A Well Pleasured Lady (20 page)

“A housekeeper doesn't take revenge.” She sounded prim, all Mary, no Guinevere.

“You are not a housekeeper anymore. You are an heiress and my wife.”

She slid down on the chair, her spine against the back, her feet on the cushion, and her knees akimbo. She examined him curiously. “Why do I have the distinct feeling you have something in mind?”

The hem of her skirt fluttered as she settled more comfortably, and her ankle peeked out. He looked at it, and at her lap, then into her face. “It would pleasure me to pleasure you.”

“We can't have that,” she said decisively. “I
would like to make you suffer, Sebastian Durant. I would like to torment you heartlessly.”

Visions of an imperious Mary struggled to life in his mind, and he mocked himself for his own magnanimity.

“Take off your shirt,” she said. “
I
will pleasure
you.”

He almost overbalanced. He couldn't have heard right.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Stand up and take off your shirt.” She paused. “Slowly.”

He stood, numb with delight, and stripped off the studs that held his shirtfront over his chest.

She watched intently. “I've never seen a bare-chested man before.”

Of course she hadn't. He'd been in too much of a hurry last time to undress her, and the brief glimpse he'd allowed her in their bedchamber could scarcely have whetted her appetite.

Now he didn't make the mistake of thinking she was excited by his appearance. She watched him clinically, comparing him to that horse statue, perhaps, or a favorite dog. But he thought perhaps he
could
excite her. Certainly he wanted to try. “I'll light a candle.”

She frowned as he fumbled for his coat and the flint that resided therein. “No, that would attract attention.”

He didn't care. He'd locked them in her bedchamber twice and ignored those who sought to interrupt. Did she think he couldn't ignore them again?

Looking at her, he saw the way her chin jutted. He remembered his vow to do as she wished, and he cursed himself for a fool. A completely aroused, slightly desperate fool. He dropped his coat.

She rewarded him with a smile. “What do you normally take off next?”

It depends on how desperate I am to free myself from restraint.
But no, such a reply might frighten her. “My shoes and stockings.” He tried to sound meek, and not at all as if he were swelling so big, the trousers would soon remove themselves.

She nodded regally. “Do so.”

He didn't care to hop around, nor did he relish sitting on the floor like a child. Her grandfather's big desk was almost clear of clutter, so Sebastian patted the surface. “Do you mind?”

She waved a hand in invitation. “Please.”

He eased himself onto the smooth wood and removed his shoes. He jerked his stockings free of his garters and dropped them on the floor, and all the while he wondered if she knew he was almost naked. One more item, only one more item—

“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Remove them.”

“Them?”

“Don't be coy.” God, she sounded like him. “Take off your trousers.”

He hadn't envisioned this, nor imagined she would turn the tables on him and satisfy her curiosity in so blatant a manner, or even that her gaze on him would create such turmoil.

He slid off the desk and slowly unbuttoned his trousers, and when his privy member sprang free, she gasped.

Very flattering.

Then she slowly reached out a hand.

Touch it, touch it, touch it
…She touched it. Tentatively, brushing it with her fingertips as delicately as an artist would use a paintbrush. Heat rushed through him, making him so hot, his skin surely blistered, and he reached down and enfolded her hand in his own. “Like that.” His voice was guttural, broken.

“Firmly.” She stroked him. “Like that?”

He couldn't even nod. If he moved, he would break into big chunks.

“Yes.” She sounded pleased. “Like that.” Abruptly she withdrew her hand. “What else can you show me?”

Closing his eyes, he regained control. Her pleasure. He had offered her pleasure.

He stroked his breeches down his hips and stepped out of them. Again she reached out, this time to cup his ballocks, rolling them in her fingers.

“Fascinating,” she said.

He heartily agreed. “Mary.” He'd be on his knees if she didn't stop. “Don't stop.”

She sat back and gripped the arms of the chair.

