Reckless (14 page)

“I think I may be assured that her crush has vanished. Now, either talk about something else or let me have some peace. Two days of Charlotte Spenser
is enough—I certainly don't want to keep reliving it all the way back to London.”

Etienne leaned back, a faint, amoral smile on his face. “Perhaps you'd rather hear about Lady Alpen and Mrs. Barrymore? You would have been better off joining us, but then I wouldn't have been able to enjoy the pleasure of two such enthusiastic women.”

“I thought you went off with one of the girls from Madame Kate's.” Adrian frowned.

“Oh, I was done with her quite quickly,” Etienne said with an airy wave of one exquisite hand. “She was merely to get me in the proper mood. And one can be a bit more insistent with those who are being properly compensated, as doubtless you're aware. I'm not sure that Maria and Helena would have been quite as docile as the whore.” He glanced at his hand, as if seeing an imaginary stain there, and rubbed at it with the edge of his monk's robe.

“And what the hell are you doing dressed up? I thought you despised that sort of thing.”

Etienne gave him his sly, almost secretive smile. “I'm always open to new experiences, my boy. I decided if my dear young cousin was going to try something new then I should attempt something as well.” He glanced down at the rough weave of his robe in distaste. “Let us agree to avoid wallowing in the mud in the future, however. These two days have been interesting, but I wouldn't think either of us would want to repeat them, do you?”

“No,” Adrian said. “Two days of Charlotte Spenser were quite enough.” At least, they should have been. He'd taken her, over and over again, trying to drain the need from his body. All he'd had to do was brush up against her skin and he'd be hard again. He'd taken her so often, so thoroughly, she'd probably have a difficult time walking for the next few days.

The thought should have amused him. He should share it with Etienne, to convince him how detached he was. But in fact the more he'd had Charlotte Spenser the more he wanted her.

He'd been careless, when he was the most careful of men. He'd pulled out each time, but he'd always waited until the last minute, or even beyond. Lina would have enough sense to make sure her cousin drank the tea the Gypsies provided, wouldn't she? He really didn't fancy having that conversation with the countess of Whitmore. She wouldn't like the fact that he'd despoiled her innocent friend. Not when she'd clearly been interested in being on the receiving end of such a despoiling.

When the door had opened a few hours ago, he'd half expected it to be her, demanding Charlotte. But it had been Etienne, amused, mocking, offering him an escape he could hardly refuse.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of Etienne. His parents had disapproved of his friendship with his French cousin, and the stronger his father's disapproval, the more intrigued Adrian had been. It
was silly, childish, but inescapable. Francis Rohan, Marquess of Haverstoke, was an imposing figure, and the only man capable of intimidating Adrian. He fought back any way he could.

But Etienne de Giverney was growing tiresome. There were just so many times one could enjoy the controlled madness of drugs, the visions of the forest mushrooms, the variations and combinations of sex. He was growing bored of it all. In fact, the two days alone with an unsentimental virgin had been the most exciting thing in his recent memory.

But he couldn't regret leaving her. The longer he was with her the more attached she was likely to become, and that would be miserable for everyone. A quick tear and it would be soonest mended. He couldn't linger over such things.

Of course he was entirely immune. He'd enjoyed her while he had her, but now he could forget about her. Couldn't he?

I
t turned out to be surprisingly easy for Lina to avoid Simon Pagett. If he walked into Monty's bedroom while she was reading him salacious novels, she would simply rise, whisk herself away with a light sally, and there was nothing the good vicar could do short of making a scene. Which such a conventional creature would, of course, never do.

It wasn't that she was such a fragile soul Lina reminded herself. So the man had called her a whore—most vicars would do the same. There was no reason that it should bother her. She had set out to prove something to herself, and she'd never given a tinker's damn for anyone's opinion. The people who mattered loved her—Monty and Charlotte, and if that number was about to be cut in half she'd survive. She'd survived worse.

