Lord Savage (13 page)

“Very well, then, my lord,” I said, retrieving my costume from the floor. “If you
wish to speak further, I shall be in my own rooms.”

“No, you won’t,” he said. “You’ll sleep here.”

I pulled the costume over my head and smoothed it as best I could. “Given how odious
you find my company, I don’t understand why I should—”

“Because even if you have abandoned Lady Carleigh’s house party, the rest of the company
has not,” he said. “If you leave these rooms, you’ll be fair game for any other master
to claim and use. I can guarantee that none of them would be as respectful towards
you as I have been.”

“Respectful!”
I felt scorned and humiliated and angry, but not in the least respected.

Yet, he was likely right about the other guests, and especially Baron Blackledge.
I would rather wander unattended in a city street than chance meeting him in the hall.

“Sleep here,” Savage continued. “In the morning, you may do as you please. Return
to your rooms, return to London, return to New York.”

A quick, bitter smile flickered across his face. “Or go straight to the Devil. Your
choice. I’m sure you know the way.”

“If I do, it’s because you have shown it to me.” I raised my chin and folded my arms
over my breasts, striving to appear aloof and deny how much his words had stung my
pride. “Good night, Lord Savage.”

“Good night, Mrs. Hart.” He set the glass on the mantel and bowed with undeniable
sarcasm. “‘May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’”

I didn’t answer. I was sure I’d heard that before, that it was a quotation from some
famous poem or song, but the last thing I wished to do was reveal my ignorance, and
let him dismiss me again as a vulgar American philistine.

Defiantly I pulled the costume back over my head and tossed it aside, letting him
see exactly what he was missing. Then I returned to the bed, settling in the center
of it against the pillows, pointedly not covering myself with the sheets. I hoped
I resembled the woman in the painting over his desk, flagrant and without shame, and
I hoped he’d think so as well.

Now it was my turn to watch him as he walked across the bedroom, and my turn, too,
to admire him as he did. He moved with athletic ease, confident in his own self. I
hated to admit it now, but I remained intensely attracted to him, and seeing his usually
immaculate dress disheveled only made me more excited.

Even in the middle of this quarrel—which, I supposed, was what it was—he was in no
hurry to leave the room, but walked at the pace that he chose, shoving his shirtsleeves
back from his wrists.

But at the door, he stopped, and turned around to face me one last time, his pale
blue eyes so intense that, again, I caught my breath.

“Believe me or not, Eve,” he said softly. “But know that I’ll be very disappointed
if, in the morning, you decide to leave me.
Bonne nuit, ma chérie.
”

Then he closed the door, and was gone.

It was not the way I had expected the night to end, nor would I ever have wished it
this way. I rose and slowly went about the bedroom, snuffing the last of the candles
that hadn’t already guttered out. Bright flames vanished into twisting wisps of smoke,
the scent of burned wax and disappointment.

I slipped back into the bed and drew the covers up high. The sheets smelled of him,
and with keen regret I buried my face into the pillow, remembering everything and
breathing deeply.

It was a poor substitute for the man who’d left me.

Before I slept, I took care to shift to one side of the bed, leaving the side nearest
the door open for him. I wasn’t sure why, since I’d no real reason to expect Savage
to change his mind and join me, yet still I did it.

And then, feeling weary and confused, I finally drifted off to sleep.

*   *   *

I was not by habit an early riser, and by the time I roused myself the next morning,
the sun was streaming through the windows and across the bed. For a long time I hovered
between sleep and full wakefulness, freely drifting back into unconsciousness. Why
shouldn’t I? The bed was warm, the sky was blue, and birds were singing cheerfully
outside the window.

I smiled and stretched, content, and at last dragged my eyes slowly open.

I was not in my bedroom, not in New York or in any of my other houses. I was not in
a steamship cabin, or a hotel that I recognized, either. There were tall windows with
stained glass at their pointed tops, silver candlesticks with burned-down candles,
and a view of rolling green fields and formal gardens.

And under the sheets, I was completely naked.

