A Much Compromised Lady (11 page)

“Would you care for anything else?” he
asked.

She shook her head, and frowned. “You still
have not said why none of your relatives live with you? Is it that
you do not like them, or do they not like you?”

He offered her a blank stare, the empty one
he reserved for such cheeky impertinence. She stared back at him,
her expression expectant, either made immune by wine, or left too
confident by his easy treatment of her. Well, if she would not
leave the subject gracefully, he would give her an answer that
would close the topic.

“If you must know, my aunts—two were my late
mother’s sister, and one of them on my father’s side—generally
prefer the countryside. Since they bestow on me the most ghastly
presents—anything with too much gilt, or my crest upon it—I presume
they do not hold me utter disdain.

“As to my uncles, I have five; four belonging
to my mother’s family, and one is my father’s younger brother. And
they considered their job done with after having given me a
succession of tutors, and then finishing my education with a full
introduction to vice.

“Now, shall I continue with a list of my
assorted cousins, second cousins, and distant connections, or would
you rather I read to you the full lineage from the most recent
edition of
Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage
?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You are mocking my
question. And I thought you wanted to charm me?”

“That was before you became a disrespectful
baggage.”

Her eyes glittered. “
Became
disrespectful? As if I ever respected you to start with, my
lord.”

Tilting her head, she lifted her wine glass
to her lips, but kept her dark eyes on him, and he could see the
speculation in her eyes.

“Now what? Are you thinking there must be
some dark secret in my past?” He kept his tone flippant. In fact,
he doubted if anyone’s life was as open as his. And why not? His
family never dared criticize him, for he was, after all, the Earl
of St. Albans, and as for the rest of the world, he had no interest
in either its good opinion or even its right to judge him.

His Gypsy stared at him, her eyes wide and
dark, as if taking his full measure, and that set his temper to
simmering.

“What, do you think that I must live a sad,
empty life not to have my family close about me? That I have wealth
and little else? Do allow me to assure you that I lack for
nothing.”

“You lack for parents.”

He stilled instantly. Oh, but she did have a
sharp tongue to so expertly lay bare a scar so old that he had gone
for years without remarking it. He forced himself to relax. He had
long ago learned not to look into that darkness. And she was not
about to bring any of it back to him.

That he would not allow.

Lifting one hand, he waved the matter away.
“I am hardly a poor orphan. Now, shall we retire to a more
comfortable room?”

He rose and held out his hand to her. She
hesitated, still measuring him, but then she put down her wine
glass and rose to give him her hand.

He took her into the smaller drawing room
that overlooked the street. A fire crackled in the grate and only a
few candles burned. The intimate space offered only a low couch
beside the fire and two small side tables.

Seating herself on the couch, she folded her
hands in her lap. “Tell me about your parents? Did you know them at
all?”

Exasperated, he stood before the fire, his
hands folded behind his back and almost tempted to toss her onto
the streets. Was this her method to prevent seduction? If so, it
certainly was remarkably effective.

Staring down at her, he lifted an eyebrow,
and said nothing, but the look he had mastered for leaving the
haughtiest dowager fluttering seemed to have no effect on her. It
must be the wine, he decided. It had gone to her tongue.

He let out a sigh. “Very well, my curious
Gypsy, if I satisfying you on this
last
question, do you vow
that we can then allow this topic to rest?”

She nodded, tucked her feet underneath her
and snuggled into the pillows of the couch as if expecting a rare
treat.

“Very well, then. But no interruptions with
more questions, mind. And there is little enough to tell. My
acquaintance with my mother lasted a day. And my father quite
wisely quit this earth three days before my arrival. Nothing
terribly dramatic, I assure you. He broke his neck on the hunt
field, and my mother went into a decline. At least that was how my
aunts put it. My uncles told me rather more graphically when I was
six that she bled to death from the birthing.”

“What! Do you mean they allowed you to think
you caused her death?”

