Pleasure for Pleasure

Page 52

“Oh, I can do better than that,” he said. “This is like Martha and Hackman, you know. He was much younger than she.”
“I begin to feel as if I should flee this house to save my life,” Griselda said, making a rather vain attempt to change the subject.
“Seven years they had between them,” Darlington said, putting his teacup to the side.
If he was fishing for her age, she certainly was not going to tell him. In fact, she really ought to leave now. All that exuberant impetuosity she felt earlier had disappeared.
“How surprising that you know so much of that ancient murder case,” she said.
“I know about any number of curious old stories,” he said, not seeming to notice the little froideur in her voice. “But tell me, Griselda, what do you find most surprising about Martha’s love affair with Hackman? That he was younger, or that he killed her?”
“Murders are alarmingly commonplace,” Griselda observed.
There was a little smile at the corner of his lips that made her take a lemon biscuit, although she wasn’t in the least hungry.
“So you would find their age difference to be the most interesting aspect of the case?”
“Surely we can talk of something else?” she asked. “I do think we have said all there is to say on the subject.”
“Indeed, I would like to show you the disposition of my house,” he said, rising when she did.
Griselda had already made up her mind that she wasn’t going upstairs. True, she had had wild thoughts earlier…but they were quite quelled now, and she had returned to her senses. “Is it your house? I’m certain that someone told me you were penniless. Do you live here on your father’s sufferance, then?”
He took her arm. “Getting your own back, are you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. This is a charming room,” Griselda said, pausing on the threshold to a small dining room. The furniture was excellent, old comfortable pieces in black walnut. She waved her hand at the paper, which was a light gold color, marked with small birds: masculine yet delightful. “Did your mother choose this?”
“No, my sister Betsy.”
“Oh, of course.” And then, as he was opening the door to a small sitting room, “But you haven’t a sister Betsy! Your father has three sons.”
He grinned at her. “Perhaps you looked me up in Debrett’s? Before sleeping with me, I mean. Surely every matron makes sure that bloodlines are in order before skipping off to a hotel.”
“You, sir, are a terrible conversationalist,” Griselda said tartly. “Do you always say precisely what comes into your mind?”
“I am known for being an uncomfortable companion for that very reason,” he said.
“So who is Betsy?”
“There is no Betsy.”
She turned to look, and he was leaning against the doorjamb, looking at her in that oddly intense manner of his. “I told you. The only woman who has entered my house is my mother, and that rarely.”
“So…”
“I chose the paper myself. I am used to taking care of myself. And I think that you are much the same, are you not? Who takes care of you, Lady Griselda? As I understand it, your mother lives a retired life, does she not?”
“I have no need of anyone to take care of me. But if I have need of something, my brother has always sufficed.”
“Mayne?”
“He’s the only brother I have, and unlike Betsy, he actually exists.”
“Mayne does not strike me as a particularly caring person.”
Griselda’s eyes narrowed. No one insulted her brother—unless, of course, that person was discussing adultery. “He has always watched out for me. And now, I really must be going.”
“You haven’t seen the upstairs yet.”
“That would be quite improper.”
“All the more reason,” he said, smiling at her. “I think, Lady Griselda, that you need someone to take care of you.”
“I—”
Two seconds later he had scooped her into his arms, as if she were nothing more than a fainting heroine. “You’re making a practice of this,” she said, not struggling to get free, as that would be inelegant.
“I hope to,” he said, carrying her up the stairs.
“Is your butler watching us?” Griselda asked.
“I told him to go home. He’s not really a butler. He doesn’t live here.”
“If he’s not a butler, what is he?” Griselda asked, struggling to keep her tone casual. He smelled faintly spicy, with an overlay of ink. For some reason she found it intoxicating.
“He was accused of murder,” Darlington said. “But he didn’t do it, I assure you.”
Griselda opened her mouth, but then they were in Darlington’s bedchamber, and she suddenly realized that—that—
“There’s no use in complaining,” he said.
“You can put me down,” she said with dignity.
“As long as you promise not to turn around and trot down the stairs.”
“I never trot.”
So he let her down, but the moment her feet touched the ground he caught up her face in both his hands and kissed her. One minute they were talking, and the next he was taking her mouth with a kind of savage desperation that had nothing to do with light conversation about butlers and murders. Because that must have been a joke, Griselda thought dimly, but thoughts were sliding away now, and a sort of delicious fog descended on her mind in which the only things that mattered were the taste of him, the smell of him, and the sound of his breathing.
It took her maid at least fifteen minutes to disrobe Lady Griselda Willoughby. It took Darlington approximately fifteen seconds. The hooks seemed to fly apart at his fingers and he kept kissing her all the while, kissing her so that she didn’t think about what was happening. It was as if Griselda threw away the “lady” part of her with every garment that fell to the ground. By the time he took her chemise, she felt as wild as any thoroughly debauched concubine. Her hair swirled around her shoulders, and she didn’t feel like a maiden aunt any more. Not seeing the way that his fingers trembled when he touched her. Or the way he stood still when she touched him, his breath quick, eyes dark.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said.
Griselda felt beautiful.
25
From The Earl of Hellgate,
Chapter the Nineteenth
She was statuesque, and carried herself as if she were one of King Henry’s unfortunate wives. Such is my weakness, that although I had sworn to eschew the fair sex, and I was in the black days of mourning…
J osie crept down the ladder about half an hour after Mayne and Sylvie left. She’d found a grain sack to wear over her shoulders so the rip in her gown didn’t show. Her plan was to wait for one of Mayne’s stablehands and ask him to show her a back way out so that she could find a hackney.
She came down as hurriedly as she could and then hid in the front corner of Gigue’s stall, where she couldn’t be seen from the aisle. People kept strolling by, even though the races were over, until at last the trickle of feet stopped. She stood, shivering, overcome by exhaustion, fear and distress. Her mind was revolving in unhappy circles.Finally, she heard footsteps coming that stopped before the stall; that must be one of Mayne’s stablehands. Gigue had been bending her neck and nosing her trough, as if hopeful that food had somehow landed there since she searched the last time. Josie had formed a very low opinion of her intelligence.