My Lady's Pleasure Page 2

  She had to grin wryly. Her dressing-down of the hapless Sukey had succeeded all too well. Finally appearing struck by the dire future that awaited her on the streets or in a brothel, should Valeria repent of her mercy and discharge the girl, Sukey had been tearfully eager to please. But since, as she’d sobbed to her mistress after this latest mishap, she was still “powerful agitated by that smooth-talkin’ London gent,” the girl’s distracted efforts this morning had resulted first in burning today’s bread, then in scorching Valeria’s best lace tablecloth and now in the destruction of one of her last physical links to her brother.

  To distract herself from the anguish of that thought, Valeria deliberately conjured up the handsome stranger who, she had to admit, had left her a bit “agitated” as well. She was still kneeling, a half smile on her face, her mind tracing the image of his delicious physique and knowing eyes as one’s thumb would caress the smooth surface of a gemstone, when Mercy, her nurse-turned-lady’s maid, peeked in the parlor door.

  “There ye be, Missy! Sorry I am to tell you, but Sir Arthur and Lady Hardesty are here. I tried to fob ’em off, but knowin’ you was home, they insisted they must see you.”

  Valeria groaned. With Cook muttering in the kitchen over the bread, her elderly butler in high dudgeon about the ruined tablecloth and the estate books still needing attention, she had neither time nor interest in these uninvited guests courtesy now compelled her to entertain.

  Uttering Portuguese profanities under her breath, she raked the broken pottery into her handkerchief. “Did you answer the door?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Her old nurse bent to help. “Aye. Sorry, Miss Val, but Masters were still in the pantry, sulkin’. I’ll take these to the kitchen for you.”

  “Blast. Then I shall doubtless have to endure Lady Hardesty commiserating on how my ‘unfortunate circumstances’ force us to retain a butler too old to perform his duties.” With a sigh, Valeria stood and handed her nurse the handkerchief. “Please do take these. I’d prefer not to have to explain what happened, and invite another homily on why it was false charity to hire Sukey.”

  Valeria dusted off her hands and gave her hair a quick pat. “Send them in, then, since you must.”

  Her impressive bosom jutting before her like the prow of a warship, Lady Hardesty sailed into the room. “My dear Valeria! So kind of you to receive us unannounced. And I do hope poor Masters is not ill. Your maid Mercy had to admit us.”

  Valeria damped down her irritation. “He’s quite well, thank you. Not expecting callers this time of the morning, he was busy with other duties.”

  “Yes. So unfortunate it is not within your means to employ an underbutler or a footman to assist him.”

  “Should you like tea?” Valeria asked, determinedly ignoring the comment.

  “Oh, yes. ’Twill help settle my nerves, which, I declare, are quite shattered. Only the knowledge that it was my inescapable duty to poor Hugh gave me the strength to drive out today!”

  “Here, sit, Mama, and make yourself comfortable. Lady Arnold, I trust I find you well.” His forehead perspiring under the burden of escorting his suddenly drooping mama to the sofa, Sir Arthur managed to sketch her a bow.

  “Quite well, and you, Sir Arthur?” Valeria did not bother to inquire what dire news had prompted Lady Hardesty to drag herself from her morning room, knowing the woman would soon inform her at length, whether Valeria wished to know or not.

  With a pant, Sir Arthur settled his mother’s bulk on the cushions, then turned to fix a smile on Valeria. “You are looking particularly lovely today.”

  Since she was garbed in one of her oldest gowns, with her hair still sprouting wisps blown free by her ride and her sleeves ornamented with flour, she could manage only a noncommittal murmur in reply.

  Arthur did possess a sweet smile, Valeria reflected. If it weren’t for the fact that his sweetness was cobbled with an intellect dim enough to consider such absurd compliments flattering, a body already tending to the corpulence so evident in his mother—and a mother who kept him firmly under her thumb—Valeria might think more seriously about letting Sir Arthur relieve her of the burden of managing this barely profitable sheep farm.

  “…awful danger!” Lady Hardesty tapped Valeria on the arm, recalling her wandering attention. “A peril to every decent woman in the neighborhood!”

  “What Mama means,” Sir Arthur inserted, “is that Rafe Crandall—Viscount Crandall’s youngest son—has brought a party of rather…disreputable guests to his hunting box.”

