Vanity (49 page)

“Then I will come to you,” he declared, pinching her chin between finger and thumb. “I want no more jauntering over hills and dales, madam. I will come to Dover Street tonight.”

“Very well,” she said. “I am going to the play with some friends, and supper in the Piazza afterward. If you come after midnight, I will be waiting for you. And there will be no prying eyes upon the street.”

“Until then,” he said, releasing her chin, his fingers leaving bloodless indentations. “The butler will see you out.” Without another word he left her standing in the middle of the salon.

Octavia rubbed the bruising fingermarks on her chin, then briskly drained her glass and stalked to the door just as the butler appeared.

“This way, madam.”

He escorted her to the front door rather as if she were a doubtful guest who might have pocketed the silver. Her sedan chair was waiting in the street, and she stepped in, unaware of the eyes on her from an upstairs window, where
Letitia stood, wondering what could bring a woman voluntarily to seek out Philip Wyndham.

The sky was heavy with thunder clouds, and large drops of rain began to fall as the chairmen trotted through the streets. When they reached the house on Dover Street, they carried the chair up the steps and into the hall so that their passenger was spared the necessity of getting her coiffure wet or putting a foot to the damp ground.

“Pay the men, Griffin,” Octavia instructed as she stepped out of the chair. “I suppose there’s been no sign of Frank?”

“I have a suspicion, my lady, that the little devil’s hanging around the back.” The butler paid off the chairmen from a leather wallet he carried in his pocket and nodded to the footman to see them out.

“Cook thinks so too. He won’t show himself properly, but we keep catching a glimpse of his shadow, like. And Cook put a plate of iced buns on the step this morning, and they were gone in a jiffy.”

“Sounds like Frank’s tastes,” Octavia said. “Maybe he’ll show himself properly if we continue to leave food for him. At least it’ll show him that we’re not angry with him. He’s probably afraid we’re going to give him up to the constables.”

“If you ask me, my lady, that’s the best thing to do,” the butler stated. “Can’t go around encouraging the thieving little beggars … begging your pardon for speaking so freely, ma’am.”

Octavia shook her head ruefully. “Feel free to speak your mind, Griffin. But I have no intention of giving the child up to the law. And neither has Lord Warwick.”

“No, my lady.” The butler bowed. “We should expect his lordship’s return at the beginning of next week, I understand.”

“Yes,” Octavia said, her voice slightly muffled as she turned to the stairs. “Unless there’s a put-off.” She hurried up the stairs, refusing to think beyond the expected week of Rupert’s absence. He
would
come back.

And in the meantime she had her mission to complete with Philip Wyndham. A scene of seduction to set.

She looked around her bedchamber where Nell was going through her wardrobe, checking for garments that needed pressing or mending. It was a pleasant room, and it was utterly redolent of Rupert. Everywhere she looked there was a physical memory. They had played in this room throughout the hours of many a long night. She would not entertain Philip Wyndham in here.

“Nell, would you have flowers put in the small salon?” She wandered over to the armoire, wondering what to wear.

“And tell Griffin I would like supper to be laid out in there for when I return from the theatre. I’m expecting a guest and I won’t wish to be disturbed. So … something we can serve ourselves. Oysters, perhaps. Crab patties. Smoked goose. And champagne, of course.”

“Yes,
m’lady.” Nell bobbed a curtsy. “What gown will you wear to the theatre?”

“I’m trying to decide.” Octavia riffled through the rich materials crowding the armoire. “The gold taffeta, I think.”

It was an extravagant gown, richly embroidered in silver thread, fitting tightly at the bosom and waist, but flowing from her shoulders at the back in a billowing saque.

It was one of Rupert’s favorites.

Tears blinded her, clogged her throat. She swallowed vigorously. She must think of nothing but the present. Live each moment as it happened. Anticipate no future. Expect nothing. Tonight she was going to get the ring from Philip. That was all she needed to think about.

But it was an interminable evening. Her stomach was alive with spiders, her palms damp with apprehension. Somehow she managed to respond to her companions, to give the Prince of Wales what he wanted and expected when he came to their box in the interval. She flirted, teased, joked, and no one would have guessed the agony of her soul as she fought to keep from her mind the thought of Rupert in Newgate. The thought of Rupert in the cart on the way to Tyburn.

