Gayle Wilson - My Lady's Dare

“I’m simply curious,” he said. “Indulge me.”

He was curious, of course, but that wasn’t why he was pressing the issue. He wanted her to talk. She was obviously hiding something, and the sooner he discovered what it was, the sooner he could put this entire quixotic episode behind him. After all, there were other things he should be doing today, far more important than trying to unravel the mystery of the Frenchman’s whore.

The word jolted, annoyingly, almost painfully, just as the rouge was jarring against the clear purity of her skin. But she probably is a whore, he reminded himself. Before his admittedly romantic nature managed to transform her into something else, Dare knew he needed to engrave that fact on his consciousness.

“The story of my life isn’t particularly interesting,” she said. “Or unusual. I’m sure you would quickly become bored if I attempted to tell it to you.”

“Why don’t you let me make that determination.”

“Because it doesn’t matter. What I did before I came to Bonnet’s has nothing to do with the present. And certainly nothing to do with now.”

And nothing to do with you, her tone suggested.

“Be warned, Mrs. Carstairs. Mystery piques my interest. Forbidden fruit, I suppose.”

“There is no mystery. If you must hear it, mine’s an ordinary enough story. My husband died, leaving a number of debts. Many of those were owed to Monsieur Bonnet. He made an offer of employment, and I accepted it.”

“You had no family to turn to, of course,” Dare suggested, his lips quirking. “Nor did your husband. Neatly done, my dear. My compliments, but…no starving children? Or perhaps we are to pick them up on the way.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Are you lying to me?” he countered.

There was a long pause, and then she said, “If I am, what can it possibly matter to you?”

“I told you. I’m curious.”

She held his eyes a moment more, and then she turned her head again, looking out the window. The carriage had entered Mayfair and, in the morning sun, the facades of the town houses swept by in a panorama of architectural elegance. Servants busily polished brass plates and the bells on their front doors or washed marks of the previous day’s traffic from broad, shallow steps. Phaetons stood patiently before their entrances, waiting for the inhabitants to embark on rounds of morning calls or on business in the city.

“And what was the late Mr. Carstairs’ occupation?” the earl asked politely, almost as if the sharpness that had ended the last exchange had not occurred.

Again she turned to face him. “Are we to continue to play games, my lord? If so, perhaps I should tell you that my imagination is not great. I have no gift for storytelling.”

“Only a gift for numbers,” he said, the subtle movement of his mouth not quite a smile. “Where did you learn to do that? What you do for Bonnet?”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t turn away.

“Forbidden as well? Then what would you like to talk about, Mrs. Carstairs?”

“I should like to know what you want from me,” she said bluntly, her eyes cold.

“The pleasure of your company?” he suggested, his tone lightly mocking. “Your wit. The scintillating sparkle of your conversation.”

“My…conversation, my lord?” she repeated, her tone equally caustic.

“Of course,” he said softly. “What did you think I wanted from you, Mrs. Carstairs?”

The carriage drew to a halt, preventing her from having to formulate an answer. The footmen rushed forward to open the door and to lower the steps. The earl descended, and then, playing the perfect gentleman, a role he had been trained for from birth, he held out his hand, palm upward. Elizabeth Carstairs gathered her skirts and put her fingers into his.

They were trembling again, Dare realized. If she was accustomed to being offered to Bonnet’s guests for their pleasure, like his wine or his excellent cigars, then why would the thought of entering his town house cause this reaction?

After all, what he had told her before was the truth. Dare was unaccustomed to being considered an ogre. Not by women. And certainly not an object of fear and trembling. If anything, he had the opposite effect on the fairer sex.

Of course, he had decided a long time ago that their favorable reception might more properly be attributed to his wealth and position than to his person. However, those considerations aside, he had never had a complaint from a woman about his attentions. The thought was almost comforting in the face of her unspoken distress.

“I’m not going to eat you, you know,” he said sotto voce, as he escorted her toward the front door.

His servants were too well-trained to gawk, but he could imagine what they were thinking, despite their perfectly correct expressions. Dare had never even brought his mistress, who did not paint her face, to his home. He had certainly never before introduced a whore into its environs.

Even as he thought the word, using it deliberately and for all the good reasons he had determined in the carriage, he could feel the childlike softness of her hand in his, trembling as strongly as if she were in the grip of an ague.

“I can assure you, my lord, that I never once envisioned that as being my fate,” Elizabeth said.

Despite her shaking hand, her chin was tilted upward, her posture as correct as if she were walking into court. When the footman opened the door, Dare released her hand and watched her sweep through the entrance to his home like a duchess.

Whatever else Elizabeth Carstairs might be, the earl acknowledged in amusement, she was a consummate actress. And despite her earlier disclaimer, he definitely wasn’t bored.

“Mrs. Hendricks is my housekeeper,” the earl said. “She will look after you. Mrs. Carstairs will be my guest for…an as yet unspecified visit,” he continued, speaking to the woman he had summoned as soon as they entered the town house.