  “A property, my dear, that borders your land!”

  “For seven and one-half acres on the west,” her son clarified. “Although the greater length of it, one hundred thirty-six acres, adjoins Hardesty’s Castle.”

  Of course Sir Arthur would know to the acre where the property lines went, Valeria thought. Her suitor, she often suspected, valued her more for owning fields that marched with his own than for any beauty or charm she might possess. A lowering reflection, that.

  “And the…persons that wild boy brought with him!” Lady Hardesty continued. “Why, ’tis perilous for any decent woman to walk the streets. After all your devotion to him, I knew dear Hugh would want me to warn you to stay behind locked doors until that revolting party departs.”

  While Sir Arthur looked at her and saw acreage, his mother perceived a woman who’d nursed her son’s boyhood friend for months. And who thus might be expected to meekly do the bidding of a second husband—or mama-in-law. Not in this life, Valeria silently vowed.

  “Now, Mama, ’tis not as dire as all that,” her son soothed. “I daresay as long as Lady Arnold remains on her property she will be quite safe. However, as some of the guests will be shooting—and probably not in a condition of absolute sobriety—it would be wisest for her not to ride.”

  “There’s a greater danger to riding out than bosky hunters. Arthur, did you not tell me you’d seen the man yourself yesterday at the Creel and Wicket, bold as brass?” Lady Hardesty shuddered. “Why, they say those golden cat’s eyes can hypnotize an unwary woman.”

  Valeria’s attention had wandered again, but at those words she snapped to attention. “C-cat eyes?”

  “Nonsense,” Sir Arthur reproved. “Ladies have always found Teagan attractive, but I’ve heard naught of hypnotizing.”

  “Who knows what Irish riffraff is capable of,” Lady Hardesty sniffed.

  “Only half-Irish, Mother. His mama was good English stock—the Earl of Montford’s daughter, you will remember. How else could Teagan have gotten into Eton and Oxford?”

  “One of the guests is a rake and the, ah, natural son of an earl’s daughter?” Valeria asked, pulse leaping at the memory of golden eyes and smiling lips bent kissing close.

  “No, she actually married the Irishman—her father’s groom!” Lady Hardesty said. “To think Lady Gwyneth would show so little consideration of what is due her station!”

  Irish, Valeria thought. So that explained the lilt.

  “’Twas only what she deserved,” Lady Hardesty continued, lips pursed in disapproval, “when the blackguard deserted her and the child, leaving her to die penniless. Why, ’tis said the boy lived on the streets until some clergyman was kind enough to restore him to her family. By which time he was already an accomplished thief.”

  “You exaggerate, Mama. Teagan must have been only six then, for when I met him at Eton he wasn’t yet seven.” Sir Arthur turned to Valeria. “We’re speaking of Teagan Fitzwilliams, Lady Arnold. His reputation is very bad, I fear. But the young man I knew was not evil, merely wild.”

  “Wild enough to study vice early. Didn’t you tell me they called him ‘cheat’ at school?”

  “‘Jester,’ Mama. For the card tricks and sleights of hand he used to perform for us.”

  “Whatever he was as a boy, you can’t deny he’s turned into a gambler and a heartless rake.”

  “I cannot condemn him simply because he makes his living at the green baize table, Mama.
What else was he to do, pray, when his mother’s family virtually cut him off after Oxford? And, I must own, I think the stories of the many women he’s supposedly seduced vastly exaggerated.”

  Lady Hardesty sniffed again. “Of course they cut him off. How could they not, after he was dismissed for seducing the wife of the dean!”

  “’Twas his mentor’s daughter-in-law, Mama.”

  “Well, the entire ton was in an uproar over the way he carried on with the wife of old Lord Uxtabridge. Now, you may say I exaggerate—” she turned to her son, who with half-open mouth did seem to be about to protest once more “—but Maria Edgeworth has sent me all the town news for years, so I believe I can speak with more authority about this matter than you!”

  Having effectively squashed her son, she addressed Valeria again, clearly eager to spill yet more gossip. “After Uxtabridge, who should have known better than to buckle himself to a chit young enough to be his granddaughter, there was Lady Shelton, and—”

  “Mama, you’re putting Lady Arnold to the blush,” Sir Arthur exclaimed, regarding Valeria with alarm, as if he expected her to swoon at any moment.

