A Touch of Sin (14 page)

"You can be sure they will." Trixi knew the parochial mentality of her neighbors. "Very pointedly, I might add."

"I'm inured to critical survey," he remarked. "My appearance often brings on a sudden silence."

Not only for his exotic looks, Trixi thought; his conspicuous beauty alone was quite capable of silencing a room.

"Petunia loves sugar lumps," Chris piped up, unconcerned with society's conduct. "Do you have a horse? Did you bring him with you? What's his name?" he finished in a rush, his excitement commensurate with the rarity of visitors at Burleigh House.

"I don't have my horse with me, but his name is Yakut."

"
All
your names are funny."

"Chris, mind your manners," Trixi cautioned, blushing at her son's candor.

"But I like them." Chris smiled up at Pasha with the same artless innocence as his mother's.

"He's allowed his opinions, darling," Pasha said. "I don't mind in the least."

"Good," Trixi said, relieved, "because he's impossible to stifle."

"Like his mother if I recall." Pasha's voice was a lush resonance meant for her ears only.

"What's stifle, Mama?" Chris inquired, catching the change of inflection in Pasha's tone.

"Nothing, darling." Trixi's face flamed cherry red, and her warning glance at Pasha was touched with a restless agitation. "Mr. Duras, would you prefer a barb or a thoroughbred to ride?"

"Neither as first choice," he softly said, wishing the sun in the sky was the moon, wishing he could hasten the next ten hours, hoping the inhabitants of Burleigh were early-to-bed types. "But as second choice," he went on in a conversational tone, as though he'd not undressed her with his eyes, "I'd take a barb."

"Jabar, Mama. Give Pasha Jabar."

She couldn't speak for a moment, lust flaring through her senses.

"Jabar would be fine," Pasha said, calm and composed, knowing all the while what he'd done to her. "Or whatever your mother wants."

When she spoke, a small tremor underlay her words. "Will can decide," she said, not capable of prolonged speech at the moment.

"You'll love Jabar," Chris enthusiastically declared.

"He's faster than fast, Will says. He can run like the wind."

Trixi took note of the stables, now within sight, and determined to stay well away from Pasha in Will's presence. The retainer was more discerning than a four-year-old child; the nature of her relationship with Pasha wouldn't be long a secret if she allowed him too close.

Will proudly showed Pasha their stable, the quality of the horses testament to his expertise as a breeder. "We had only five of our bloodstock left when them Grosvenors were done robbing us blind, and only because I hid the best of them. Damned farmers didn't know a thoroughbred from a hack so it weren't too hard to cull out the best for my lady. She's a right fine rider, too, if I do say so myself," he went on. "Taught her to ride when she were a tyke."

"Just like me," Chris pointed out, already mounted on Petunia. "I'm right fine, too."

Will smiled at his youngest charge. "Damned good seat, he has. Keep them hands up, now," the old man admonished. "And remember, Petunia don't like to run for too long at a time."

"We shouldn't have to backtrack far," Pasha said, sliding a bridle over Jabar's nose. "The wagon left before us and we passed it just before turning off the main road to London."

"Be ten miles back then," Will declared, tightening the cinch on Trixi's saddle. "She's ready, my lady." He patted the chestnut's flank. "I'll give you a hand up."

"Let me help," Pasha offered. The wiry old man was small in stature.

"No!" Trixi exclaimed, the vehemence in her voice so striking, even Chris paid notice. "I mean… Will is used to helping me," she quickly added, hoping she wasn't blushing too intensely.

"It don't matter to me, my lady, who you bring home to visit," Will bluntly said, "just so long as the gentleman knows his manners." His gray eyes drilled a hole through Pasha.

"Rest assured, Will," Pasha quietly replied, "Lady Grosvenor will be treated with respect."

"You overstep yourself, Will," Trixi murmured, a bite in her voice.

"Begging your pardon, my lady." Will's gaze remained hard on Pasha. "My mistake."

But there was no mistake, Pasha understood; he wasn't to cause harm to Will's lady.

The few minutes left before Pasha was mounted passed in an uneasy silence; even Chris was cognizant of the strained hush. But once they were out of the stable-yard, Chris perceived the altered mood and began chattering.

"Petunia knows the road all the way to the London turnoff, and once we even went as far as Geddinge," he said, cantering slightly ahead of the adults.

