The Twelfth Night Wager Page 10

  No, he would not. Upon her return from the hunting lodge, Hawkins had not questioned her, though the glances she gave Grace suggested the older woman was aware of a change and clearly wondered at the cause. Grace had changed. The future the dowager countess had encouraged her to embrace had descended full force with the Redheaded Rake. Now that she had time to reflect, it hadn’t arrived with a whirlwind as much as a whisper, through simple joys she’d never expected to share with a man, a walk along the stream at sunset, a picnic in front of the fireplace, reading together till the fire died to glowing embers…and most especially, the joining of their bodies as they made love.

  How could she ever forget?

  * * *

  In the weeks that followed his time at the hunting lodge, Christopher heard nothing more about Pickard’s murder or his blackmail enterprises. Satisfied the appropriate parties had dispensed with the matter, he threw himself into the social whirl of the oncoming winter season, determined to erase from his mind the memory of the lovely widow. As she would end the affair before it began in earnest, he could do no less.

  Because he still had the lady’s reputation to consider, he paid court to one woman after another at soirées and evenings with friends, but for a reason he did not stop to ponder he took none to his bed. Lady Picton accompanied him to the theatre one evening, and he made certain to be seen with other ladies in the afternoons in Hyde Park, the hood of his carriage down as the weather permitted. Redheads, brunettes and blondes, a passing parade of women was ever at his side, though in truth he was just mimicking his former life. He even, God bless his soul, went so far as to dance two waltzes with the bubbling Priscilla Wentworth who had fawned over him at Wimpole. It was almost too much.

  Had his life always been so shallow, full of people who meant little to him and to whom he meant little? Oh, there were his chums at Jackson’s to spar with, and the Newmarket meets for excitement in the racing season. And Ormond and Alvanley and his fellow Whigs were happy to raise a glass of brandy with him at White’s, but there should be more, he thought.

  Ormond’s words from the night they made the wager came back to him with sudden clarity: Your otherwise tawdry existence of late. He had never thought of his life as such, but perhaps that’s what it had become, his recent work on the Irish issue aside. He had dismissed Ormond’s words when they were first uttered. But then a certain widow came into his life and everything changed. An unusual combination of virtue and passion, she encouraged him to examine why he did what he did.

  Making love to her filled his thoughts and his dreams. The memory of her warm body beneath him was so real that some nights he woke fevered, his sweat soaking the sheets, thinking he could reach out and touch her, disappointed to find he could not. Her kisses were indelibly inscribed in his mind, on his body, and, he feared, on his heart.

  His time spent with her at Wimpole and the hunting lodge certainly hadn’t been tawdry. It had been unforgettable. And she had, for a time, brought peace to his soul.

  It had taken only one drink of brandy shared with Ormond at White’s for the marquess to deduce that Christopher and she had become lovers. Nothing was said and, being the gentleman he was, Ormond asked no questions. But the marquess’s frown had said much. The wager still lay open at White’s…which was how Christopher wanted it. He knew Ormond wrongly assumed himself the loser. Eventually he would have to tell the marquess the truth, but not now.

  He took special care tying his cravat that night. He intended to make a show at Lady Claremont’s dinner. Let the ton speculate on which lady he pursued for the wager. Again, he reminded himself, his unconsummated dalliances would protect Lady Leisterfield.

  * * *

  Grace had been to dinner at Claremont House many times. The four-story mansion was a grand town house, the white façade of which featured tall columns and rows of windows on each floor. Surrounded by gardens, the home was an island of tranquility on the outskirts of London. What had surprised her the first time she was inside was the elegant grand room that housed the balls for which the countess was famous.

  Straightening her shoulders and holding her head high, Grace alighted from the carriage, determined to leave her sadness behind her. In truth, she had no regrets save for the fact Christopher St. Ives was gone from her life.

  “Good evening, Lady Leisterfield,” said Cruthers as he took her gloves and pelisse. “The other guests are enjoying a drink in the parlour.”