  Glad her thick-headed suitor read embarrassment in the flush of excitement he must have perceived on her cheeks, Valeria was, for once, shamelessly eager to plumb every tidbit Lady Hardesty could be induced to offer. “My nerves are quite steady, though I thank you for your concern, Sir Arthur,” she said placatingly. “But I believe Lady Hardesty is correct. I ought to know the whole.”

  “Indeed.” Her ladyship flashed her son a superior look. “Gentlemen try to dismiss the villainy of their sex, but we ladies must acknowledge it if we are to protect ourselves adequately. And I would consider myself failing in my duty to dear Hugh were I not to insure that his sweet widow, whom I trust has no idea of the devilment of which men are capable, was sufficiently armed.”

  Valeria had the grace to feel a twinge of guilt, but not enough to stop the flow of information. “I appreciate your concern,” she said demurely.

  Lady Hardesty patted her hand. “You know I look on you almost as a daughter, dear Valeria. So, though it grieves me to speak ill of one whom Arthur once considered a friend, I must warn you Maria tells me this Fitzwilliams fellow never loses a hand, leaves a bottle, or spares an opportunity—excuse me for stating the matter so crudely—to debauch a complacent man’s wife.”

  “Being a widow, I should be safe then.”

  Her ladyship ignored the remark, as she did any attempt to deflect the conversation from the direction in which she desired it to proceed. “I daresay no woman is safe. Indeed, I begin to feel it my duty to dear Hugh to insist you stay with us at Hardesty’s Castle until Crandall’s party and That Man have departed the neighborhood.”

  Valeria caught her breath in alarm. That would guarantee she’d never encounter the rogue again—and make her a prisoner to Sir Arthur’s ponderous suit and Lady Hardesty’s none-too-subtle maneuvering.

  “Indeed, Lady Hardesty, you are much too kind!” Valeria said quickly. “But I could not put you to so much trouble, with your nerves in such a state. Besides, the shearing will soon be upon us. I simply couldn’t leave such important preparations to mere underlings,” she concluded, hoping to draw support from Lady Hardesty’s well-known contempt for social inferiors.

  “You have an admirable sense of duty, Lady Arnold,” Sir Arthur said. “Perhaps I could step in to assist—”

  “Oh, no, Sir Arthur! With the vast responsibilities of your extended acreage, I simply couldn’t ask you to burden yourself with supervising mine as well.”

  “Dear lady, no service I could do you would ever be a burden.”

  Oh yes, he’d love to assume the management of each and every one of the six hundred-some acres Hugh had left her, she thought sardonically, and then caught Sir Arthur flashing his mother a significant look.

  Lady Hardesty rose. “Valeria dear, I nearly forgot. I brought with me my receipt for whitening lace, which by the looks of the hangings in the entryway, your housemaid could certainly use. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I shall take it to her.”

  Valeria rose as well, determined to forestall this blatant attempt to leave Sir Arthur alone with her. “So kind of you, but another time, perhaps.” After frantically scanning her mind, she hit upon an excuse that might prompt the Hardestys’ speedy exit. “You see, Sukey Mae is laid down on her bed at present. Nothing to worry about—a putrid cough only. I was about to prepare her a tisane when you arrived. Indeed—” she added a delicate cough “—my own throat is so scratchy, I believe I shall prepare myself one as well.”

  While Sir Arthur shot up from the sofa with the speed of a Congreve rocket, Lady Hardesty hastily deployed a handkerchief over her nose. “Lady Arnold, you should have warned us immediately that you were feeling unwell! Surely you recall the delicacy of my lungs. Come, Arthur, we mustn’t linger.” Her hawklike eyes looking aggrieved over the handkerchief, she headed out.

  Valeria followed them. Despite her praise of careful nursing, Lady Hardesty had such a horror of illness she’d not come next or nigh her “dear Hugh” in all the months he lay dying, Valeria recalled bitterly.

  Remembering that, she allowed herself to cough again, harder this time. Lady Hardesty speeded her steps.

