A Much Compromised Lady (27 page)

Now, he no more knew what he had been
thinking then, than he knew what he was thinking now. He had acted
on impulse, and he was damn certain it had been a folly.

“Enjoy it, my dear. I am afraid I have as
little use for it as I have for respectable women.”

Turning, he strode for his horse. God, what
had he been thinking to imagine she might run into his arms, and
embrace him, and offer up her gratitude again. He had not been able
to take advantage of it before, but he still wanted to.

Her voice stopped him.

“
Gaujo
! I will have you know that a
woman who lives in a house paid for by a man who is not her husband
is far from respectable. Not, of course, that I have much of a
reputation left me since all London knows I lived with you.”

Slowly, he turned to her.

Chin down, she came towards him, pulling off
one glove, dropping it and leaving it in the dust, and then pulling
off the other. The smile curving her generous mouth set his pulse
hammering.

“Tell me,
gaujo
, is your reputation
with women honestly come by? You cannot have earned it by knowing
only how to please yourself.”

He began to smile, and started back toward
her. “That, my sweet Gypsy, is the secret of real pleasure—there is
no difference between taking and giving.”

The pretty straw hat joined the gloves on the
ground, and she stood before him, so close her scent of roses wound
around him—or was that the summer blossoms?

“My dreams come true,
gaujo
, and I
dreamed once of the two of us in each other’s arms.” Her hands
wound around his neck, and she pressed against him until his senses
spun. “And shall I tell you a secret?”

He could only nod, for he had wrapped his
fingers into her hair and he was taking far too much pleasure in
pulling lose the pins that held its dark weight captive.

“It was as if we were one, in that dream. And
you told me you loved me.”

Burning now, he swept her into his arms.
“Love is an illusion, my tempting Gypsy.”

She smiled at him. “So are dreams. Will you
dream with me?”

For an instant, he wondered if he could
believe in her dreams. But that voice in the back of his mind
warned him to remember his past—to remember who he was and what he
was. He had been such a fool once. He was a damn rogue now.

But she felt so right in his arm. So much a
part of him that it seemed quite clear now why he had ached and
missed her as if a limb of his own had been missing. And if that
was the case, well, had not the earls of St. Albans always been
best at looking after their own skin?

He kissed her, kissed her until she had no
more breath, until he was light headed and could no longer bear the
distance of clothing between them. Pulling back, he gazed down into
her flushed face, and he asked, “There is no need for you to be
respectable just yet, is there, my sweet Gypsy?”

Eyes dark, she smiled at him, and shook her
head. “No. Not yet. Not ever. My
Dej
was right when she said
what I need is a place. I have found that place here,” she said and
wrapped her arms tight around his neck.

St. Albans needed no more encouragement to
lift her into his arms and carry her into the house he had bought
for his mistress.

The Earl of St. Albans tossed back a second
brandy, and through the open doors of his study he watched a
housemaid arrange the flowers on the central hall table of Winters
House. In less than two hours he would be married, and that seemed
all the more reason to focus his attention on more immediate
pleasures.

From this angle he could not see the maid’s
face, but the view she presented as she bent to select more rose
stems from the basket at her feet stirred his admiration.

“Tell me, Tuffy,” he said, half-turning to
throw the words over his shoulder to the other man in the study.
“Not that you have much experience with this mind, but you are a
vicar, so you must give advice. How much of a sin is it for a
married man to lust after women?”

Terrance Hale—slim, still as golden haired as
he had been as a youth, with a face still as young—stepped to his
friend’s side and glanced into the hall. A slight smile warmed his
pale blue eyes. “Well, I should imagine a wife could rightly object
to her husband
not
lusting after women in general, since
such a condition would include herself. However, considering your
bride’s family, I should say the greater danger to your mortal soul
would come from there, rather than from any wrath of God.”

St. Albans’s mouth twisted. “Yes, but it
would be amusing to see that hothead Gypsy fellow forget to act the
lord of the manor. I have never seen a fellow grow so stiff so
rapidly.”

Terrance shook his head. “You have never
taken my advice in the past, so I shall offer it now with the full
expectation of not being heeded—leave young Lord Nevin to his own
conscience. You shall have enough to deal with in starting your own
family.”

St. Albans frowned at his empty brandy glass.
His own family. Such an ominous phrase. Hades, but he wanted to
bolt for any place else on earth other than London.

A soft voice behind him intruded and called
out, “Simon?”

Glancing around, he saw his Glynis, standing
at the windows to his study. She had come in from the garden, her
dark hair down and curling around those lovely, rounded shoulders
of hers. Instantly, his mood lightened. At eight in the morning,
his countess-to-be seemed to be wearing only a loosely belted
dressing gown.

Terrance cleared his throat, but St. Albans
could not drag his eyes from his Gypsy. “Do excuse me,” Terrance
said. “I believe there are some details awaiting my attention at
St. George’s. Simon, try to at least check your impulses to make
mischief today,” he added, his tone dry.

St. Albans waited only for the door to close
behind the man before he advanced on his Gypsy. “I thought it was
bad luck for me to see you this morning.”

“And I thought you did not want to hear any
more wedding superstitions. Besides, it is only bad luck for you to
see me in my bridal gown, and I am not wearing it.”

He slipped his hands under the silk of her
dressing gown. “So I feel. You are not, in fact, wearing much of
anything. What did you do, climb down the trellis in your bare
skin?”

“Of course not. I used your secret stair. And
it is too hot to put on my gown just yet, and you have to stop
that, Simon. No, I am serious. I must ask you something, and I
cannot think when you start to touch me that way.”