He sucked in air, trying to regain his balance, trying to retain poise. Trying to keep his promise. “To show you more,” he said craftily, “I would have to remove
your
clothing.”

“Not yet.”

Spreading his arms, he turned in a half circle. “There's nothing else to see on me.”

Then he stopped. Her hands followed a muscular cord from his back down over his buttocks.

“You are constructed very differently from me.” She caressed his other cheek. “I like it.”

“Good.” It was nothing more than a grunt.

“Am I tormenting you?”

“Yes.”

“How gratifying,” she purred. “Would removing my clothing also torment you?”

He gripped the edge of the desk so hard, the imprint of the carving dug into his palm. “Yes.” He saw no need to inform her that the torment would be unbearably exquisite.

“Then you may do so.”

He turned quickly, and her hand fell away. Taking her arm, he helped her to stand, and he saw the quick flare of alarm in her eyes when she realized how close she stood to a naked man. He wondered briefly if she would change her mind, but she didn't.

He unlaced her gown as quickly as he could and pulled it over her head. He untied the tapes of her petticoats and helped her step out of them, and while he was bent down performing that service, he stared at her silk-clad calves. The chemise she wore, unlike the gown, was fine linen, light and soft, long enough to cover her knees, but short enough to tease.

“I don't want to remove any more clothing,” Mary said abruptly. “This is enough.”

Her courage had evaporated. For some reason—perhaps his intent stare or the heat of his hands on her waist—she wanted to stop now.

“There is more pleasure you can give me,” he said craftily.

She was startled into laughter. “Oh, yes, I know that.” Taking him by the shoulders, she urged him around until the seat was behind him, and the desk behind her. “Now you sit.”

With prudent care, he did as instructed, and waited.

She seemed unsure, and he said, “I would like to see you.”

“I think you've seen enough.”

“All of you. You could take it off as slowly as you wished. I wouldn't complain.”

She leaned against the desk, then with her hands on the edge, she lifted herself onto the surface. She swung her feet back and forth and considered.

He considered, too. He considered that heaven hovered not two feet from him, and with the proper urging, heaven would sit with him.

“I have an idea.” He scooted the chair closer between her knees. “I would like to taste you again.”

She tried to close her legs. She couldn't. “I don't know what you mean.”

With a hand on each ankle, he opened her wider and slid her closer on the wood surface. “I'll show you.”

She started to struggle as he pushed back the hem of the chemise and bent his head.

The flavor of her burst onto his tongue. Ah, yes. Mary-flavored cream, indeed. Vaguely he heard a whimper. She struggled to move away, but he wrapped his hands around her. She arched backward, but the action thrust her toward him. He could taste shock and reluctant pleasure, and when he heard a groan, he knew the pleasure was winning.

Then she grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back. Glaring into his eyes, she said,
“I
was going to pleasure
you.”

She slid into his lap, her legs over the arm of the chair, and somehow his inexperienced almost-virgin lifted herself, positioned him, and slid down on his shaft.

The word he used described the act precisely.

“Sebastian!”

“You're shocked?” He held her in place, trying desperately to retain enough mastery to make her happy. “When we're like this?”

“I've never heard the word used”—she struggled to explain—“in the correct context.”

He didn't laugh. He couldn't. Not now. But later…With her hands still on the desk behind her and her legs over the chair arms, she lifted herself.

He groaned.

“Pleasure?” she asked.

“Yes. Mary…”

She lifted herself again, and again, setting the rhythm she wished, finding her own delight while seeking his. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, totally out of his power, magnificent and
savage and the first time he'd ever been made love to in his life.

He trembled and panted, watched her face and exulted. She wasn't afraid. She liked this. She looked at him, at his bare chest, at his arms, at the shadowy place where they were joined. She gazed as if the sight gratified her. She made him feel like a king, like a god, like the best lover in the world.

Mary's lover.

Her soft buttocks pressed against him with each stroke. Her breasts bobbed beneath the chemise, and he brushed them repeatedly with his fingertips.

