Wicked Under the Covers, page 14
Perplexed, her mother asked, “Why would the duke do anything? I suppose he might take them down to the cellar.”
Fayre did not bother concealing her horror as she imagined her father ordering Curdey to bury the earls’ bodies in the cellar. “Why are you doing this? This cordial tableau you have orchestrated is outrageous, even by our family’s standards. If you desire Papa’s attention, there must be another way to rouse his violent passions!”
“Daughter, you are practically babbling. What is so troubling about Crescett and Hawxby joining us for breakfast? We had planned to go shopping later. I see no reason why the gentlemen could not provide us escort.”
“Why? Have you taken leave of your senses, Mama?” Fayre demanded, her voice rising with her exasperation. “Sitting here at the table with both your lovers is a hullabaloo even the duke will not be able to overlook!”
The conversation at the end of the table ceased as the two gentlemen stared at Fayre with varying degrees of astonishment and amusement.
The duchess had had enough of her daughter’s hysteria. “Lovers? Why would I possibly desire two? I brought Hawxby home for you!”
Fayre had been mortified by the duchess’s admission. Too stunned to speak a single word, she had to admit that both gentlemen had recovered quickly and had attempted to smooth over the awkwardness brought about by the women’s conversation with the recounting of their host’s antics from the previous evening.
Now, returning Lord Hawxby’s regard, Fayre said, “My lord, I am undeserving of any praise. In truth, I owe both you and Lord Crescett an apology for my accusations.”
“Why? For speaking the truth? Crescett and the duchess are lovers.” He nodded at the building of the silk mercer where the earl and her mother were selecting fabric for the new evening dress she fancied. “They are hardly being discreet. Nor do you owe me an apology, my lady. The duchess is a lovely, desirable woman. If I did not favor the interest of her daughter exceedingly, I might have been tempted to seduce Her Grace away from Crescett.”
Flabbergasted, Fayre held up a hand in a protective gesture. “Lord Hawxby, you have never spoken—I was not aware.”
The earl curled his hand tenderly around her extended one and lowered it between them. “I know. You saw no one but Lord Standish.” At her alarmed expression, he murmured soothingly in an attempt to calm her, “Despite the duchess’s optimistic expectations, I understand that your heart is conflicted. One day, it is my hope when your sorrow fades that you will consider—”
“Providence,” Maccus said, his voice infused with false cheerfulness. “When shopping, a lady’s astute opinion is always an asset.”
Fayre whirled around to confront Maccus. Forgetting she had a gentleman attached to her hand, she jerked the man forward. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, freeing her hand. “Mr. Brawley. Good afternoon, sir.”
She hurriedly dispensed with the introductions since Lord Hawxby did not seemed happy about Maccus’s presence, either.
“I thought you were attending Cadell’s lecture on astrology this afternoon,” Maccus said, revealing rather smugly an intimacy with Fayre he was certain irritated the besotted gentleman.
“It was astronomy,” she corrected crisply, her tone hinting at her displeasure with him. “My plans were altered when the duchess had a whim for shopping. We—” She stopped speaking, and stared helplessly at the silk mercer’s building across the street. “Mama prefers shopping with an entourage.”
Lord Hawxby patted Fayre’s shoulder encouragingly, earning him a murderous glare from Maccus. The pair was obviously sharing secrets. “So Mr. Brawley, you mentioned that you needed a lady’s opinion,” the man prompted.
“Aye. I was in the mood to celebrate. Earlier, I had learned a risky venture I was anticipating had yielded a sizable profit,” Maccus said, not taking his gaze off Fayre’s expressive face.
She was genuinely pleased for his good fortune. He was glad that she was not still angry with him. “Congratulations, Mr. Brawley,” Fayre said softly.
“Nicely done, Mr. Brawley. What type of business are you in?”
Maccus noted the hint of derision in Lord Hawxby’s question. Anyone in trade was not part of the earl’s world. Or Fayre’s. “The very risky, very profitable sort, Lord Hawxby.”