To her relief Pagett decided he needed to visit the vicarage where he'd be living for the next few years.
At least, Lina assumed he would be. She had no idea who Monty's heir was, but whoever came into the title would doubtless consider the position of local vicar to be the least of his worries. And for a few hours she didn't have to worry about running into the man in the long, empty corridors of Hensley Court.

“So what do you think of the good vicar, eh?” Monty was sitting up for dinner, his color improved even if his strength hadn't seemed to appreciate much.

Lina poured herself another glass of claret, admiring the blood-red color in an attempt to give herself time to come up with a polite answer. Then again, Monty had never been insistent on good manners. “He's a dog.”

Monty laughed. “No, darling, tell me what you really feel about him.”

“You weren't thinking of matchmaking, were you, Monty? Because if you were, then I think your illness has reached your brain and there's no hope for you.”

“I do adore you, Lina, but even I know that you're hardly the kind of woman who'd make a decent parson's wife. Besides, I'm very fond of Simon—I wouldn't think of saddling him with a shrew like you. Why do you ask?”

She decided to ignore her own suspicions. “The vicar thought you might be.”

“Really? Wishful thinking on his part, I expect.”
He took a sip of his own watered-down wine. “Faugh, this tastes like piss. Give me a full glass, there's a dear.”

“And how often have you tasted piss?”

“You don't really want the answer to that, do you?”

“You're revolting, do you know that?”

“I do. I'm certain that when Simon decides to marry he'll find someone plain and virtuous, whose knees are so tightly clamped together he'll need a bar to pull them apart. For now I believe he's reveling in the world's longest stretch of celibacy, and the only reason I can think of him breaking it would be if I insisted that the vicar should have a wife. Otherwise he'll continue to mortify his flesh and suffer for his sins.”

“Mortify his flesh?” Lina said, startled. “He flagellates?”

“That sounds so deliciously sinful when you say it, darling,” Monty said wickedly. He drained his glass of wine, accepting the fact that Lina wasn't about to pour him an undiluted glass. “No whips or hair shirts, just sexual abstinence. He's simply atoning for his sins, darling. He loves them and his guilt far more than he could ever love a woman.”

“May they live happily ever after,” she said firmly.

“What did you two fight about?” Monty asked with a hint of childish curiosity in his voice.

“Your treatment, my morals, the color of the sky…. You name it, we fought over it. How long has he been celibate?” The last came out almost as an afterthought—she had no idea what made her think of it.

“Why do you ask?”

“You said it was the world's longest stretch of celibacy, and I find that difficult to believe,” she said airily.

“I am prone to exaggeration, I do confess it. However, I do believe that poor Simon, former scourge of the bawdy houses of London, whoremaster, libertine, rake extraordinaire, hasn't dipped his wick in close to a dozen years. I expect if he ever marries he'd insist on an unconsummated one. Such a waste, if you ask me. While he never shared my proclivities, it seems a shame that no one gets to enjoy his years of experience. Not to mention the fact that he's a fine-looking man, if a little weather-beaten.”

“Then we'll have to hope his plain, virtuous wife with the locked knees will manage to overcome his scruples.”

“What scruples?”

She'd been too involved in her conversation with Monty to realize her nemesis had returned, and she shot to her feet, catching the racy French novel before it tumbled to the floor. She plastered a bright, vivid smile on her deliberately painted lips. “You're back,”
she said, stating the obvious. “I'll leave the two of you alone to talk, then, while I—”

“Don't leave me,” Monty said plaintively, his eyes laughing. “I want the two people I love most in the world by my side when I leave this mortal world.”

“As far as I can see, you're looking a great deal healthier than you were earlier,” Simon said in a subdued voice.

“All thanks to Lina's gentle ministrations. She really is quite the loveliest nurse I've ever had. Wouldn't you agree, Simon?”