She closed her eyes and opened them, moaned softly and bit her lip, and moved ever faster.

Inside she was warm, tight, slick. Inside her, he was growing, straining, almost ready to burst.

Soon, please, soon…

He touched her knees, caressed her inner thighs, felt each muscle flex as she worked to rise and fall. She was strong, his Mary, strong and tender. His palms followed the path to the place where they were joined, and carefully he explored her. Found the place that would give her the most pleasure.

An expression of mingled elation and amazement swept her face. She tightened around him yet further. She would climax now, now!

Her spasms brought on his own orgasm, and her inner contractions milked him until he thought he would expire from joy.

She came to rest in his lap, and he took her head
and pressed it to his chest. “Relax. You've worked hard.”

She gasped softly for air as her roughly used muscles relaxed.

He let his own head fall against the back of the chair. “If that's the result I get for letting you abuse this sniveling beast, then I shall be a beast more often.”

“Can't happen.” Her breath touched his bare chest, her voice was muffled. “You're a beast all the time.”

He smoothed the hair off her neck. “Your beast, my dear beauty.”

She chuckled and groaned.

“Have we vanquished your grandfather?”

“Grand…? Oh, him.” She flexed her shoulders. “Yes, I would say his ghost is defeated.”

“I hope he's spinning in his grave.” Stroking her spine, he realized he still hadn't removed her chemise. As stealthily as the Bond Street Burglar, he slid the soft material up, but she caught at his hands.

“I still haven't seen you.” He tugged at the gown. “Perhaps you have an anomaly, such as too many bubbies or a misplaced navel.”

“Well, you're stuck with me now, aren't you?” she snipped.

But she sat up to let him remove the chemise.

She was as beautiful as he had imagined. Polished skin, a taut body. Breasts the exact size to fit in his hands. Long legs and between them, a golden nest.
“Perfect,” he said hoarsely, and smoothed his palms over her belly.

“No anomalies?”

“Perfect,” he repeated, and with a tug untied her garter.

She said, “Sebastian, we have a duty to perform.”

He rolled her stocking down and kissed her bare thigh. “Soon.”

“The ton is still celebrating our marriage.” A particularly raucous burst of laughter punctuated her admonishment.

He faltered, then sighed and rolled her stocking back up.

“Are all men like you?”

“No.” He put his forehead on hers. “I'm better than every other man.”

“I mean, do all men want to…to mate to the exclusion of all else?”

Sitting back, he shook his head. “
I'm
not even like that. Only with you, my dear Mary.”

She smiled and squirmed in his lap.

He groaned at the sensation. “If you wiggle again, we're never getting the safe opened.” Moving the chair back, he gently helped her to rise. “If we hurry, we can go upstairs and investigate my interest in mating.”

“As you wish.” She sounded prim, Miss Mary Housekeeper, but her nudity revealed the lie.

With the proper tutoring, his wife could easily be a wanton. He'd never bothered to be a good tutor before, but with this incentive he could easily learn.

He helped her into her clothing first, caressing her only when he couldn't bear not to. Then while he dressed she went to the safe. By the time he knelt at her side, fully clothed and holding a lit candle, she gave an exclamation of triumph. “The lock is undone,” she said. “Would you do the honors?”

“I thank you.” She was a generous woman. “I would.” He reached out and swung open the sturdy iron door.

The safe was empty.

He was drowning. Son of a Selkie, and he was
drowning with his feet on dry land. Ian thrashed his arms and kicked, but his attacker was relentless. He held his head down in the water, lifted it, thrust it back. At last, as Ian gulped in fresh air in one of his brief returns to the surface, he gave in and roared, “I'm better! B'God, I'm better! Now, let me up.”

“Truly?” Hadden paused in his dousing.