His mouth twisted. “I doubt that was their
intent. At the time, I had cut myself on my father’s sword and they
feared I might be a bleeder as well.” He held up his left hand to
show the white line of a scar that crossed his palm. “I am happy to
say, I am not. As to my parent’s death...well, accidents happen and
people die. That is simply the way of the world. And the world and
I long ago came to terms with each other.”

Shocked, Glynis stared at him. The wine had
dulled her mind, but it did nothing to ease the tightness that now
gathered around her heart. The way of the world, he called it, as
if things blindly happened. Well, it was not the way of her world.
Yes, fate could be cruel. But it was not mindless. A pattern lay in
the cloth of all events. Her mother had taught her that, and she
clung to that belief fiercely.

But this one, ah, he saw only an indifferent
world.

Scowling at him, she tried to think him cold
for how he spoke, with that mocking distance in his voice. But she
kept thinking instead that something else lay behind this cold wall
he used to keep himself so removed from others.

She knew what it was to lose a parent. But
she had vague memories of her father’s arms about her, the smell of
his cologne, spicy and warm, of his voice, rough and deep. And she
had her mother’s stories.

Ah, was this earl a man who stole hearts
because he feared giving his own? And why did he so fear the
healing warmth of love? Because it had been taken too often from
him? Or never given perhaps?

“Why are you not married?” she demanded
suddenly.

For a moment, he simply stared at her. He
surprised her by giving a laugh. A real laugh, one that reached his
eyes, and transformed his face.

Oh, no, don’t laugh, gaujo—you are
dangerous enough when you smile
, she thought, struggling to
resist that wicked charm.

Sobering, he smiled down at her. “Have you,
my Gypsy, never heard that it is impolite to badger with so many
inopportune questions?”

She shrugged. “Well, you know about me
already—that I am the daughter of a nobleman and a Gypsy. I could
tell you that I dance like my mother, and that she has the gift of
second sight—ah, but you see! You raise that eyebrow at me, and
give me that look, which tells me you think I am only making up
another
swato
. So, what am I to talk about, if not you?
Would you rather that I ask you when will you get me into Lord
Nevin’s house?”

“Patience, my dear. We must entice his
interest in you, and not allow him to see your interest in him. But
we will start tomorrow—when we are both better rested.”

She almost told him that now he sounded like
her mother, but there was wisdom in his advice. However, time
favored him. Time to charm her. Time to weaken her with soft beds,
and delicious food, and hot baths.

Well, she would not weaken. She would take
what he offered, enjoy it, and leave him with his empty house and
his empty heart.

Rising, she stood in front of him. “Until
tomorrow then.”

He smiled at her and took her hand, and she
braced herself for his kiss. He stood very close to her, his touch
warm on her skin, his thumb brushing her palm in a way that set her
blood singing.

But he only let go of her hand, and a sharp
disappointment rose in her chest.

Go, you fool, go while you can
, she
told herself.

Before she could think better of it, she
darted forward to press her lips to his cheek. Then she pulled away
and hurried from the room, not daring to look back, scolding
herself for her weakness. So what if he had been kind to her
tonight—he did so only because he wanted something from her. But
she would never forget that for this night he honestly had been
kind. And for that, Glynis knew she owed him more than a kiss.

With a hand to his cheek where she had kissed
him, St. Albans watched his gypsy slip from the room, and listened
as her steps quicken to a run. He watched even after she was gone
from sight, his mood uncertain.

What had she meant by that kiss?

He would throttle her if she now felt an
ounce of pity for him. He needed no man’s—or woman’s—pity. He had
everything he wanted. Or he would once he had full possession of
her.

But it crossed his mind to wonder if he
wasn’t playing a rather dangerous game here.

He began to smile. Would that not serve him
well if he fell in love with her? What a splendid irony that would
be. His smile faded, however, for the truth was he was far too much
a realist to ever delude himself into believing in love.

