushrooms for supper, India offered no defense of them. Still, “I don’t think my parents’ eccentricities made me conventional,” she observed.

  “You guard your heart,” Adelaide said, reaching the top and pausing. “Don’t you, child? You talk about choosing between your various suitors as if you were choosing dining room chairs.”

  “How else should I do it?” India replied, stung. “That’s what my father would have done, if he were alive and if he had been an entirely different man.” She was all too aware that had her father still been alive, she might well have been running around his estate without proper shoes to this day, unless she’d been married off to a cowherd.

  “With your dowry and title, you have your choice of men. I’m merely saying that you could choose on the basis of love, if you wish.” Adelaide turned into her bedchamber, rang the bell, and sat down before the fireplace.

  “That did not work well for my father and mother.” India, who had followed Adelaide into her room, bent over and kissed her on the cheek. “You do know that it was the best day of my life when you took me in, don’t you?”

  Adelaide smiled, but shook her head. “It wasn’t the best day of your life, it was the worst, because your dear parents had left you. They didn’t mean to, but they left you.”

  Personally, India felt that parents who’d spent their time being artists and worshipping the moon—as opposed to ensuring that their daughter had been properly fed and clothed—had left that child years before they’d run away to London and died in a carriage accident.