“Truly,” Ian said sullenly. Hadden let him go, and Ian stumbled back from the horse trough. “That was disgusting.” He coughed and spit in the muddy, hoof-marked stable yard. “Horses drink in there, you know.”

“I know.” Hadden stood with his fists on his hips, watching his still badly hungover and bruised cousin. “Led them here myself on occasion.”

“Well, you won't have to do that anymore.” Ian wrung water from his hair, stripped off his soiled
shirt, and twisted it until water splattered from it. “You're the brother of the heiress.”

“You're not going to hold that against me, are you?”

Hadden sounded polite, but Ian recognized sarcasm when he heard it, and he glared. “Why not? You've lied to me about your identity, got your hands on the money I coveted, punched me in the face—”

“You deserved it all,” Hadden said.

Ian couldn't disagree.

“Besides, who do you think carried you to that comfortable, straw-lined stall last night? Furthermore, I left you to sleep it off until I couldn't wait anymore.” Hadden gestured toward the sun. “It's nigh onto high noon, and the guests are starting to leave.”

“Good riddance,” Ian said.

“Aye, they've got such a tale to tell, they're vying to see who can get to London first to tell it.”

“Nosey parkers.”

“But I have business with one of them, so we've got to move now.”

Ian leered. “A woman?”

“I've scarcely had time for that, have I, with my stable duties.”

Ian still had trouble comprehending that this breaker of horses, this drinking partner, this
Fairchild,
held the accolade of legitimacy and the advantage of wealth. It wasn't fair, but then, nothing in Ian's life had ever been fair. He wished he could despise Hadden as he did the other legitimate Fairchilds. But
he was Mary's brother, and Ian didn't despise her. Furthermore, he and Hadden had been companions. And finally, Ian was just too weary this morning to work up a rage. “What's so important you have to drag me out of my stall—no doubt my permanent home now that I've lost your sister—and subject me to torture?”

“This.” Hadden thrust a paper covered with scrawls toward Ian. Ian wiped his hands on his pants and took it. He read, then looked up at Hadden. “Who is a murderess?”

Hadden just stared back, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted firmly on the earth.

“You?” Ian guessed. “Or Mary?”

Hadden didn't respond by word or nod, but who else could it be? None too steady on his feet, Ian staggered as he tried to comprehend. He didn't; this was beyond him now. But the Devil knew he wouldn't allow a blackmailing serpent to destroy either of his cousins. “We're going to take care of this.”

Hadden's mouth kicked up into a smile. “I thought you might want to.”

Eager now, Ian asked, “Do you have a plan?”

Hadden flung his arm around Ian's shoulders. “I do.”

 

Carriages lined the drive. Coachmen struggled to control the high-spirited horses. In the entry, society matrons waved their handkerchiefs to each other and lamented the time they would spend apart. On the terrace, gentlemen shifted their feet restlessly and
compared horseflesh. And the crowd constantly thinned as more and more of the guests left to spread an exciting and inaccurate tale of the infamous Fairchild house party.

The Fairchild family did their duty, standing in the entry and on the terrace to bid their visitors good-bye. But the strain of being pleasant for so long was telling on them. Their smiles were forced, their voices sharp.

Sebastian stood protectively beside Mary as if to make sure the repeated congratulations were courteous, and as the crowd of guests thinned, he cocked his head, then nudged her closer to Leslie. “Listen,” he urged.

Mary tried not to be obvious as she eavesdropped, but no such restriction occurred to her uncles.

“You seem to have lost weight, Calvin,” Leslie snipped at his brother. “Are you pining for your lover?”

Calvin's woeful face crumpled, and in a tone of worshipful desire, he proclaimed, “Lady Valéry is wonderful.”

With a curl of his lip, Leslie turned on Oswald. “A grown man, and sickening for want of a woman's love. He has no pride.”

“Pride?” Oswald left off glancing at the upper windows where Lady Valéry lodged. “What is pride when a man has been to heaven?”