Lina did a quarter turn, just enough to shield Monty from Pagett's gaze, and smacked him with the discarded novel. Monty immediately began a theatrical cough, strong enough that the vicar, who'd been about to leave the sickroom, immediately paused.

Monty raised his head, smiling angelically. “Stay,” he said, sounding wistful. “Both of you.”

Lina had been about to leave, but Monty had a grip on her full skirt, and besides, God knows what he'd say to Pagett if she weren't around to keep him in line. She sat back down, with relatively little grace, and glowered, refusing to look at Simon Pagett as he took up a position at the foot of Monty's lavish bed. She could get through this. Indeed, she couldn't imagine why she even cared. She'd been snubbed and insulted by half the grandes dames of the ton, she was persona non grata at the best houses and hopeful mothers shooed their daughters out of her way.
Having Charlotte come live with her was already dooming her dearest friend to a life under a cloud, which was one reason she hadn't objected to bringing her out to the Revels. So why should this man's contempt bother her?

She flashed her brilliant smile at Monty, keeping her teeth clenched. “Shall I continue with our book, then?”

“I need to speak to Lady Whitmore,” the vicar said in a quiet voice.

“Oh, heavens, you don't need to say anything to me, Mr. Pagett.” She laughed an airy laugh. “We really have no need of conversation at all.”

Monty chuckled. “You can say whatever you need to say in front of me, Simon. Lina and I have no secrets.”

The man made a low, annoyed sound, rather like a growl, and she couldn't resist glancing at him briefly. “I need to apologize to Lady Whitmore,” he said finally, his rich voice strained. It would be a good voice from the pulpit, she thought. Full and warm and persuasive when he wasn't criticizing.

“For what?” Monty asked innocently.

“For calling me a whore,” Lina supplied after Pagett was silent for a moment. She looked at him openly then, her expression under control now, her smile small and calm. “One would assume he'd know that I've been called far worse by far better people, but he seems to feel guilty about it.”

“Not ‘far better people,' pet,” Monty said. “I'm certain the good vicar is better than anyone else. Or at least he clearly thinks so. Don't you, Simon?” There was a silken edge to Monty's weak voice, and Lina felt a flush of gratitude. Apart from Charlotte there was no one she could trust to defend her the way Monty did.

“Every time I think I've made a little spiritual progress my own idiocy shows me how wrong I am,” Pagett said with a frankness that would have disarmed a less stony heart than Lina's. “I have no right to judge anyone, and I apologize to you, Lady Whitmore, and to you, Thomas, for insulting a guest under your roof.”

“And do you accept his apology, Lina?” Monty purred.

Lina wanted to tell him to stuff it up his bum, but Monty's thin hand left its grip on her skirt and reached for her hand. She had no choice. “Of course I do,” she said sweetly. “Though there's no need for him to make such a fuss of it. I'm used to it.”

“There now,” Monty said, his frail voice full of mischievous satisfaction. “Now that we're all friends again, let's plan my funeral.”

It was a long, oddly companionable night. Monty, having recovered his strength, refused to sleep, and Lina told herself she was loath to leave him to Simon's tender mercies. She almost believed it.

They'd played piquet—two against one. Monty
and Lina, whispering and giggling, won seventeen thousand pounds from the vicar's nonexistent fortune. In turn, he trounced them both soundly at silver loo, gloating with unchristian zeal. When night passed into morning Lina's hair was down her back, her beauty patch had long since disappeared and she was sitting cross-legged on Monty's huge bed, dealing like a practiced sharp, while Simon's sedate coat and neckcloth had been tossed aside, his hair had come loose and he was viewing his two opponents with amused distrust.

“Are the two of you cheating?” He was stretched out at the foot of the bed, looking remarkably relaxed and almost human, Lina thought.

“If I were a man I would call you out for that,” she replied in a non-offended voice. She'd been cheating quite flagrantly.

“So would I,” Monty said with a laugh.

“Maybe I'd best give up gaming as well as whoring and drinking,” Simon added. “I appear to be remarkably bad at it.”