  The countess stood before the white marble fireplace in a black velvet gown with gray silk trim on the bodice and hem; even her quizzing glass hung from a black cord. For the first time since Grace knew her, there was no feather adorning her silver hair. In a semicircle around her were the Ormonds, Sir Alex and a few others Grace recognized from other parties. In clusters around the room stood men and women in black finery. Included among these were three women laughing with a man in the corner.

  Eustace. Taking a deep breath, Grace forced down the anxiety that threatened to engulf her and entered the room. As gracefully as she could, she made her way toward the group with the countess.

  Lady Claremont raised her head. “My dear Lady Leisterfield, I’m so glad you’ve arrived. If any of us can do justice to black, it is you.”

  Lady Ormond welcomed her into the group, followed by a smiling Sir Alex. “A beauty in black, I daresay.”

  He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. His warm greeting helped her relax. She had always liked the soldier turned Whig politician. Like the other men, Sir Alex wore black with no decoration, and for the first time she studied his face. His dark eyes and thick brown eyebrows set off hair more gray than brown. He was handsome, though not strikingly so as Eustace. But he was solid, and she knew his service to the Crown in the War with France had been conspicuous and led to rapid promotions.

  “It is good to see you, Sir Alex,” she said sincerely. Did his dark eyes sparkle at her words?

  “But it has been too long, Lady Leisterfield. I must change that.”

  The footman offered her a glass of sherry from a silver tray, and she happily took it, needing fortification for the evening ahead. As she smiled at the countess and greeted the others, out of the corner of her eye she saw an auburn head turn and felt Eustace’s eyes boring into her. She couldn’t help wondering if he, too, was having difficulty. It was the first time she’d seen him since they’d parted several weeks ago.

  Sipping her sherry, she heard one of the women with the viscount remark, “Oh, Lord Eustace! Were you not so terribly handsome, I might object to such peddler’s French. Truly, you shock me!”

  Grace could tell by the young woman’s hand on Eustace’s arm and her inviting smile that whatever he’d said, Priscilla Wentworth did not object too strenuously to the slang he had uttered.

  “He’s just putting us on,” said Rachel Stoke, the other woman Grace recognized from the house party at Wimpole. “Do remember, he’s a rogue’s rogue.”

  * * *

  Christopher froze at the sight of Lady Leisterfield in the low-cut black gown, her blonde curls and ivory skin aglow with the light of the candles in the chandelier above. A sudden longing had him wondering how he might get her alone. But he dismissed the thought. Even if it were possible to do it discreetly, she would likely not play along.

  Keeping up light banter with the females in front of him so as to appear the popinjay was growing tiresome. His old life no longer satisfied—at least, not the part that had him with one woman after another. Instead, he longed for the peace Lady Leisterfield’s presence brought him, and he wished they were still at the hunting lodge where he could make love to her till dawn.

  “Why, Lord Eustace,” said Pricilla Wentworth, “you look positively angry. Whatever are you thinking about?”

  Seeing Sir Alex standing close to Lady Leisterfield, monopolizing her conversation, Christopher had frowned. “Not a thing, Miss Wentworth, save my loss at cards last night at White’s. Would you like another sherry before we dine?”

&n
bsp; As for himself, he’d best have another brandy if he was to see the evening through with Lady Leisterfield in the room. He could not look at her without seeing her hair tousled and her lips swollen with his kisses, as she’d been when he’d risen after their night together. She might have rejected him, but she had given herself to him that night and he was not likely to forget their shared intimacy.

  Cruthers appeared at the door. “Dinner is served,” he announced.

  The guests set their glasses on the footmen’s trays and moved as a group toward the door. Christopher held back, hoping for a word with the lovely widow. He was not to be successful, as Sir Alex already had her hand.

  Ormond was the last to walk out of the parlour, along with Christopher, the two men some paces behind the others. “I saw you watching the baroness,” said the marquess in a low voice. “Could it be the lady draws your attention still? Or is it time I paid the wager?”