Again he had managed to surprise her, Elizabeth acknowledged. She had been steeling herself for something quite different, something far more unpleasant than facing the clear disdain in the housekeeper’s eyes. Quite different, she thought, glancing at the earl’s face.

He looked tired. Exhausted, actually. Of course, they had both been up all night. That was not unusual for her, but perhaps Lord Dare didn’t normally keep the same irregular hours she was so accustomed to.

“Very good, my lord,” Mrs. Hendricks said stiffly.

Her eyes said that she saw nothing good about this at all, but she wasn’t about to admit that to her employer. She might indicate her true feelings when she and Elizabeth were alone, but she obviously didn’t want to anger the earl. And having spent the past two years in Bonnet’s employ, Elizabeth could sympathize with her reluctance to incur her employer’s wrath.

“If you’ll follow me, miss,” the housekeeper said. Her face was as starchy with disapproval as her housemaids’ aprons would be. She had barely avoided adding an accompanying sniff when she issued the invitation.

“Mrs.,” the earl corrected softly. “Mrs. Carstairs.” The housekeeper’s eyes focused on his face, evidently hearing the unspoken admonition in his voice. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carstairs.”

“Please don’t,” Elizabeth said. “I understand perfectly.”

The housekeeper looked at her then, almost for the first time, her eyes widening a little at the sympathetic tone.

“I shall see you at dinner tonight, Mrs. Carstairs,” the earl said.

At dinner, Elizabeth thought. Tonight. Night. Was that when he planned…?

She tried to analyze the earl’s tone. Of course, since she had been unable to since she had met him, she didn’t know why she was attempting to do so now. His face was equally expressionless. There was no leer, no innuendo, no hint in his manner that she should expect more from this dinner engagement with him than what was usually conveyed by the word.

“I have nothing to wear to dinner,” Elizabeth said, refusing to look down on the garish, too-revealing gown in which she was attired.

The Earl of Dare laughed, and when he did, she could feel the rush of blood into her cheeks. Did his laughter mean—

“Do you know that’s the first completely feminine thing I have heard you say,” Dare said. “I can’t tell you how reassuring it is.”

With that, he turned and began to climb the enormous staircase that dominated the entrance hall. He took the steps two at a time, silk knee britches stretching with the play of muscles in his thighs. Much more strongly defined muscles than she would have believed a wealthy gentleman of the ton might possess, Elizabeth thought, and then realized, a little startled, how inappropriate her contemplation of the Earl of Dare’s posterior really was.

“This way, then, Mrs. Carstairs,” Mrs. Hendricks said. This time the sniff was audible.

Elizabeth had endured far worse than the disapproval of a housekeeper during the past two years. If nothing else, she thought, such experiences gave one the strength to know that there was really nothing that could not be endured. And those experiences had also given her the ability to evaluate a situation she found herself in without hysteria or magnification. That might come later, of course, but so far…

“Thank you, Mrs. Hendricks,” she said simply, and with real gratitude.

The room she was taken to was nothing like she had expected. She supposed she had been anticipating she would be hidden away among the narrow little attic rooms the chambermaids shared. The chamber she had been taken to was a suite instead, large, airy, and charmingly decorated in shades of yellow and dull gold.

Apparently, when the earl had said she was his guest, his housekeeper had taken him at his word. Which spoke well of his control of his household, Elizabeth conceded. And again she found herself surprised at that revelation. She had no doubt that if Mrs. Hendricks believed she could get away with it, Elizabeth would have been relegated to the attic, out of sight and out of mind. That she hadn’t been was surely because the housekeeper knew the earl would check on her arrangements.

“Is there anything else, Mrs. Carstairs?” the woman asked. “I shall, of course, have your luggage brought up as soon as it arrives.”

The housekeeper’s face was tight with the force of her disapproval. Elizabeth knew that as soon as Mrs. Hendricks got downstairs, she would verbally vent her frustration at being so misused by the earl. Not to the maids, of course. That would be beneath her dignity. Perhaps to the cook, if their relationship were of longstanding. Almost certainly to Dare’s majordomo.

And his reaction, perhaps more properly his relationship to the earl, would determine how Elizabeth would be treated by the staff during her stay. And so, she thought, feeling for almost the first time the effects of the long stressful night she had just passed through, she might as well take advantage of this period of forced cooperation. In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided.

“A bath,” she said.

“A…bath?” the housekeeper repeated, as if she had never heard the word before.

Judging by the clean scent of sandalwood soap that had surrounded the earl as he sat beside her in the carriage this morning, that was very far from the truth.

“Before the fire, perhaps,” Elizabeth said, ignoring the housekeeper’s reluctance. “And please tell them that I like the water very hot.”

She turned away, walking over to the windows to pull aside the jonquil silk draperies so she could look down on the garden. What she had just done was a trick she had learned from her mother. Always assume that the servants are going to do exactly what you have told them to do, her mother had said. And then deal with it later if they do not.