Glowering at her, he took his hands away. Oh,
blazes, was this all a mistake? It had been a year of delirious
pleasure with her. A year and a day with him unable to stay long
from her side. A year of arguments and passion, and of coming to
loath leaving her bed, and of having to bear the whispers about her
because of their association.

After the third time he had had to knock some
idiot senseless—for Glynis had sworn she would come to any duel
that came to her notice, so he could not very well shoot every lout
who cast aspersions on her name—he had decided he had better marry
her, before he stood at odds with all of Society.

The latter seemed far too exhausting.

And far less pleasurable.

But now she glared at him, and he wondered if
this marriage would change all.
Respectability.
Such an ugly
word.

“I need a promise from you,” Glynis said,
staring up at him, her eyes dark and the dressing gown slipping
provocatively from one golden shoulder.

He lifted an eyebrow. “My dear Gypsy, I am
about to bestow upon you my name, my titled, all my other worldly
goods, and to vow to worship you with my body—is there more you
desire?”

“Do not be flippant. This is serious.”

He braced himself. A serious discussion. He
should have expected this, for of course she would have demands.
Jaw clenched, he waited. What flaw—or dozen of them—did she want
him to change? What alternation did she want in their lives?
Damnation, but he should have known the parson’s knot would be a
choking one.

Frowning, Glynis poked at his chest. “You
have to promise me, Simon, not to reform too much.”

He blinked at her. “I what?”

“I mean it. I do not wish to have a boring
husband who turns all prosy on me the way that Christo has—he wants
me to call him Christopher, or even Nevin! Bah, as if I had not
known him since he was born!”

St. Albans’s arm stole around his wife-to-be.
“Not reform too much? Does this mean you do not mind if I admire
other women, and allow my imagination to stray a little when I gaze
upon their fine figures?”

Her frown deepened. “No, you could reform
that.”

He began to tug at the belted cord of her
high-waisted dressing gown. “And what if I bring those ideas that
cross my mind to your bed?”

“Well, then perhaps your looking is not so
bad, but only so long as you look and do not touch.”

“And what if I perhaps indulge a little too
much in drink and come to you, a touch bosky and more than a touch
interested in your favors and your touches?”

She pressed her lips tight, parted them and
her tongue flicked out to wet her upper lip. St. Albans decided if
she did that again they were both going to be very late for their
wedding.

Putting her arms around his neck, she said,
“So long as you do come home that would be enough. And I would
guarantee you a warm home-coming.”

“Would you now?”

Pulling his hands away from her dressing
gown, her eyes alight, she stepped back. She unbelted the gown
herself and allowed the garment to slide from her shoulders.

His pulse jumped. With the light behind her,
her thin silk shift turned transparent in the most delightful
fashion. With another tug of her hands, that garment, too, found
its way to the floor.

She came towards him, hips swaying, wearing
only a smile. “Would you care for me to show you how warm a welcome
you would have, my lord?”

St. Albans smiled. Ah, but they were going to
be very late for their own wedding. However, the two hundred guests
invited to St. George’s in Hanover Square—everyone in London, it
seemed, wanted to witness the spectacle of the Earl of St. Albans
marrying his half-gypsy mistress. A love match, some ladies
boasted—quite rightly, too, St. Albans knew. But others shook their
heads and frowned, and St. Albans was going to enjoy making sure
that Society accepted his bride. They would have to, just as they
would all simply have to wait for this scandalous wedding to take
place. The Prince Regent included.

With his arms full of his willing wife-to-be,
St. Albans decided a family, his family, seemed not such a grim
future. She would give him hellions for sons, and wild Gypsies for
daughters. She would keep life forever interesting. They would, in
fact, have the most notorious house in London Society.

His fingers circled her wrists and he pulled
her hands behind her back. And he dragged her close to him.

She gave a contented sigh. “Ah, but it will
be lovely not to have you leave my bed in the mornings...and in the
afternoons...and in the evenings.”

He smiled down at his Gypsy. His lovely
Glynis. “My dear sweet wife, you have no idea of the pleasures yet
in store for you.”

She smiled up at him. “Then show me, my
gaujo
lord. Show me now.”

The Traveling Folk of England acquired the
name “Gypsy” due to the belief that their ancestors came from
Egypt. In fact, the original migration of the Rom (or Romany or
Romani) began in India.

As with any nationality, the Romany language
varies in dialect and spelling, and I have used a standard that
seemed most suitable to Regency England. To quote from Manfri
Wood’s
In the Life of a Romany Gypsy
, “...the Romany spoken
by English Gypsy today is best described as an English dialect that
contains a certain amount of Romany slang and old cant...” That has
been the feeling I hoped to convey.

The Romany also, by tradition, have strict,
internal moral codes, but were often viewed as outsiders, beggars,
thieves, liars, and troublemakers. In other words, they received
the usual suspicion thrown at anyone different. Since like often
begets like, such ill will against the Rom produced ill will back,
which encouraged the belief that they were troublemakers. Of
course, such conflict is rich ground for a writer.

You may note that there is no mention of the
traditional Gypsy caravan wagon, or
vardo
. These brightly
decorated, horse-drawn mobile homes did not come into existence
until well after the Regency when mass manufacturing and better
roads made the vehicle a useful adoption.

This book was mean to end the “Compromise”
series. However, there is still Christopher, the new Lord Nevin, to
deal with. And I am not certain I can leave Bryn so alone. Their
story continues in “Proper Conduct.”

For more information on the Regency and other
novels by Shannon Donnelly, please visit sd-writer.com

July 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Shannon Donnelly

ISBN: 978-0-9831423-7-9

First published: 2002

FirstPublished: Kensington