Her eyes had a febrile glitter, her cheeks a somewhat hectic flush, but if anyone gave it a thought, it was simply ascribed to champagne and the pleasures of the evening.

At supper she picked at a portion of green goose and sipped burned champagne. Her head was beginning to ache with the noise, the glitter of myriad candles in the supper room, and the effort of keeping up her end of the conversation. She could hear her voice rasping a little, her sentences sometimes not coming out properly. But her companions were so merry, and so awash with champagne that her own lack of coherence went unnoticed.

She kept expecting to see the Earl of Wyndham, but he didn’t appear.

It was soon after midnight when her carriage returned her to Dover Street.

“Everything is as you wished in the small salon, my lady.” Griffin bowed her in, his voice expressionless. Whatever he thought about Lady Warwick’s entertaining tête-â-tête in her husband’s absence was not to be revealed.

“Thank you. When my guest arrives, you may show him up, then you may go to bed. The night porter will lock up when his lordship leaves.”

Octavia didn’t look at Griffin to see the effect of her words as she handed him her cloak. She went swiftly up the stairs to the small salon at the back of the house, drawing off her long silk gloves. The curtains were drawn, the room softly lit with two branched candelabra, the air perfumed with bowls of roses.

She examined the dishes laid on a round table beside the window. Pearly oysters glistening in their craggy gray shells; an asparagus tart; a covered dish of scalloped potatoes keeping warm on a chafing dish; a platter of macaroons and a bowl of strawberries. Two bottles of champagne.

Octavia nodded her satisfaction. She was perfectly calm, her hands completely steady as she placed her gloves and fan on the sideboard. Completely steady, as she opened a drawer in a console table and took out a little screw of paper, slipping it into her bosom.

A chaise longue upholstered in straw-colored taffeta
stood before the Chinese screen in the empty hearth. Octavia plumped up the cushions, smoothed the taffeta. It was an inviting piece of furniture, easy to recline upon, no inconvenient arms to get in the way.

Then she stood and waited for the footsteps in the corridor outside.

Too keyed up to sit down, she waited and listened, and yet the footfall outside still took her by surprise. Griffin knocked and at her invitation opened the door and stepped aside.

The Earl of Wyndham walked in, slapping his gloves against the palm of one hand, eyes assessing the room and its furnishings.

“Thank you, Griffin.”

“Good night, my lady.” The door closed behind the departing butler.

“You came,” she said, smiling.

“Did you doubt it?” He threw his gloves onto a chair and massaged his fingers. His knuckles cracked.

“I trusted,” she responded, coming toward him. “I have been in such suspense all evening. I hoped so much to see you at the theatre, but I was doomed to disappointment.” Her shoulders lifted expressively. “And now you’re here.”

His mouth curved in a smile of such complacence that Octavia was hard pressed to keep down the surge of repulsion. She wanted to stick a knife between his ribs and twist it slowly. Instead she took his hands and drew him toward the chaise longue.

“Will you sit, my lord, and allow me to bring you a glass of champagne?”

“Bring the bottle to me and I’ll open it.” He sat down, lounging against the scrolled back.

“No, sir. You have no tasks to perform this evening except for one.” Her eyebrows lifted, and her mouth curved in a wickedly suggestive smile that reminded him of the spirited woman he’d first been drawn to. It pleased him to see this resurrection after their last couple of meetings, and his eyes snapped with satisfaction.

He turned his head lazily against a cushion, watching her back as she busied herself with the champagne bottle. The cork emerged with a discreet pop, and he listened to the fizz as she poured the pale wine.

“So, my lord. A toast.” Smiling radiantly, she came back to him with two glasses. “I propose a toast to satisfaction, Philip.”

He laughed and took the glass. “I’ve always admired your spirit, my dear. Does your husband appreciate it, I wonder?”

Her eyes were lowered for a second. “Hardly at all, my lord. It’s wasted on him, I fear.” She touched his glass with her own. “First my toast, and then it’s for you to make one.”

He drank and her eyes held his. Then he frowned.

“Is something the matter?”

“No. I’m trying to think of a suitable toast.”

Octavia sipped her champagne and waited.