"That's quite a way," Pasha replied. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his quiet words for Trixi alone. "I won't be so obvious again. It was all my fault."

"Sometimes Will takes me with him when he goes to the horse fair at Denton," Chris jabbered on. "You'll have to go with us sometime."

"Whenever your mother likes," Pasha responded.

"It was just as much my fault." Trixi's gaze lay not on the road ahead but on Pasha riding alongside her. "I feel as though I'm on fire when I look at you and it shows. How could Will not notice?"

"While I'm looking at you or my watch like a giddy adolescent." Pasha grinned. "I'm appalled."

"The feeling's mutual, you luscious man," she cheerfully said, feeling gloriously free from prying eyes and scrutiny on the isolated country road. "And I seem to have absolutely no self-control."

"Then it's up to me to have enough for both of us."

"That would be marvelous."

He took a deep breath. "Although I'm not sure it's actually possible. Does Chris take naps anymore?"

"I'm afraid not."

He groaned.

She giggled and then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, feeling much too giddy for a grown woman.

Casting her a sidelong glance, he grinned again. "This is going to be very bizarre—tiptoeing around."

"Perhaps I can make it worth your while," she flirtatiously murmured.

"Without a doubt you can. The question is when?"

"A mild headache might overcome me at teatime."

"Tea can do that to you, I've heard."

"Chris will be completely involved in his new toys, I'm sure."

"And long journeys always fatigue me," he lazily drawled.

"You'll have need of sleep then," she teased.

"Oh, yes."

The wagon was met, the riders and toys arrived back at Burleigh House, and as anticipated, Chris had eyes for nothing but his new playthings. The drawing room floor was awash with presents, wrappings, and boxes; Kate and Jane, even Mrs. Orde, came to admire the array while Chris showed off all his new playthings, moving from item to item, excited, glowing, bubbling with chatter.

After Pasha carried in the last of the boxes, he began assembling one of the buildings in a farm set, slipping small interlocking boards into place to make walls for a barn. As the small building began taking shape, Chris was drawn to the project, and with admirable patience, Pasha helped the four-year-old manipulate the boards into place. He quietly offered praise or suggestions, lying beside Chris on the worn Tabriz carpet, the large man and small boy working as a team.

Chris set the roof on himself, and clapping his hands in excitement at the finished project, he immediately cried, "Let's do another. You can unwrap the animals, Mama," he said, suddenly remembering her presence. "Us men will build the stables and farmhouse."

Trixi smiled, the four-year-old implying that there were divisions of labor on gender lines amusing. "Can't I help build?"

Her son looked up at her, then to Pasha.

"Your mama can do anything she wants." His gaze was innocent.

"Thank you," she replied.

"You do the fences, Mama," Chris offered, scooping up a handful of wooden sections.

Before long the entire farmyard was complete, the animals in place, even the farmer's family arranged outside their sturdy house. The small construction crew sat back and admired their handiwork. "Can I bring it to my room tonight, Mama?" Chris asked. "I'll put all the animals to sleep and—"

Mrs. Orde cleared her throat.

Unfamiliar with her housekeeper's unusual reticence, Trixi didn't take notice until the second unobtrusive cough, at which point, catching sight of Mrs. Orde's expression, she said, "Oh, dear," and jumped up. "Have we kept you waiting?"

"The tea will be a mite cool soon, my lady," Mrs. Orde remarked, touching the pot with her palm.

"Of course. Forgive me. Chris, Mr. Duras, please join me. And thank you, Ordie, for this wonderful array."

"Your favorites, Missy," she said, the childhood name accidently slipping out. "Scones, strawberry cakes, and those ham sandwiches on oatmeal bread. The poppy seed cake has a touch of orange for you and the lemon curd tarts are those heart-shaped ones you like. Would Mr. Duras prefer a whiskey, I'm wondering?"

"That won't be necessary." Pasha came to his feet. He recalled Trixi's suspicion of men who drank too much.

"Your papa
always
had a whiskey with tea." Mrs. Orde surveyed Trixi over the rims of her glasses. "Said it made tea drinking bearable."

"Don't look at me like that, Ordie," Trixi said, smiling. "
I'm
not keeping him from drinking."

