Savage Nights (The Savage Trilogy #2) (19 page)

Yet as unsettled as I was by the prospect, I realized I was also excited by it. What
was
he planning? What would he expect me to do—and how?

The maître d’hôtel had led us from the main dining room, beneath a curtained archway, and through a door to a short hallway. At the end of the hallway was another door, with a pair of large, watchful men, simply dressed, on either side of it. From the way they glowered at Savage and me, I knew at once that they were some sort of private guards or policemen in plainclothes. My father had often employed such men from for protection, and so, I guessed, would the King of England.

Not that they intimidated Savage. Instead he greeted both men by name, and in return they both nodded with curt recognition and respect, too. I was impressed. He must truly be His Majesty’s friend if the bodyguards knew him, and as the maître d’hôtel knocked on the door I felt a rush of excitement. I was going to meet the King of England, now, over his dinner, which was more than Mrs. Astor or Mrs. Vanderbilt or any of the pompous other ladies at home in New York had ever done.

“Must I make a full Court curtsey to His Majesty, Master?” I whispered urgently. I’d taken lessons to learn this skill and had practiced bending so low that the plumes that would be in my hair brushed the carpet before me. “I’m not sure there will be room if he’s seated at the table, and—”

“No, no, nothing so grand,” Savage said carelessly. “An American curtsey will do well enough.”

I’d no idea what that might be, but before I could ask, the door had swung open and the maître d’hôtel was ushering us inside. Savage entered first, and I hung back: not exactly shy, but uncertain of my place.

Over his shoulder, I saw that the small private dining room was even more lavishly appointed than the front room had been, with gold-framed mirrors and paintings and a thick Persian carpet underfoot and four waiters standing ready along the wall. A dozen gentlemen sat around the oval dining table, and it was clear from both their florid faces and the random blotches of wine on the cloth that they’d been drinking as much as they’d been dining and, from the tobacco smoke that thickened the air, that they’d been smoking a great deal, too.

All of the gentlemen were in evening dress, without any medals or ribbons to give away the noble ranks that they inevitably held, and yet at once I knew which one of them was the king. I’d seen pictures of him before, of course—he was stout, with popping eyes and a graying beard trimmed to a point—but it was more than that. The other men sat a little apart from him and had turned their chairs towards his to make him the centerpiece of their group. When he looked towards us as we entered, the others watched for his reaction, almost as if waiting for permission, before they, too, looked our way.

Not that the king himself noticed.

“Savage, you dog!” he called out, the corners of his beard tipping up as he smiled in welcome. “You’re exactly what’s needed. We need fresh blood and conversation for our motley company tonight. Come, join us. Another chair, here, for Lord Savage.”

At once one of the waiters hurried to find a chair for Savage while the gentlemen at the table obediently began to move their own chairs more closely together to make room.

But Savage only smiled and bowed. “You’re very kind, Your Majesty,” he said. “But I fear I’ve only come to pay the briefest of regards, and then must retreat to a previous engagement.”

He turned back towards me and took my hand, drawing me forward to join him.

“Sir, may I present Mrs. Hart,” he said, leading me into the room and into the circle of light from the electric lamps. “She is one of your favorite variety of lady, another
belle américaine
visiting us from New York.”

It struck me as a rather odd introduction, but then I’d little experience with how things were done before kings. I sank into a curtsey, bowing my head and praying I’d dropped low enough to please both the king and Savage. Without looking I heard the gentlemen push back their chairs and stand in my honor.

“Here now, Mrs. Hart, no more of that,” said the king warmly. “Please stand, and come closer so we might see you properly.”

Slowly I rose as he’d bid and circled around the table. He alone remained seated, as royalty should be, leaning forward towards me. Even with him sitting, I could tell he was shorter than I, much shorter than I’d imagined from the flattering pictures I’d seen, and much older. He didn’t look well, either. His belly mounded heavily over his lap, his face was too flushed, he wheezed slightly with each breath, and his hand was unsteady, making the cigar in his hand tremble and scatter ashes on his sleeve.