Disoriented, I swiftly widened my eyes and rolled over.

Sitting in the armchair before me was Lord Savage, wearing a carelessly tied silk
paisley robe and nothing else beneath.

“Good morning,” he said, the same nonchalant greeting he’d have used if we’d met downstairs
in the breakfast room. “I trust you slept well?”

“I—yes, good morning,” I stammered, pulling the sheets modestly high over my bare
breasts. Now that I was awake, the memory of last night came racing back, and I flushed.
Being naked in Lord Savage’s bed by candlelight seemed very different from being in
his bed this morning, with the streaming sunshine and the chirping birds in the branches
outside the window.

I glanced at the pillow beside mine to see if he’d lain there while I’d slept.

“I kept my word, Mrs. Hart,” he said, reading my thoughts. “I left you in peace to
sleep alone.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I said self-consciously. For now, at least, he seemed to have
put aside the Game, and I slipped back to using his title just as he’d used my married
name.

He was newly shaved, his jaw gleaming and sleek, and he must also have just bathed.
His hair was combed wetly back from his forehead, and even at a distance I caught
the scent of the spicy lime soap that he favored. I’d never imagined any man being
such a tempting sight so early in the morning.

But tempting or not, I’d no idea where I stood with him, or worse, where I wished
to be standing. We’d both been furious when we parted last night. My temper had definitely
cooled since then, but it was impossible to tell his mood from his demeanor.

Was he trying to coax me into staying, or was he simply being the well-bred host with
the perfect manners before he escorted me back to my rooms to pack?

He wasn’t making it easy for me, either, sitting there with his eyes half closed and
just enough of a smile on his face to show one dimple. He shifted in the chair, making
himself more comfortable, and the slippery silk of his robe slid farther open over
his chest and across his well-muscled thighs. At once I thought of what else was barely
hidden by the paisley silk, of the cock that I’d never had the chance to see last
night.

No, he wasn’t making this easy for me at all.

I smoothed a lock of my tangled hair behind my ear. I was acutely aware of how untidy
and unwashed I was, especially in comparison to him, now well groomed by Barry. The
trail of clothing that he’d discarded last night was gone from the floor, and the
blackened and guttered candles had all been cleaned away and replaced.

My costume had been replaced by a new, fresh one as well, folded and waiting for me
on the bedside table, with my shoes side by side on the floor below and my silk stockings
rolled and tucked inside with the jeweled garters. It was mortifying proof that the
servant had also come in while I’d slept.

“I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lord,” I said tentatively. “I trust you
slept well yourself.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I spent most of the night here, while you slept.”

“You watched me?” I asked, unsettled by the intimacy of what he’d done. The last person
who’d watched me while I slept must have been a nursemaid or governess when I was
a child. Not even Arthur had spent an entire night in my bed.

He nodded. “I didn’t watch you, Mrs. Hart, so much as watch over you. There is a difference.”

“I, ah, suppose there must be,” I said, though I wasn’t sure there was. Did he really
feel that I’d needed protecting? Had I been at risk from the other masters even here,
in his bedroom? “A difference, that is.”

“There is,” he said firmly. “You say your husband did not satisfy you. Did you ever
love him?”

I hadn’t expected that, especially not so soon after I’d awakened. I considered dissembling,
the way I’d always done with Arthur; really, our entire marriage had been a lie. But
with Savage I felt drawn to tell the truth, especially about this.

“No,” I said softly. “I never loved him, nor did he love me.”

“Then why did you marry?” he asked. “You are an independent woman. I cannot conceive
of you being forced to do anything.”

I smiled sadly. “I was very young,” I said. “Only seventeen. I liked the fuss, the
excitement, of being a bride.”

“But not a wife?”

“Not Arthur’s wife, no,” I said, and sighed. “There was never any excitement in that.
But I’d no choice. My father made that clear enough. Arthur was his business partner,
and our marriage was a way of cementing their assets between them. I know it must
sound preposterous to you.”

“Not at all,” he said. “There are a good many English parents who will sell their
daughters’ souls for a title.”