“In truth, I thought you had,” Monty said lazily.

“I'd given up play with real stakes. Since real money wasn't being wagered…”

“I beg your pardon,” Lina said. “Does that mean you aren't going to pay me the twenty-seven hundred pounds you owe me?”

He laughed. “I believe the final number was in my
favor, Lady Whitmore. You owe me three hundred and forty pounds.”

“I think he's right there, love.” Monty had dropped out of the game an hour ago to simply watch, a wicked smile on his face the whole while. “Best pay up.”

She was feeling a little wild and reckless, but in a surprisingly good way. She leaned back against the pillows beside Monty, looking into Pagett's face. Now that he was no longer so grim he was actually quite handsome, and the premature lines only seemed to add to his appeal. He was going to make some pretty little mouse of a girl a most excellent husband. Unless he planned to spend his married life celibate as well.

“La, sir, I came out without my purse,” she said archly. “Will you take my marker?”

“Don't trust her, Simon. She's got wicked wiles, and she'll run off without paying.”

“You can always take it in trade,” she said.

The words hung there for a moment, and the impenetrable, stony expression was back on Simon's face, the one she couldn't read. Contempt and disapproval, no doubt. With a tinge of guilt?

“Don't look like that,” she said gaily. “I heard something in church, once, when I wasn't daydreaming. ‘The truth shall set you free.' Isn't that right? You think I'm a whore and you said so. I'm not arguing, I'm simply offering you my wares in exchange for the gambling debt.”

“Don't.” The word was short and sharp.

She'd gotten a rise out of him. Not the right sort, of course. She suspected that particular part of his anatomy no longer worked, not if Simon Pagett told it not to. Her smile widened. “Oh, yes, that's right, you don't partake of pleasures of the flesh. Well, then, I'll simply have to owe you.”

He'd moved down off the bed, reaching for his black coat, and Lina slid off beside him, her wide skirts rustling. She put a hand on his arm. “Oh, don't sulk. Admit it, we've had a pleasant night of it. Quite the best night I've had in years,” she said with a yawn she couldn't quite control. “We haven't fought, and clearly I've forgiven you your earlier gaucherie.”

“Clearly,” he said with a grim twist to his mouth. “It's late. I should go to bed.”

“It's early. In the morning,” she amended. She suddenly realized she was standing too close to him. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but for some reason his accidental nearness brought up strange feelings inside her. He was tall, yet he didn't make her feel weak, something that always brought out the worst in her. He gave the impression of quiet strength, when she was lured by noise and brightness. He was waging a battle for Monty's soul, and she fought with the devil on the other side. And yet…

She dismissed the odd, vulnerable feeling brutally. “You can always come to my room and I'll give you my voucher,” she said in a silken voice. “For the debt
I owe you,” she added, giving him her most seductive smile.

“Don't.”

“There's that word again. It must be one of your favorites.
Don't. No.
Shall we add
never
to the list?”

Monty was sound asleep, and they both knew it. “
Never
is a dangerous word, Lady Whitmore,” he said in an even voice. “And you know as well as I do that our stakes were artificial.”

For a moment she didn't move. She wanted to be closer to him, to press up against him and have him put his arms around her, holding her. He was strong, in ways she couldn't even begin to comprehend, and that strength drew her to a dangerous degree. She wanted to bury her face against the somber black cloth of his coat, she wanted to stop smiling, stop laughing, stop dancing.

She wanted to run as far and as fast as she could.

She took a swaying step toward him, her most seductive smile on her lips. The carmine red had worn off hours ago, but she knew her mouth was one of her best features, full and inviting. Men loved her mouth, and Simon Pagett, beneath everything, was simply a man. “Our stakes were artificial,” she murmured, “but my offer is entirely genuine.” She reached out and gently stroked his chest, her fingers dancing on the thick wool. He caught her hand, stopping her. But he didn't release her fingers.