  “No, and no. The wager can wait. I was merely hoping to greet her as I’d not seen her since my return to London.”

  “All right, Eustace. Have it your way. I must say the show is worth the price of the ticket, though the suspense is trying my patience.”

  Christopher felt his face heat. “Careful, Ormond, or I shall remind you how a certain Lady Mary once had you tied in knots.”

  “Fairly met, Eustace. I shall desist.”

  They took their seats at the long oval table amidst much conversation. Set with silver candelabras standing like sentinels down the center surrounded by cream-colored china edged in gold, it was all quite magnificent. But it was Christopher’s placement next to Lady Leisterfield on his left that perked up his sagging spirits. He owed Lady Claremont much for the arrangement.

  “Good eve, my lady,” he said as he accepted a napkin from the footman. “How are you faring during this difficult time?”

  “The queen was much loved and we shall miss her.”

  He’d been thinking of their relationship, such as it was, but he could see she assumed he referred to the country’s sadness. “I suppose it has been a hard blow to Prinny after losing the princess and her child last year. Three generations of women in his life gone in as many years.” Then he whispered into Lady Leisterfield’s ear, “You are lovely tonight as ever. Even the black does not dim your beauty.”

  Truly, her inner beauty showed past what looked like lines of strain on her face. Perhaps this was still an uneasy time for her, having endured the threat of blackmail and then the queen’s death. But it was now December and those events were in the past—as were the things they had shared. Regrettably, he reflected.

  He watched her chest rise and fall as she let out a deep sigh. Looking in his direction but not meeting his eyes she said, “Thank you, my lord.”

  Christopher did not know what might bring the lady around. If he appeared the lover, she would assume it was the wager he still wanted to win. Even if he abandoned the wager, paid Ormond and took his lumps, she would likely think he meant to make her his mistress; his previous affairs and lifestyle made certain that such would be his ultimate goal.

  What did he want from her? He wasn’t certain, himself. Regardless of the bet, he had set out to seduce her and had done so. But that was not enough. When it came to Lady Leisterfield he was at sixes and sevens, unsure of what to do but knowing he must do something. Or he would lose her, and that he could not abide.

  Chapter 9

  She was not immune to his raw masculine strength cloaked in elegant black attire, and it took all of Grace’s control to rein in her emotions and not show Eustace how his words affected her. The warmth of his presence and the proximity of that handsome face she had come to love nearly undid her.

  But she would not bend to his sweet words that were, she knew, designed to lure her back to his bed. Did he not have enough women fawning over him that he should want to keep her in his collection? Mary had told her he had not claimed the wager won or lost, and that made her wonder. Though he had claimed not to care anymore at the hunting lodge, perhaps he still hoped to win. Could the man who had kissed her so tenderly at the lodge be so conniving? Surely not, yet they called him the Redheaded Rake for a reason.

  “You seem deep in thought, Lady Leisterfield,” said Sir Alex on her left, “but ’tis the holiday season and I would bring a smile to your face.”

  “Would you, Sir Alex?”

  “Indeed I would. In two days’ time, the Sans Pareil is featuring three plays. Among them is Fairy Legends; or, The Moon-light Night, a new one by Miss Jane Scott that is being shown for the first time. Make me a happy man and say you will go with me.”

  A fairy tale, she thought. Yes, a fantasy might be just what she needed to take her mind from the dim reality of the days at hand until David came home for Christmastide. And Sir Alex was a kind man.

  “I would quite enjoy that.”

  Sir Alex beamed, and from her right Grace thought she heard Eustace sputter into his wine.

  “Have you ever been to Scotland, Lady Leisterfield?” Sir Alex inquired. When she shook her head, an extensive description of his home in Clackmannanshire followed thereafter; a thriving river port, he said. “I am thinking of giving up my seat in the Commons and returning to my home. Might you like to see Scotland one day?”