A flurry of activity across the street distracted the earl before he could form a proper retort to Maccus’s arrogant statement. Fayre, also noticing the small group exiting the shop, carefully stepped away from both gentlemen, putting a respectable distance between them.
Maccus recognized the lady in the center of the approaching whirlwind as the Duchess of Solitea. Spotting her daughter, the older woman charged across the street, heedless of the horses and carriages on the street. Two footmen, each carrying a small mountain of wrapped packages, and a fashionably dressed gentleman darted after their reckless companion.
“Fayre, my girl, there you are. I sorely needed your counsel inside for I could not choose between four exquisite bolts of fabric the proprietor had presented, and Crescett was no help,” the duchess lamented, casting a wilting stare at her male companion.
“Why decide when you could purchase all?” Lord Crescett said, seeming bored with the argument. “The duke can afford to indulge you.”
“Of course, but that is not the point, my darling man,” the duchess said, exasperated. To Fayre, she said, “The colors flatter both our complexions so when the fabric arrives at the house you must choose two for yourself. The prospect of having new dresses made should brighten your gloomy disposition.”
Maccus deduced there was some underlying friction between mother and daughter. It explained why Fayre had not attended the duchess in the shop and her reluctance for Maccus to encounter the lady.
“As always, you are generous, Mama,” Fayre said politely, stepping forward to kiss her mother on the cheek.
The duchess glanced speculatively from Lord Hawxby to Maccus. “And what are you doing with my daughter, Hawxby?”
“Nothing, Your Grace,” the earl replied, earning Maccus’s reluctant respect for shielding Fayre from her gregarious mother.
The duchess fluttered her lashes flirtatiously. “Then you disappoint me, my lord. And you, sir.” The older woman’s gaze honed in on Maccus keenly. Her transparent interest in him had Maccus wondering if Lord Crescett provided Her Grace other services besides gallant escort. “Who are you to my daughter?”
Anxious about Maccus’s unpredictable response, Fayre said, “Mama, this is Mr. Brawley, an acquaintance of Lord Yemant’s.”
Maccus bowed. “And a humble admirer of your daughter.”
Poor, brave Fayre, he thought as he watched her clear green eyes betray her distress about her mother’s un-abashed curiosity. Like all dutiful daughters, her attempts at subterfuge faltered in the presence of her mother.
“A lady can never have too many admirers,” the duchess said blithely. “Do you not agree, Mr. Brawley?”
“I was taught never to disagree,” Maccus countered, kissing the older woman’s hand, “with a beautiful lady.” Both Lord Crescett and Fayre sulked at his flirtatious gesture.
The lady trilled with laughter. “Oh, I do like you, Mr. Brawley.” Her Grace took his arm, adding him to her little group. “What good fortune has brought you to us?”
“The handsome increase of my own,” Maccus quipped and was rewarded with a playful squeeze on his arm by the duchess. He risked a brief glance at Fayre. She was looking everywhere but in his direction, following at their heels with Lord Hawxby and Lord Crescett on each side like stylish buttresses. “The news has prompted me to buy an indulgence for a good friend.”
“Of which you no doubt have many,” Her Grace interjected, her calculated flattery finding its mark in spite of Maccus’s resolve not to be charmed. It was not surprising the duchess attracted the interest of gentlemen half her age. Her beauty and practiced sauciness were a potent combination. If Fayre ever decided to emulate her mother, she would be a formidable rival.
“Now you flatter me, Your Grace.”
The duchess tossed a glance over her shoulder at her too silent daughter. “Fayre, my girl, why did you not present Mr. Brawley to me sooner? Is he merely being polite or is he always this modest?”
Fayre brushed imaginary lint off her sleeve. “I have discovered that Mr. Brawley is exceptionally amendable to all occasions.”
Maccus winced at her frosty tone. At some point, he had made a grave miscalculation with Fayre. He found this bewildering because he had not only resisted throttling the earl, he had been endearingly polite to her mother. Had he not been the one aggrieved when he came upon her and Hawxby holding hands? Now the scoundrel, Lord Hawxby, was sneering at him, pleased by what he perceived as Maccus’s bungling of the situation, and Fayre was not speaking to him.