Leslie harrumphed indignantly. “Nonsense. That ugly old hag couldn't take a man to heaven.”

Oswald chortled. “You wouldn't know. She won't have
you.
”

Leslie shot a hostile glance at Sebastian. “I don't want her. She's old. She's ugly. She's—”

“My true love, and if you say another word, I shall kill you.” Oswald advanced on Leslie, fist clenched.

Leslie clamped his mouth shut until Oswald had turned away. Then he asked sharply, “Where's Burgess? He should be here.”

Calvin sighed deeply.

Oswald kicked at the marble steps.

Leslie swore and strode inside.

“It's always the same,” Sebastian said in Mary's ear. “She enslaves them.”

An irreverent smile touched Mary's lips. “Good for her.”

“You would say so.” Sebastian nodded at Bubb, who scrutinized the drive with forlorn care. “He's looking for Nora.”

“Yes.” Mary watched Bubb trudge back inside to do his duty by the guests who were still too foxed to yet leave. The rest of the Fairchilds followed. “I don't understand where she could have disappeared.”

“Most peculiar,” Sebastian agreed. “I do not know what it portends.”

Inevitably Mary's mind went to the empty safe. Had Nora's disappearance anything to do with the diary?

“I wish I knew where that diary was.” Sebastian echoed her thought. “It's the only thing keeping us here.”

They hadn't spoken of the diary since their shock in the study in the night before. They had almost not
spoken at all. Not that they were angry with each other—no, Sebastian had held her tightly all through the night—but there was a constraint. Had this entire journey been a fool's quest? “I think Daisy has it,” Mary said.

“Why?”

Because she still watches you hungrily.
“Because she's willing to do anything to get what she wants.”

“That assessment fits every one of the Fairchilds. I think it's Leslie.” His mouth puckered, as if his bread pudding had soured.

“Why?”

“Because Leslie knows about the diary,” he said.

Mary stared. “He does? And how do you know that?”

“He mentioned it to me.” His grim mouth twitched. “When he was mocking me.”

“When he told you I had it,” she guessed.

“I believe in you now.”

She wished she could give credence to that without any doubt.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I have to seek that life-altering, damned, and still elusive diary.” He cupped Mary's cheek in an affectionate gesture and left.

And Mary understood more of Sebastian's deceptive fury that day in her bedchamber. She had her uncle Leslie to thank for this marriage, and she wondered—should she thank him indeed, or should she call on the gods to curse him?

Regardless, she was still wed, and nothing could change that.

A housekeeper always faced reality.
Mary
always faced reality. And Mary needed one hundred pounds to pay her extortionist. She thought briefly of going to Lady Valéry, but that would involve explanations she didn't want to give. And what had happened to her blackmailer? He had promised to get in contact with her, yet no more anonymous notes had been slipped to her. Had he perhaps left with his master?

A fine carriage rocked up the drive. A returnee, she supposed, someone who had forgotten his or her best gloves or yappy dog. She started to turn away, for she wanted to speak no more about her rise to fortune and her abrupt marriage, when she saw the crest on the side.

This was the Fairchild carriage.

She watched curiously as the coachman pulled up to the manor, as the footman set the steps and opened the door, and she stared openly as Nora popped out. “Mary,” Nora called. “Mary Fairchild. Or is it Mary Durant now?”

“Durant.” Mary faltered over the name. “Lady Whitfield.”

“So I suspected after that scene in your bedchamber.” Nora looked bone-weary as she climbed the stairs. The feather on her hat drooped, and her shawl hung limply. A small bag dangled from her arm, and it bumped her leg with each step. When she stood
beside Mary, she said, “That is why I left so abruptly. Come, my dear.” She put her hand on Mary's arm and together they entered the manor. “I went to London to get your wedding gift.”

“You went to London for a gift? All the way to London?” Incredulous, Mary could scarcely keep from calling Nora a liar. “You missed my wedding to collect a gift?”

“It's a very important gift.”