  “I’m sure I’ll be right as rain in a day or so. Thank you so much for stopping by,” she called after her departing guests. And then stood, immensely pleased with her ploy, listening to the echo of the front door’s slam.

  An Irish rogue, she thought, lips curling into a bemused smile as she wandered back into the parlor. An Irish rogue with a winning smile and an intimate gaze that could charm leprechauns out of the air, she suspected.

  And foolish women out of their virtue.

  A cheat and a liar, as Lady Hardesty claimed? Knowing how the worst sorts of rumors made the best gossip, she was more inclined to credit Sir Arthur’s memories of an orphan barely tolerated by his mother’s disapproving family.

  Valeria recalled the keen intelligence of those golden eyes, the hard strength of that muscled body. But with very little effort, having been orphaned young herself, she could imagine what it must have been like for a boy of six, forced to scrabble for survival on the streets after losing his one remaining parent. A boy suddenly transported out of everything familiar, and given over to relations who, if she knew aught of aristocratic English families, never let the child forget that his father was a wastrel, his mother a fool and he an Irish beggar dependent on their charity.

  Small wonder the lad had grown up a hellion.

  But not, she was quite certain, a heartless womanizer.

  Despite his disclaimer to the contrary, Mr. Fitzwilliams had behaved as a gentleman. After all, she’d been alone with him, virtually defenseless, with little chance of retribution to follow should he have taken advantage of her. A true predator—with a shudder she recalled encountering several such individuals while in India with her father—would never have passed up such a golden opportunity.

  No, he’d not acted the rake, and his teasing words had left her enticed rather than threatened.

  Of course, having Lady Hardesty command it and Sir Arthur recommend it, she couldn’t possibly remain at home. She would ride in the morning, as she always did.

  And if she should encounter the fascinating Mr. Fitzwilliams?

  Her heartbeat galloped and she felt shaky. Heat flushed her cheeks, then cold. In the pit of her stomach a curious spiral began, and the tips of her breasts tingled.

  Yes, she lusted after the man—as apparently so many other women had before and probably would after. Still, she couldn’t stop her fevered imagination from wondering what it would be like to have the rogue’s lips upon her own, those long tanned fingers caressing her, that strong torso leaning over her, thrusting the most intimate part of his body into the most intimate part of hers. A powerful wave of desire and longing swept through her.

  And as she struggled in rural remoteness, striving to accumulate th
e financial means of escape, it seemed the vague yearnings of girlhood only sharpened. She’d scarcely been married before being widowed, so the passion churning within her had never been allowed free rein. How she ached to fully experience that rapture of which bards through the centuries had sung, sensual delights which, unless Arthur Hardesty finally wore her down into accepting his suit, she might never taste.

  With Arthur, a taste would likely be all she’d get.

  She was back on her knees, brushing together a few bits of the broken vase that had escaped her hasty earlier inspection—and by some mercy, Lady Hardesty’s gimlet eye—when the idea struck her. Her hands froze on the shard.

  Teagan Fitzwilliams, Lady Hardesty claimed, was a master of seduction. As Valeria knew from personal observation, that tall, golden, compelling gentleman appeared to be everything a woman could wish for in a lover, capable of making even an on-the-shelf widow like Valeria feel desired.

  Teagan Fitzwilliams would be in the vicinity of Eastwoods for a few days only. And if, in that time, he happened to initiate her into the rituals of passion of which he was so obviously a master, no one need ever know. Should she encounter him, and he rebuff her, no one would ever learn of her humiliation. And should he take her, after a few days he would depart, sparing her the embarrassment of ever facing him again.

  But in her heart, her body, the wonder of the passion with which he gifted her would burn forever.

  She raised a shaking hand to her face. She must have taken leave of her senses. The idea was insane!

  But once conceived, the notion refused to be dislodged. Her senses hummed with it, thrilled to it, beat with an urgent pulse that whispered, “Do it.”

  A sharp pain pierced her finger and she opened her fist. She’d clutched the pottery shards so tightly one had cut her.

  Would that her feckless mind should receive so painful a check, she thought, inspecting her bleeding finger. If she did something so rash, so wanton, so…unladylike, she was apt to suffer much more than embarrassment. Men might indulge their passions with impunity, as her reckless body urged, but men did not bear children. Could she be irresponsible enough to risk that?