The Duchess of Solitea beamed at him and refused to release his arm. Lord Crescett had finally noticed his lover’s rapt fascination with Maccus and had lost his bored expression. The man, frankly, looked murderous. As Fayre had predicted, Maccus was amendable. Later, when he escaped his mad companions, the gift he sought to purchase would be used to placate instead of celebrate.
11
Dangling her legs over the armrest of her father’s favorite chair in the library, Fayre was grateful it was evening. It had been an awful day. She should have cried off when her mother had suggested an afternoon of shopping with the earls. Then she would not have witnessed the doting affection of her mother’s lover, no Lord Hawxby offering his admiration from afar and no Maccus Brawley.
The afternoon had been trying. Once she had disentangled her mother from Mr. Brawley’s arm, Fayre had to sit beside Lord Hawxby in the carriage while both of them pretended not to listen to Lord Crescett’s jealous tantrum regarding the duchess’s outrageous conduct toward Mr. Brawley.
Fayre had bid adieu to all three of them, leaving her mother to smooth the ripples of discontent. Her own plans for the afternoon had been ruined. She had missed Mr. Cadell’s lecture on astronomy, and after watching Mr. Brawley flirt with her mother in public, she had lost all interest in honoring her part of the bargain that day. Fayre had retired to her room, pleading a headache.
Hours later, her mother had sent her maid with a note inviting Fayre to attend the theater and a late supper with her, but she politely refused. She was not quite up to appeasing her mother’s curiosity about Mr. Brawley. Sometime during her nap, her father had returned to the house, changed into his evening clothes, and departed again.
Fayre was alone. Most of the staff had been dismissed for the evening, and the remaining servants were either relaxing in the workroom or sleeping. Stoic about her self-imposed isolation, she considered reading a book or tackling the pile of correspondence she had been neglecting lately.
Fifteen minutes passed and Fayre was still considering her options. There was something to be said for being lazy, she decided, stretching out her right leg. She pointed her toe and admired her slipper. Frowning, she noticed several of the beads missing. They were her favorite pair! It was another indication what an abysmal day it had been.
Rolling her head so her cheek rested on the armrest, Fayre realized there was a man standing in the doorway watching her. Shrieking in fright, she scrambled out of her awkward pose in the chair and rolled onto the floor.
Maccus crouched down on the floor next to her. He stroked his chin as if contemplating her inelegant sprawl.
Fayre blew the strands of hair out of her eyes and glared at him. Blast the man, his shoulders were shaking! “If you laugh I vow you will regret it.”
It took him a minute, but he fought to keep his expression somber. “I have often wondered what a lady did in her leisure. What exactly were you doing? Counting your toes?”
With the promise of violence in her eyes, Fayre launched herself at Maccus. “Your life is forfeited!”
Laughing heartily at her vehement oath, he caught her against his chest and collapsed on his back. “Enough, Fayre,” he said, when she pummeled his chest with her fists. “I yield!”
Fayre ceased her assault as she noticed their compromising position on the floor of her father’s library. Maccus was on his back laughing like a Bedlamite and she was astride him. Climbing off him, she backed up until she was sitting in the chair again.
“You took three years off my life, Maccus Brawley!” she said, placing her hand over her pounding heart. “What are you doing prowling about the house?”
Maccus sat up and pulled his knees up to his chest. “I realize it is a bit late for callers, but I knocked. No one answered so I went around back to the servants’ entrance. One of your maids was stepping out with her man, and just happened to reveal that you were alone inside sulking.”
Fayre’s head snapped up indignantly. “No one told you such a thing.” The man was being deliberately provoking. She had not mentioned what had occurred to anyone.
Maccus gave her an incredulous look since she should have understood the inner workings of household gossip better than he. “I regret I confessed all, my jewel. I told the couple that like all young lovers, we had had a row. Naturally, they were sympathetic. You barely touched your supper and Cook was concerned.”
She sputtered; the audacity of this man was beyond her realm. Oh, the lies he told! “How did you know I—”
“Fayre . . . Fayre, it is amazing what information can be bought for a few coins.”