Seeing Mrs. Baggott hurrying toward them, Mary ordered, “Tea for Lady Fairchild at once.”

“That would be pleasant.” Nora led the way into the study. She discarded her hat and shawl, sank into a chair beside the fire, and placed her bag at her feet. “It's a wretched road to London. If I never had to travel it again, that would be too soon for me.”

Mary's curiosity intensified. Something very odd was transpiring.

“That's something else we have in common,” Nora continued. “We don't travel well, we have both worked as servants—”

Mary made a muffled protest.

Nora raised her brows. “Mrs. Baggott told me. Did you think she wouldn't?”

So much for Mary's clever investigation. “If she told you, I suppose everyone knows,” Mary said bitterly.

“Not at all. She is loyal to me, although inclined to gossip when the right kind of flattery is applied. But I told her if word of your tenure as housekeeper got out,
she would be turned out without a reference, and I would make it a personal vendetta to make sure she never found another position. I think she believed me, don't you?” Nora was revealing herself, or perhaps Mary was simply looking more closely. This woman before her wielded power deliberately. The authority was there in her level gaze, in the cool, overly civil expression, in the unsmiling mouth.

A knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Baggott brought in the tea tray. Silence reigned as she fixed them both cups of the steaming liquid and set out a variety of cakes, and Mary barely kept the scalding words of reproach from her lips.

But a
lady
doesn't scold her hostess's servants.

As the door closed behind the housekeeper, Mary said, “I don't understand. Why are you telling me you know of my past? Why did you go to London when you believed Sebastian and I would marry? What is happening?”

“It's very easy, my dear. I never meant you should suffer in any way. You are one of the chosen few. You are a Fairchild.”

Indignant, Mary said, “I am my own woman.”

“As all Fairchilds are their own person,” Nora agreed.

Mary wanted to protest this obvious untruth, but courtesy kept her silent.

“I have few passions, but the ones I have are strong.” Nora picked up her tea, then put it down untouched. As she took off her gloves, she said, “You have no doubt heard I was a governess when Bubb and
I were wed. But have you ever heard the details of our nuptials?”

Mary was glad she could honestly deny any knowledge.

“I was just fifteen when I became a governess at a neighboring manor, quite ignorant of the ways of the world, although I assure you, I don't consider that an excuse.”

Mary winced and shook her head.

“Bubb discovered me crying one day because I missed my mother, and the children had been difficult, and—oh, I don't remember the details. I cried a lot in those days. He was kind…Well, you know. He's always kind, and when he came to visit again, he sneaked away from the girl he was supposed to be courting to give me some sweets.” A smile hovered on Nora's lips as she straightened the gloves in her lap, then straightened them again. “It was the beginning of a lovely time for me. I looked forward to his visits. They were the only light in a very dreary existence, and before long…the governess Nora was increasing.”

Mary murmured, “A common tale.” Too common. Too much like her own for comfort, and she hung on Nora's next words like a carp on a hook.

“I didn't even realize…Well, I didn't know anything about it. But my mistress recognized the symptoms and threw me out. Bubb found me”—Nora had her hand over her heart now—“and we went to Gretna Green, and he married me.”

Mary released her pent-up breath. This story didn't
end like hers. There was no hidden murder here, only misplaced passion and unexpected integrity. “Good for Bubb!”

“He is more of a lord than any man I ever met.” Nora's eyes shone with the soft glints of a woman in love. “With his prospects and his good looks, he could have had any woman. But he picked me. La! He could still have any woman, but he cleaves to me. He's a good man, Mary. A good man. But to hear his father tell it, he was nothing but an idiot who had ruined the family. What was his heir doing, marrying a governess, a nobody? Until I heard his father shouting, I hadn't comprehended the magnitude of Bubb's sacrifice, and at that moment I swore to be worthy of the honor done to me.”

With an effort, Mary remained civil. “Quite an honor.”
Quite the opposite.