  Grace had the impression the man missed his home, and with all the success he’d seen as a soldier in battle found little to his liking in Parliament. She supposed it was not unusual for a warrior to find peacetime a dull second. Then it occurred to her that perhaps his question was more in the nature of an exploration as to whether she might be a candidate for his wife.

  “Perhaps one day, Sir Alex, but my desire to travel has mostly been to see the English countryside and not lands so far north.”

  She thought she saw disappointment cross his face, but then it was gone. “Well, then, perhaps I can persuade you while we see the play.”

  Though she’d been momentarily distracted by Sir Alex, Grace was always aware of the man to her right. He was now gaily chatting with the smiling brunette, Miss Wentworth.

  Well, Miss Wentworth could have him.

  * * *

  Two nights later, Christopher was not pleased to be sitting in a box in the Sans Pareil Theatre next to an exuberant Miss Wentworth and her friend acting as chaperone, the serious Miss Stoke.

  The pair of ladies was not the reason he’d come. It was all on account of the conversation he’d overheard wherein Sir Alex invited Grace to the theatre. That very couple sat some distance away, but he had a good view of them all the same. Nearly the entire audience was wearing black, making Lady Leisterfield’s golden hair quite noticeable in the candlelight. He remembered that hair draped around her naked body as he’d taken her to his bed. The silken strands, so soft against her breasts, fanned out on the pillow as he’d sunk his rigid flesh into her warm heat. The very thought caused his groin to swell, so he sat up straight and placed his playbill in his lap. The theatre was too well lighted for such reveries. Besides, he wanted the actual woman in his bed, not a memory.

  Sir Alex appeared to be similarly enamored of the virtuous widow. Would she entertain the man’s suit? Only a few years Eustace’s junior, he had received the Order of the Bath for his valor in France and could count lands and a prominent family among his assets. Enough perhaps for any woman. Still, would Lady Leisterfield truly leave his bed to seek that of Sir Alex? The thought was totally unacceptable. How dare she leave him at all? But that was just what she had done, and to defeat his wager no less. What had she been thinking?

  He’d had many women, but in truth he knew little of them or how their minds worked. Perhaps it was time he sought some expert advice. He could not ask Ormond, who had barely managed to snag the rebellious Lady Mary. Besides, the marquess might be tempted to gloat over being so right about that horrible word tawdry. No, Christopher needed a wiser voice. The choice of who that should be was what occupied him much more than the play at the Sans Pareil.

  The next day he called
upon Lady Claremont. The dowager countess was known in the ton for her elegant balls and clever matches, and she hadn’t seemed to look down on him as did some of the other elderly females in the ton. He’d wager she could tell him a thing or two. He was relying upon it.

  “Ah, the rogue comes. To what do I owe this honor, Lord Eustace?” asked the dignified older woman, beckoning him to take a seat in her parlour. She was back to wearing feathers, though this one set upon a dark gray turban was black like a raven’s wing, the same color as her gown. “Will you take some brandy, perhaps?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “See to it, Cruthers, if you will. Then you may leave us.”

  The butler silently went about the task, and when there was a brandy before Christopher and a sherry before the lady, the older man departed.

  Christopher waited a moment then took a sip. “I come seeking advice, Countess.”

  “I see.” She raised her quizzing glass to study his face. “Not sleeping well, are you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I recognize the signs, my lord. That haggard look is familiar to me, particularly since at the recent entertainments I see you with many women save the one you fancy. It’s the look men always get before they succumb, don’t you know.”

  “Succumb?”

  “To marriage, my lord.”

  Christopher nearly choked. “Did I say I came with that in mind?”

  “You need not speak of it. Nonetheless, you have all the signs. It is Lady Leisterfield, is it not?”

  He must have turned red. “Is it that obvious?”

  “To me, yes. But then I am something of a connoisseur of the subject. Not of women, you understand, at least not the way you are, but rather of putting couples together. It is one of my favorite pastimes. I have watched you many a night as your eyes lingered long on my friend, the young widow. She is a woman worthy of any man.”