“You bribed your way in?”
In the spirit of his tale, Maccus rolled forward on his knees and took her hand. “I told them that I was repentant for my part and was willing to beg your forgiveness. The maid was in favor of the romantic gesture. The servants are very fond of you, Fayre. Neither one of them thought too much of Standish, you know,” he confided, his eyes twinkling. “They wished me luck before they dashed off.”
How her family would be thrilled to learn that the servants opened the door to anyone who had a sad tale and a few coins to spare. “If the duchess learns of this, your confidants will get sacked for your mischief.”
Maccus wiggled his brows at her. “Then we will not tell your mother, now will we?” He jumped to his feet and held out his hand. “Come along.”
Fayre slipped her hand into his and was unceremoniously hauled up. “What are you doing here?” He tugged her a few steps. “Where are we going?”
His swarthy skin darkened and his eyes smoldered in banked fury as he recalled why he had been forced to seek her out. “You did not come by the house this afternoon.”
Still not pleased by his contribution to her awful afternoon, Fayre clutched at one of the balusters at the bottom of the staircase he seemed intent on dragging her up. “Was I supposed to? I do not recall the stipulation in your infamous bargain that I am required to call upon your residence daily. Besides, I might have come across your brother.” She held tight, refusing to budge another step. “God forbid, I dare engage poor Trevor in a civil conversation.”
He refused to dignify her taunt with a rebuttal or an apology, it was not surprising Fayre would point out that he had acted like a horse’s arse about her meeting Trevor. Even his brother was avoiding him these days. He had disappeared shortly after Maccus had discovered them laughing and sharing confidences in the drawing room. Trevor probably planned to stay in hiding until Maccus’s temper cooled. Glaring at Fayre, he sensed that day was not in the near future. “You know damn well I was expecting you,” he said thunderously. “Firstly, because we had talked about it the previous day, and secondly, because you have a habit of reserving your Wednesdays for our visits.”
Fayre could not refute his logic, which doubly vexed her. “My plans changed. Mama wanted to go shopping. I do not know why you are acting surly, we met up anyway, just not at your house.”
“We haven’t time for your tantrum. Let go of the bannister,” Maccus growled warningly.
“Not until you tell me what this is all about.”
“Very well, we’ll talk.” Without hesitating, Maccus severed her hold on the railing and tossed her over his shoulder. “Later.” He marched upstairs with her pounding on his back.
Even with Fayre squirming in an attempt to unbalance him, Maccus bounded up the stairs without a break in his stride. Dossett had provided him with the basic layout of the Soliteas’ town house so he was able to take his reluctant captive directly to her bedchamber with little effort. Kicking open her door, he carried her across the room and dumped her on the bed.
“Dress for the evening,” he ordered tersely, hoping to avoid arguing with her. He strode over to the window and closed the curtains.
With her hands at her sides, Fayre kneaded the soft bedding, most likely wishing Maccus’s neck were in her grasp. “I have decided to remain in this evening.”
“Oh, aye, I saw what a grand time you were having, humming softly to yourself and playing with your toes.” He returned to her side and dodged the pillow she threw at him.
“For the last time, I was not playing with my toes!”
Fayre was clearly still mortified that he had glimpsed her in an unguarded moment. The servants Maccus had spoken with had not told him what Fayre had been doing; however, he had imagined her working on something refined like embroidering handkerchiefs or playing the harpsichord. The hoyden lounging sideways on an oversized chair with her legs exposed had been a revelation. He doubted few had ever seen her so relaxed and indulging in some private silliness.
“I’m not leaving you here to mope around the house like a persecuted ghost,” he said curtly, deciding anger might encourage her quicker than sympathy. “Call your maid.”
“I sent her away since I am not leaving the house this evening,” she replied, petulant.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He reached for her, but Fayre scrambled backward across the bed. Maccus crawled after her, grabbed her ankle and dragged her under him. The battle was fierce and lasted mere seconds. His long legs pinned her down, preventing her from kicking him. He shackled her wrists and slammed them into the bedding above her head. “I have been thinking about kissing you since that day in the kitchen.”
