Paxton Pride (68 page)

The nobleman broke the seal on a parchment, read quickly. “Good, Thrush. Edmond's arrival with the king's entourage has been confirmed. I expect he'll reside with us for the time being. See he's well taken care of. The guest room above the sculpture gallery should do, I suspect.”

“Begging m'lord's pardon, but Captain Gregory—”

“—will have to be moved.”

“Yes, m'lord.” Thrush bowed to the inevitable and backed through the door, casting an eye in Marie's direction. The girl had no business there, and if the duke had no sense of propriety, Thrush did. Such things, in his estimation, were best kept to night and back rooms, not the library.

The door closed and Marie relaxed slightly. “Where were we?” Lord Penscott asked. “Ah, yes. The graciousness of my wife. But enough of that.”

“As you wish, m'lord,” Marie answered, embarrassed.

“You know we entertain tomorrow,” he went on, reverting to French. “There will be many here who speak French only. I shall need ears—more than are available, I'm afraid.”

“Of course, m'lord.”

“Good.” He paused. “I've arranged for a gown for you.”

“M'lord,” she gasped, taken aback. “A gown, m'lord?”

A hint of a smile crossed Penscott's face. “You hear correctly,” he said, obviously enjoying her reaction. “You'll have to wait on my wife, of course, but no serving food or drinks, you hear? Mingle. Be a little mysterious, but be careful to pretend you don't understand French. When they've left, we'll speak again.”

So here was the surprise for this visit. A gown! “As you wish, m'lord,” Marie answered, trying to hide her excitement.

“I do. You will be rewarded, by the way. If there is anything you want? Perhaps a little extra time off to spend with Behan?” Marie reddened. Her English lessons were supposed to have stopped a year ago. “He tells me you're an apt pupil. Perhaps a word to Thrush would help. Well, we'll see. That will be all then.”

“Yes, m'lord.” Curtsying deeply, Marie backed toward the door. Lord Penscott knew she was still spending time with the elderly tutor and wasn't at all angry. Two surprises! Each time they met he impressed her with some hitherto unknown bit of knowledge.…

“Ah, yes, my dear. One more thing.”

“M'lord?” Marie jumped, startled.

“We've much to accomplish today. If you'd wake my wife and get her started?”

“Of course, m'lord.”

“While you're at it, please request Captain Gregory to join me at tea in the garden.”

Marie's eyes widened and she swallowed. A third surprise? “Sir?”

Lord Penscott looked up from the paper he was reading. “You heard me, woman. Please do as I ask and quickly.” His surprisingly clear, light hazel eyes betrayed no emotion, gazed guilelessly into hers. The moment passed and Marie thought a trace of cold amusement flitted across the nobleman's face before he went back to the paper in dismissal.

Quickly Marie closed the doors and started up the stairs. Lord Penscott was far too deep for a simple maid. Everyone else in the house knew Lady Gwendolyn had been bedding Captain Gregory for the last week but rumor had it that her husband didn't know, and would be furious if he found out. Marie herself had stayed away from the lovers as much as possible, not wanting to become embroiled in conspiracies against his lordship.

Gown forgotten, she paused on the stairs, seeking some excuse to tarry. With luck, the captain would have returned to his own rooms. Penscott Hall was large enough to offer hope. The stately, two-story mansion shaped like the letter H stood a quarter mile from the Thames. The crossbar comprised a spacious gallery below and a superb receiving hall above. South of the bar, between the wings, lay the chapel and Lord Penscott's garden facing the Thames, upon which he loved to gaze. The east wing consisted of servants' quarters at one end and the plethora of offices necessary for the functioning of Penscott's estate at the other. Above were a warren of sitting and bedrooms, galleries and parlors.

In the west wing, the state bedroom occupied the front, facing the river. Running back, or north, were sitting rooms and the intimate dining room where the duke and duchess took their meals, accompanied by what few close friends had joined them for the occasion. At the far northern end was Lady Gwendolyn's boudoir, with views to west and north, where the forest began.

Ascending up the grandiose stairway leading to m'lady's bedchamber, Marie passed beneath stately landscapes where noble demigods, in a world circumscribed by gilded frames, cavorted in sensual disarray on lawns marred by no more than signatures of unfamiliar Venetian masters. Secure in their unchanging excesses, nymphs and satyrs danced before the unseeing eyes of marble statuary posted on the landing.