I hadn’t expected that kind of sympathy from him, or the warmth of understanding in
his voice. I’d been right to tell him the truth, right to confide in him as I had
in no one else.

“Did you love your wife?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said, his expression clouded with melancholy. “I loved her more than
was wise. I married her to save her. And I couldn’t. No one could. But I was blinded
by love, and suffered for it, too.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, all I could think to say after such a confidence. I wondered
what had become of his wife, though the finality in his voice kept me from asking
more. I understood that what he’d just told me was something he seldom shared, the
same as I’d kept the truth of my marriage to myself as well.

Oh, Savage and I were alike, uncannily so. Each had let the other see a secret part
of the past, of our private being, and in the process we’d drawn ourselves together
a little more closely.

He shook his head, seeming to shake away the memories he clearly did not wish to revisit.
He sighed, and rested his head on his hand.

“You understand now why I did not wish to let you slip from my sight,” he said. “As
beautiful as you were by candlelight, Mrs. Hart, you are even more extraordinary now.”

From any other man, this would have been a simple compliment, but from him, after
what he’d just told me of his wife, it felt far more complicated.

Then he smiled, sending a fresh jolt of desire racing through my blood, and things
became more complicated still. When he smiled at me like this, I instantly forgot
everything except how he’d kissed me last night, how he’d caressed my breasts, how
he’d made me whimper with longing as he’d licked me into shameless, blissful oblivion.

Hastily I looked down at my hands, tightly clutching the sheet.

“Shall I call for my maid so I might dress for breakfast?” I asked. “I know it’s late,
but I’m sure Lady Carleigh will have some manner of repast waiting for her guests.”

“Oh, she will,” he said easily. “Her breakfasts are generally well attended. But if
I were to appear with you at my side, Mrs. Hart, on the first morning, it would be
a sign that I was either dissatisfied or bored with you. It would mean that I was
willing to share you with the other Protectors, or at the very least to have you perform
for their amusement.”

I flushed again. “I do not believe I would, ah, enjoy that.”

“No,” he agreed. “Nor would I. But the true question is what exactly
would
you enjoy, Mrs. Hart? The choice is yours. Shall we forget the unfortunate close
to last night, and begin the Game anew?”

So he was giving me a second chance. I doubted very much that I’d receive a third.
I thought of the pleasure he’d given me last night, of how much he’d already taught
me about my desires. But mostly I thought of how much more I had to learn—and how
I’d never find another teacher quite like him.

Nor, if I listened to the desire thrumming through my body, did I wish for any other.

But before I agreed, there was a question that I needed to ask, and that he needed
to answer.

“I am willing to forget the unfortunate aspects of last night, my lord,” I said carefully,
“and recall only the more pleasurable ones—”

“Excellent, Mrs. Hart! I am—”

“No, my lord, I am not finished,” I said swiftly, not wanting to be distracted. “I
wish to know why you refused to—to lie with me last night.”

“Why?” He stared at me, not understanding. “I told you. You disobeyed the rules. You
were the Innocent, and I the Protector, and it was my decision to make, not yours.”

“You didn’t let the rules concern you when you were with Lady Telford in the garden!”

“No, because there are no rules in a Belgravia garden,” he said, then smiled with
male smugness. “So what really concerns you is not the rules, or the Game, but how
you compare yourself to another lady.”

My cheeks warmed. “I know it must appear that way, but I assure you that—”

“Mrs. Hart, let me make this clear to you,” he said firmly, his smile fading and his
eyes darkening. “Lady Telford means less than nothing to me, while you are the most
extraordinarily desirable woman I have ever met. There is no other like you.”

Desirable.
No man had ever called me that. It was better than being beautiful, better than being
rich, and best of all was hearing it said by Lord Savage.

No, not quite. Best of all was having him look at me like that when he said it.

“The most extraordinarily, sinfully desirable woman,” he repeated, leaning forward
in his chair with growing impatience. “In fact, Mrs. Hart, I cannot recall another
woman in my life that I have wanted with such fervent desperation as I do you.”