"In that case, if Lady Grosvenor doesn't mind." Pasha cast a compliant glance her way.

"I'm sitting with
you
." Chris slipped his hand into Pasha's, a guest so generous with his presents and time a luxury in his young life.

"Should we fly to the table?" Pasha asked. Grasping both Chris's hands, he swung the boy up in a high arc, let him go, then caught him a second later in midair and midsqueal before gently setting him down.

"Do that
again
!" Chris jubilantly cried. "I was flying! Mama! Mama, did you see me? I was
flying
!"

Pasha repeated his glorious feat several more times to cries and screams of approval. On his feet once again, red-faced and gleeful, Chris exclaimed, "You're the bestest! Isn't he, Mama? Isn't he, Ordie?" he happily extolled, his little face beaming.

Mrs. Orde looked up from setting Pasha's filled whiskey glass in place. "Yes, indeed, Christopher," she agreed. "Mr. Duras is very kind."

Pasha's "best" had to do with other than kindnesses, Trixi heatedly thought, but her voice was temperate when she spoke as though tantalizing memory wasn't bombarding her brain. "Do you want scones or strawberry cakes first?" she asked her son, opting for evasion in lieu of personal commentary on Pasha's best.

"Cakes, cakes, cakes!"

And teatime commenced.

Conversation was child-driven in the presence of an exuberant four-year-old, but neither adult minded. The young boy's energy and loquaciousness were familiar to Pasha, well experienced in the role of older brother. For her part, Trixi viewed the occasion through a rose-tinted haze; she was home again, returned to her beloved son and blissfully happy. That Pasha charmed her entire household only added pleasure to pleasure.

The food was demolished in short order, gratifying Mrs. Orde, who was never more pleased than when her Missy and Chris ate heartily. "Her ladyship needs a mite more meat on those bones," she whispered to Kate from their vantage point in an adjoining room, both their faces pressed to the narrow aperture between doorjamb and door.

"She
has
lost weight," Kate murmured, careful to keep her voice low. "I'm so pleased we have our Missy back."

"And she brought herself home a right fine-looking gentleman," Mrs. Orde declared, less concerned with propriety than her mistress's happiness, "for all that he looks like he just rode in with Genghis Khan."

"For heaven's sake, Mrs. Orde." Kate's original position as governess to Trixi placed her in a more exalted social rank than her rustic companion. And while she rarely exerted any undue privileges because of her status, she felt duty-bound to warn the housekeeper that such tactlessness would surely disturb their mistress. "Mr. Duras is obviously of importance to our lady and wealthy, I'd surmise, from the extent of the gifts he brought for Christopher. And if you don't think me too mercenary—with our Missy's hapless marriage, may her husband rot in Hades, and Christopher's father, poor soul, taken so young—
and
considering her dire financial state, we should take
every
opportunity to see that Mr. Duras enjoys his visit at Burleigh House."

"I didn't mean any harm, Kate. Mr. Duras's a gorgeous man, make no mistake," Mrs. Orde said in atonement.

"I think his singular looks could be classified as Eurasian, Ordie. And very refined and splendid they are. Do you think," she went on in a worrying tone, "we should ask if they want more tea, or would that be perceived as interfering?"

"Good Lord, Kate, you'd think we never had company. I'll go and ask them." Mrs. Orde's busybody nature was never more invigorated than when she could interfere. "It looks to me as if that handsome young man could do with another whiskey, too."

Kate scurried for cover as Mrs. Orde shoved the door open, mortified she might be discovered eavesdropping. But we never
do
have company, the ex-governess breathed, pressed back against the wall, her heart palpitating wildly in her breast, the excitement as stimulating to her as
it
was to her young pupil.

A few moments later, however, her curiosity overcame her fear of detection because company
was
so rare. And
such
exciting company, she thought, her ideas of romance deeply influenced by Mrs. Burney's novels. Cautiously easing the door open a scant inch, she returned to her titillating observation.

After refilling Pasha's glass, Mrs. Orde set the decanter on the table beside him. "This here's his late lordship's favorite Irish spirits he kept for special occasions. Help yourself to more if you like." She gave an indulgent smile to the man who had brought such joy into the household. "Your papa would
want
someone to enjoy his special stock," she went on, casting a weighty glance in Trixi's direction, as if her charge didn't understand how to entertain a gentleman.