She could procrastinate only so long. Marie neared the end of the corridor and paused at the door, still hesitant. The hour was too early to disturb the mistress. Perhaps … She pressed an ear against the panel, hoping for a clue. Suddenly the door opened, and with a yelp of surprise the girl plunged into a decidedly masculine embrace. “Ha! And what have we here? Woodsprite? Mischievous imp?”

Marie struggled to extricate herself from the gentleman's exploring hands. “No. Not a woodsprite. A mermaid or siren, I believe,” he continued, laughing.

Marie straightened her cap and with embarrassed haste, darted past Captain Gregory and into the room, only to be halted by Gwendolyn Penscott's angry glare. Her lord's lady was sitting up in bed, bare shoulders visible above the quilt held over her breasts. “What is the meaning of this, Marie? Spying?”

“Beggin' your pardon, ma'am. No. I meant no harm. I was listening only to see if you were awake. Truly.”

“I believe her, Gwen,” the captain said, pulling thoughtfully on his upper lip. “The girl has no reason to lie.” He chuckled. “But then, I've always been prey to young beauties with quick tongues.” Captain Gregory laughed again, clearly enjoying a number of meanings known only to himself.

Marie, confused, blushed and backed away from the bed, only to run into the officer, who reached to slap her on the rump. “Be off with you, shameless rooster,” Gwendolyn ordered him, “and take your coat. I fear your conduct and my weakness may well give us rue this sunrise.”

The captain bowed courteously, took his coat from the chair. “Captain Gregory?” Marie said.

“Yes, girl? What is it?”

“Lord Penscott … that is, the duke …” She couldn't go on.

Gregory raised his eyes. “Out with it, girl,” he said, voice flat and dangerous.

“Lord Penscott wished to see you in the garden. For tea. He instructed me to tell you, should I happen … that is, should I
happen
to see you,” she finished lamely, wishing she were far away.

The mariner glanced at Gwendolyn. His eyes betrayed panic for a brief second but he recovered quickly, assumed the pose of cocky, self-assured lover, bowed once quickly and left.

Gwendolyn sighed and dropped the cover. Marie walked to the window and tied back the curtains. Sunlight cast a luminous sheen on the parqueted floor. Gwendolyn stood naked in the dazzling wafer of amber light seeming to emanate from underfoot. Hands high overhead, her body tightened as she stretched and yawned. Marie watched from the corner of one eye. Only twelve years separated the two women, yet that span was enough to hold a lifetime. Lady Gwendolyn had once been a ravishing woman. Two marriages and seven children later, at thirty-one, her beauty had faded, though there was still a great deal for a man to reckon with. Widely spaced eyes crinkled wickedly at the corners and gazed out from under a high, regal forehead and arched, thin lines of plucked eyebrows. Irises deep brown as chocolate blended almost indistinguishably into intense black pupils and beckoned males from as far as might be seen. Cheeks, lips and chin were slightly full, almost a commoner's physiognomy were it not for an ever so slightly arched patrician nose. The unsettling combination of common and royal resulted in a remarkably disturbing, provocative effect of total innocence coupled with smoldering sensuality.

If Gwendolyn's face promised sensuality, her body promised the wild delights of utter abandon. Waist-long brown hair hung in a tangled skein upon white, sloping shoulders, parting to either side of an ample bosom which, when displayed under the lightest silk, gave the impression of aching to be touched and fondled. Her waist, a touch thick, flowed into round, low-slung hips and experienced thighs, the secret of a hundred conquests. Perhaps she had another year, two or three at the most, before time extracted its dreadful toll. No wonder the lady sought young lovers: there lay the illusion of youth. Perhaps the reality, Marie thought, for to judge from the list of those invited to her chambers, m'lady had not aged.

Gwendolyn misread the girl's stare. “Come, child. You needn't act as if I'm an ogress. The captain was quite delicious.” She paused pensively. “Though I'm afraid he'll be no longer so when my husband finishes with him. How did he look?”

“Fine, ma'am.” Marie shook her head positively. “He's a fine-looking man.”

Gwendolyn sighed with exasperation, started for the closet. “Not James, silly. My husband.”

Marie followed, helped her mistress with a dressing gown before answering. “I'm not one for reading m'lord's thoughts, ma'am.”