“Ah, I have it. To the comfort of lovers and the discomfort of husbands.” His harsh laughter rasped in the quiet room, accompanied by Octavia’s tiny little chuckle. But again she lowered her eyes, and he saw only her smiling mouth.

“I would see you naked,” he said abruptly, his laughter dying, his narrowed eyes taking on the predatory glitter that sent a shudder of apprehension and loathing along her spine.

But Octavia smiled and sat down beside him. “Why, sir, let us dally a little over the champagne. I will take off one garment, and then you will remove one.”

Philip sipped his wine. “So you would direct this play, madam?”

“I wish only to enhance the pleasure,” she said humbly.

Why wouldn’t he finish the wine?
Bessie had said it would take half an hour for the effects to be felt. She didn’t want to gallop along the road to seduction.

“You will enhance my pleasure by your obedience,” he
said with a touch of ice to his voice. He took another sip. “Bring the bottle here. And then disrobe.”

Octavia rose and fetched the bottle. She would just have to do as he ordered very slowly. Strangely, she was not unduly concerned about revealing her body to Philip Wyndham. If it proved necessary, then it was a very minor sacrifice to make. But she did need to get
his
clothes off. Or at least beyond his waistcoat.

Bending over him, she refilled his glass, thankfully noting that it was almost empty. She allowed her breasts to brush against his chest as she bent farther to kiss his neck.

Philip’s fingers found her breasts, curling over the delicate swell, sliding into her décolletage to find her nipples. Octavia grimly closed her mind and devoted all her attention to the business of getting his waistcoat off.

It took fifteen minutes of nibbling, nuzzling, moaning. But her heart surged with triumph when she slid the garment from his shoulders and tossed it with apparent indifference to the floor, before with greedy, fumbling fingers unbuttoning his shirt.

Philip lay back, exulting in her passionate need to touch his body. She now wore only her lace-trimmed shift as she moved over him, and with a savage movement he tore the material from neck to hem.

Octavia gasped and fought the urge to fling herself away from him. When he rolled her beneath him, she closed her eyes tight. There could be no put-off now unless he instigated it.

And then suddenly his rough, excited movements ceased. He stared down at her, a flash of puzzlement in his eyes.

She reached up and touched his cheek, smiling seductively. “Shall I feed you some oysters before we proceed, my lord?”

He moved off her. “Yes. Fetch them … and bring the other bottle.” As she slipped off the chaise, he grabbed the collar at the back of her torn shift and dragged it away from her.

Naked, Octavia stood up. But now she was completely
indifferent to her nakedness, all her attention focused on the waistcoat. Now was her chance.

As she moved across the room to the table, she casually kicked the garment with her foot. As casually, she bent and picked it up, shook it out, carefully laid it across the arm of a chair. The garment was in her hands for no more than a second; then she had reached the table. Her fingers lightly brushed over the petals of a deep-pink rose before she picked up the platter of oysters and came back to the couch.

Perching on the edge of the couch, she held a craggy shell to the earl’s lips. Philip opened his mouth, and the succulent morsel slid down his throat. Steadily, she fed him the better part of a dozen, smiling to herself at the thought that he was swallowing them with such eagerness because they were a known aphrodisiac, and for some extraordinary reason Philip found himself in sore need of an aphrodisiac.

Never before had he experienced this confusing, mortifying powerlessness. Nothing he tried, nothing that he made her try, had any effect. Her smile became doubtful, hesitant, and then anxious. A deep loathing filled him as he stared down into that smooth, beautiful face, the golden eyes wide with astonishment at this extraordinary failure from a man who’d promised to possess her as she had never been possessed before. She was a witch, he thought with a surge of savagery. Three times, through some kind of demonic workings, she’d foiled him. She smiled and touched and offered soft words of encouragement and sympathy, but beneath that madonnalike facade he saw now the twisted cunning of a sorceress.

He left her an hour later. He left, cursing her in vile words as if she were a whore who’d failed to please him. He left her with deep finger bruises on her arms and breasts. But he left her essentially untouched.

Octavia listened to his feet on the stairs. She listened for the opening and closing of the front door by the night porter. Then she ran to the bowl of roses on the table. The tiny pouch was tucked into a curling leaf, snug against a thorny stem.