“Oh, you are right, Savage; she is a most superb creature,” he said, as if I were not a woman but simply an inanimate objet d’art to be admired and possessed. “American women truly are in a class of their own.”

I decided to take this as a compliment, though I wasn’t sure it was one.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I murmured. “You are too kind.”

“Not at all, my dear,” he said, finally addressing me. “I’ve heard you were the favorite at Wrenton last week. Now I understand why.”

Word traveled fast through Society, and I should have known he would have already heard of what had happened with Savage and me at Wrenton—even if every guest had supposedly been sworn to secrecy. No doubt it had proved too good a story for someone not to share, especially with the royal ear listening.

Yet I didn’t like the eagerness in his eyes as he studied me, his gaze fixed not on my face but on my breasts, raised by my corset above the deep neckline. He ran his tongue lightly over his pale lower lip with an unmistakable greediness and leaned forward towards me in his chair.

Like most women, I knew the different ways a man could look at me, the subtle degrees that ranged from polite admiration, to intriguing interest, to open, unabashed lust. That last was how the king was looking at me now—as if I were the next course on the menu for him to devour.

With any other man I would simply have removed myself from his company, adding a good slap or shove if he’d persisted. That was what American ladies did in such a situation.

But this was different. He was the King of England, and ordinary rules wouldn’t apply. Beautiful women like Laura had considered themselves fortunate to have shared his bed, as if it were a great sign of favor. More confusing still was trying to determine what Savage, as my Master, wished me to do. Instead of jumping to my defense as he’d always done before he was standing silently behind me, saying nothing, doing nothing. Worse, I now recalled his curious introduction of me, telling the king that I was his “favorite variety of lady.”

Was this another of Savage’s tests for me? Did he truly intend to offer me to the king as a kind of gift—as if I were his to give? I know such things had been done in ancient times, but this was the twentieth century. I was an American lady, not some cowering peasant woman. I would do many things for Savage as part of our Game, but this … this I did not think I could do, not even for him.

When I looked at the king, with his trembling, vein-crossed hands and bilious pouches beneath his eyes, I could think only of my late husband, who hadn’t been so very different. A dry, painful coupling without attraction, without love, without so much as a breath of desire or pleasure, with a man who, king or not, was still older than my own father …

No, I couldn’t do this, even if my Master wished it.

Unconsciously I took a step backwards, already beginning to flee, when I felt Savage’s hand at the back of my waist. The pressure of his hand was gentle, steadying, reassuring, and only then did I realize I was trembling, too.

“She is a rare lady, sir,” he said behind me. His hand slipped from my back to my waist as he came to stand beside me, and I automatically leaned into him. “She has honored me with her acquaintance for only a short time, but already she has become an excellent friend.”

“A friend,” the king echoed. He said it sadly, with resignation, and the greedy lust faded from his rheumy eyes. He took a long pull on the last of his cigar and snuffed it out in the tray beside his plate. “You are a fortunate man, Savage, a young buck in your prime, and I know better than to try to poach. But if I were your age … ah, I’d give you a run for her!”

“I’m sure you would, sir,” Savage said, his hand tightening a possessive fraction around my waist. “But I would fight you, and I would win.”

He would, too. I’d watched him do it and knew how little it would take to make him do it again.

The king must have seen that in my face, for he laughed, a strange, small guffaw that had little humor to it.

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard all about the fisticuffs and bloodletting from Carleigh himself,” he said, then glanced back at me. “Take care with him, Mrs. Hart, and I shall be sure to look over you as well. Never was a man so aptly named as our friend Savage.”

Without looking I felt the tension in Savage’s body beside mine and knew he wasn’t smiling, nor would he take the remark as a joke. Perhaps the king hadn’t intended it that way, either, and I was thankful when Savage only bowed and managed some sort of evening pleasantries that allowed us to retreat from the king’s presence without incident or scandal.