“Not a very satisfactory answer, Marie. Surely you can do better.”

“He was angry, ma'am, though he masks anger well.”

“I see,” Gwendolyn answered, tapping her left foot, a sure sign of consternation. “And who would think my dear duke would deny me my arrangements and diversions, eh?”

“Well, ma'am, he is your husband,” Marie ventured, treading lightly.

“Oh, come, Marie. Don't be such a silly goose. Shall I be judged by servant as well as husband?”

Marie shook her head. “No, ma'am. It's just that …”

Gwendolyn suddenly laughed brightly, embraced Marie in a fond hug. “You
are
a silly, naive goose. A dreamer, I think, which is why I love you. Do you know what?”

“No, ma'am.”

“You are the only one in the household who has not yet become a cynic.
That
is more refreshing than you think. Now …” She turned Marie toward the armoire, seated herself at the ornate French commode and rummaged through jars of makeup. “We must forget about husbands and lovers and decide what I shall wear. Today matters little, but tomorrow?… You must help me choose. Something daring, no doubt, for I fear Gregory will join the ranks of the has-beens and I shall be in want.”

Marie set to work on her mistress's hair as Gwendolyn prattled on. “Tell me. You've seen most of them. Which, if you had your choice, would you pick? There's young Hanson. A boy of course, but well endowed, 'tis said, even if he is a bit ugly. For that matter, his father might be better. The more years, the more experience. Which should it be?”

“I don't know, ma'am,” Marie murmured, answering only for the sake of being heard.

“Hunhh! They say Sir Harold last played with Emily Trepanny.” She sniffed. “I should like to give him the comparison there! Emily Trepanny, indeed. 'Tis said you could set a farthingale sideways inside her and she'd not note the difference. I may not be so tight as you young things, but at least I—”

Marie had stopped brushing, stood motionless. Gwendolyn turned slowly and gazed into her servant's eyes. Tactfully, she restrained the laughter that bubbled inside her. “Why, I'll be. You're embarrassed, child.” She paused, staring intently, serious now. “It's true, then, isn't it. You've not yet known a man, have you.”

Marie stiffened. “No, ma'am. I've not yet found—”

Gwendolyn interrupted with laughter. “Then I must find someone for you. Tomorrow night, with your new gown and all,” she winked suggestingly, “will be perfect. Would you like that?”

“Mistress, you were always kind, but I beg you not to force anyone on me. I prefer to sleep alone.”

“But why, for heaven's sake?”

“Oh, Lady Penscott, I entreat you. Let me follow my own course.” She smiled apologetically. “You see, I was taught there should be love.”

“Love? Well, so there shall be.”

“I do not mean in that way alone,” Marie interrupted hastily. “My father said—”

“Father? Fathers are always saying things to which no intelligent person listens. There is no other way, child.”

“I must believe there is, mistress.”

Lady Gwendolyn shook her head in disbelief. “Still, you are wrong and have much to learn, I fear. And many a cold night ahead. Say what you will, but I prefer a warm lover atop and within to passionless quilts and chilly sleep.” She turned back to the dressing table. “But come. I must finish my toilet. We've a busy day ahead.”

Marie's fingers flew to work, a talent gained from force of habit. Lost in a thousand intricate details, neither woman spoke for some time, leaving Marie's imagination free to wander among realms far from those of Penscott Hall and Lady Gwendolyn's intrigues.

The stone bench pained his bony posterior and the air was decidedly chilly. Still, Lord Roger Penscott refused to give up the vista of the Thames. His favorite spot was beside the shrub-lined pond in the garden between the two branches of the magnificent country manor. Morning teas in the open would continue until the bitter winter winds drove him indoors.

A figure emerging from the house could be glimpsed between the bare branches of trees and bushes. A moment later he appeared from behind the last hedge and crossed the open lawn. “A brisk morning, m'lord,” Captain Gregory remarked in greeting.

The older gentleman took his time answering. This young officer, with small, colorless eyes, a sloping, too-long nose and prognathous chin, irritated him no end. Women found him exciting, but why was a mystery. The hands might have had something to do with it. The lad was blessed with long, tapered, slender fingers, as 'twas said indicated length below. Which had nothing to do with intelligence, of course. Still, the captain would no doubt serve, long or short.