* * *

Glynis found her way to her room quite
easily. She had learned young always to remark her path—inside a
house, or a woodland. Safety lay in knowledge.

But did it?

She had learned too much about this
gaujo
tonight, she thought, her head spinning with his wine,
and her heart confused. He was no longer just a
gaujo
. Oh,
yes, he was the Earl of St. Albans. But as she pulled off her dress
and corset, and slipped between sheet softer than any she had ever
felt, she kept thinking about a boy with no parents, and such a
very long title to wear and a very large house to live in
alone.

How could his aunts and uncles raise him in
such a place as this, treating him as an earl, not as a boy? She
did not understand and her mind kept turning over thoughts as a
fast river turns stones. There was something important
here—something that mattered. But she could not find an answer.

Sleep, when it came, came slowly, and came
troubled.

* * *

The couple ran from the church, laughing,
hand clutching hand, him hatless and her with a red scarf that fell
from her streaming dark hair. On the church steps, the vicar waved
after them, and a farmer and his wife watched, the wife wiping her
eyes, the farmer dour and shaking his head over such folly.

Glynis shifted in her sleep.

Running with the lovers, smiling for them,
she followed as the woods rose up around them—around her—deep and
silent and green. Laughing, they tumbled into the grass in a small
glade, and she lay under the oak, staring up at blue sky until a
face rose over her—a man with Christo’s eyes.

She let out a sigh, a deep breath, as he
leaned close. The world shifted softly, so that the man who lay
with her now stared down at her with a different face, one she
almost knew, his green eyes not yet cynical, his face still young
and unmarked by life.

Smiling, she lifted her lips to his. As his
mouth opened against hers, warmth curled inside her and kindled
into something more.

And the voice echoed in her mind—her voice
and yet not hers. “I have faith. I know you will do right and tell
everyone about our love someday. Someday... Some...”

A crack like a pistol shot woke her.

With a jerk, Glynis sat upright, clutching
the bedclothes, her breath caught in her chest, her face hot and
her heart pounding.

The maid at the window blushed deeply, “Beg
pardon, miss. I meant only to open the drapery to let the light
wake you. His lordship said you wasn’t to sleep late, for it’s to
be a full day. Would you care for tea or hot chocolate for
breakfast?”

Glynis rubbed the sleep from her eyes, shot a
suspicious glance at the iron curtain rings that had rattled on the
curtain rod, and muttered a request for tea.

Dropping a curtsy, the maid left, and Glynis
lay back again, a hand across her eyes.

She felt as if she had been running all
night, not sleeping. Closing her eyes, she struggled to catch the
wisps of her dream. It seemed so important to remember it all.

The couple from the church, ah, yes, her
parents. Had it not been them? Her forehead knotted.

She could understand why she should dream of
her parents—particularly after last night’s conversation with Lord
St. Albans. But that kiss...

Brushing her fingertips across her lips, she
wondered why she dreaming not of her father kissing her mother, but
of St. Albans kissing her in the woods.

With a groan, she turned her face into the
lavender-scented feather pillow.

Bad enough to have to resist his charm during
the day, but now she had to fight her own dreams as well?

But she could not escape the feeling that lay
in her bones and wrapped around her still from her dreams that he
had once loved a woman deeply. And the shadow of it lay over him
still.

Ah, but he was a man who lived in too many
shadows, so many that sunlight never would warm his heart, and she
would do best to remember that.

With that in mind, she rose to dress for the
day, and to see what plans this high and mighty lord had for
her.

* * *

Everything changed—too much so, all too fast.
And it was all she could do to remember that there was a pattern to
it—a reason why she must endure.

The Earl brought a short, giddy blond woman
to measure her for dresses, and a man who smelled of too much rose
scent to cut her hair—which she refused.

His servants tried to steal her faded blue
gown, so that she had to sneak down two nights in a row take it
back. The third time she caught Gascoyne with it, and so she showed
him the pistol St. Albans had given her and promised to shoot the
next person who touched her dress.