The same maître d’hôtel reappeared in the hallway and ushered us to one of the best tables in the dining room, a corner table set apart from the others where I was framed and reflected by a pair of mirrors like a diamond in a jeweler’s display. Most likely Savage had requested this table for exactly that reason, since he’d said earlier that he wished to show me off, but after what had just happened with the king I would rather have preferred a more private setting to recover myself.

Savage ordered dinner for us both, and when our glasses had been filled with wine and the waiters had finally left us he raised his glass to me, his pale eyes guarded and revealing nothing.

“You’re quiet, Eve,” he said. “I shouldn’t think a lady from New York would be so overwhelmed in the presence of royalty.”

I shook my head, wondering how best to explain. What should have been a special, memorable occasion—to be presented so informally to the King of England!—had instead left me uncertain and filled with doubts.

“It was not … not what I expected,” I said, which was true.

“Ahh,” Savage said lightly. “I can understand your disappointment. I fear the king no longer cuts a particularly regal figure, does he?”

I shook my head again, my earrings brushing my cheeks. As difficult as the answer might be, I had to know.

“It wasn’t that so much as … as the rest,” I said softly. “Why did you take me there to him, Savage? What was your reason for it?”

“Why?” He set his glass down and placed his hand on my arm, his hand warm on my skin. “Because now you’ll be safe from the worst slander at Court. I cannot protect you from everything, as much as I wish to. The king can. Now that he has met you and admired you, he will do as he says. He will not tolerate anything ill said of you in his presence, and will only speak well of you himself. It will make your life more … agreeable at Court.”

“He will do that for me?” I asked, surprised. “I scarcely said a dozen words to him.”

“It’s not conversation that he admires in ladies,” Savage said drily. “I know that being with me has come at a cost to your reputation. This will go a small way towards balancing that.”

The unexpected kindness of it overwhelmed me. “That is so … so
good
of you, Savage.”

His smile was tinged with bitterness. “You’re alone in that estimation, too,” he said. “The king certainly doesn’t share it. I’ll wager that he’s already sent word to Scotland Yard to have me watched, to be sure I cause you no harm, but I can bear with that. It would not be the first time.”

“It’s not necessary, none of it,” I said quickly, and covered his hand with my own. “You know I trust you.”

“You will be one of the few who do, Eve,” he said as our first plates were set before us. “You cannot know how much it pleases me, too.”

When he smiled, the guard he usually kept so firmly in place was gone, replaced by a warmth and trust in me that I did not deserve. He raised my hand, his lips grazing the back in the way that gave me chills of pleasure.

“Now you must tell me, Eve,” he said, turning to the elegant dish before us, “if the reputation of Gaspari’s chef is better deserved than my own.”

I smiled, yet in my heart I realized how I didn’t deserve his gratitude. If I’d trusted him as I’d said, I wouldn’t have suspected him earlier of offering me to the king. Savage had had only my well-being in mind, yet I’d suspected him, and now I felt despicable myself, low and unworthy of him.

All through the long meal I managed to keep this to myself, praising the food and wine and smiling when I should and returning every endearment that he offered, while he was his most charming, most irresistible self. Yet inside I was miserable, and as the last dessert dishes were cleared away I finally blurted out what had been worrying at me throughout the long meal.

“I must tell you the truth, Master,” I confessed, my guilty words tumbling over one another. “I must be honest with you. I cannot keep it back. When you presented me to the king, Master, I … I feared it was another trial. I thought you wanted me to lie with him, there, and I … I would not have been able to do it.”

His face went rigid. “You believed that of me? That I would give you to another man to enjoy, any man, even a king?”

“I thought it was one more challenge,” I confessed. Tears stung my eyes, and I took his hand in my own to make him understand, my fingers moving restlessly against his. “I thought you were testing my obedience again.”

His eyes had turned as hard as flint, and he pointedly pulled his hand free of mine.

“You are mine, Eve,” he said. “
Mine.
Do you understand? I would never ask that of you, not as an Innocent, not as a woman, and if you do not trust me enough to believe that, then I—Damn, what is it?”

A waiter was hovering beside the table, his hands folded before him as if already begging forgiveness for the interruption.