Wicked Under the Covers, page 8
He was baiting her again. The man seemed to enjoy provoking her anger. “Not so vast, Mr. Brawley. Just sensible.”
“There is a lesson to be learned here, I am sure.” He stared at the painting that had captured her attention. He shook his head, obviously unimpressed with the picture. “Though I doubt it has anything to do with art. I am a simple man, my lady. For clarity’s sake, why do you not speak plainly?”
There was nothing simple about the gentleman. “Very well, sir.” Two gentlemen joined them to admire the Rembrandt. Fayre and Mr. Brawley strolled nonchalantly to the next painting to continue their conversation in private. “I have agreed to your bargain. Do not, however, mistake my agreement for trust. I am not some foolish chit you can hoodwink with a charming smile while you delve into deeper play behind my back. If you overstep your bounds, sir, I shall cut you dead the next time we meet and you can consign your generous assistance to perdition.”
Mr. Brawley sighed. “Standish struck a devastating blow, didn’t he?”
Fayre tried to focus on the copy of Vandyke’s Cupid and Psyche in front of her, but the turmoil welling in her breast was too distracting. “My feelings about Lord Standish are not a subject I wish to discuss with you.”
Her forbidding tone did not discourage him in the least. “Then maybe I am asking the wrong question. What I really want to know is how long do you intend to make us pay?”
Fayre was so puzzled by his question, she gave up on the pretense of studying the picture and met his level gaze. “Us? Pay? I do not know what you speak of.”
“I am referring to every gent who comes along after Standish. How long will you punish every one of us for the bastard’s sins? If you want blood, shouldn’t you be concentrating on taking slices out of his hide instead of mine?”
“I am,” she said angrily, ashamed that he saw her behavior in such a distasteful light.
“With my help,” he growled back. “Do not forget that part.” He cocked his head, noticing the people wandering nearby. A student to the right of them had set up her easel and was preparing to paint. No one seemed interested in their argument.
“That still remains to be seen, Mr. Brawley,” she said sweetly.
He curled his arm around her waist. His grip was neither tender nor playful. “We are finished here. I let you have things your way, now it is my turn.”
He masterfully escorted her through the arched doorway and through the next. There was no way she could escape his firm embrace without drawing notice. “Release me! I cannot leave now. I intended to purchase one of these pictures before the exhibit closes.”
“I have faith you will recover from the crushing disappointment,” he said, stepping out into the street. The arm around her waist slid free and caught her wrist. Grunting in satisfaction, he tugged her to the left toward a hackney.
“Wait! I have my own carriage here. Mr. Brawley, where are we going?”
He nodded to the coachman as he bustled her into the carriage. “Someplace of my choosing, my lady. I appreciate your efforts to enlighten me by letting me stare at a few dozen pictures until my sight glazes over. Sadly, I am a lost cause in this idle pastime. I don’t think I’m fashioned to be a patron of the fine arts.”
“I cannot remain here too long.”
This was the fourth comment Lady Fayre had uttered on the subject in the past thirty minutes, and frankly, Maccus was feeling the lady was not truly appreciative of his grand gesture. It was a rare occasion for him to open his private life to anyone. Inspiration had struck as he had bundled the protesting lady into the nearest hired coach. The anticipation of showing Lady Fayre his house increased as they had drawn closer. It should not have mattered what his companion thought of his recent purchase. Regardless, his nerves were agonizingly stretched beyond their limits while he waited for her to praise or condemn his choice.
“If our time together is so limited, I suggest we do not fritter it away on art exhibitions,” Maccus said mildly.
Lady Fayre sent him a quick, nervous smile. “You really have no interest in art?” She reverently stroked the bronze arm of the gladiator displayed in the front hall.
He froze, riveted by the gentle manner in which she touched each piece of statuary she encountered. It was oddly sensual, although he doubted she was aware of her actions. He had never been more envious of a chunk of metal in his life. “None. So you will be wasting your time convincing me otherwise,” he said tersely, in an attempt to conceal his discomfort.
“Oh, I shall not bother. Nevertheless, I daresay the art I have glimpsed in this hall alone calls you a liar, Mr. Brawley.”
He took her elbow and guided her to the drawing room. “The house and contents were sold to me in its entirety. I have not owned the property long, and have yet to alter the previous owner’s influence.”
“I am curious how you managed to purchase this house. I was not even aware it had been placed on the auction block.”
Crossing his arms, Maccus leaned against the mantel. Intrigued, he asked, “Prying into my finances, Lady Fayre?”
“Not in the least,” she denied swiftly. “It is just that my mother’s family was acquainted with the previous owner, Lady Chute. I recall, as a small child, chasing after the pair of small dogs she was partial to up and down the horseshoe-shaped stairs.”
Maccus could envision a petite, fiery long-haired imp squealing with glee as she dashed after a pair of old dogs that probably wanted to be left alone. “I was given to understand that Lady Chute has been dead for five years.”
“Yes, she had a weak heart and it finally gave out,” Lady Fayre said, her voice rich with regret. Instead of sitting, she went to the window. “We were residing at our country estate and did not attend the funeral. I never met the heir.”
“Neither did I. I heard he was a bit of an eccentric who preferred living on the coast. A friend contacted me when he learned the nephew was discreetly making inquiries about selling the house.”
“Why the secrecy? Lady Chute was an avid collector of objets d’art, which in themselves must be of considerable value. Age has not diminished the grandeur of the house, even if the façade is bland in comparison to some of the new architecture. I know several families that would have bought the house for its pastoral window views alone.”
She was studying the view as she spoke. He liked the graceful lines of her profile. Lady Fayre complemented the old-fashioned interior of the elegant drawing room. Pushing off from the mantel and stalking her from behind, Maccus realized he liked having her in his house. “Are you begrudging me my good fortune, my lady?” He stroked the indentation at the back of her neck.
To his delight, she shivered and glared at him, her green faerie eyes sparking. “Do not be silly. I thought the nephew’s actions odd, that is all.”
He placed his hand on the window casement, effectively caging her. “My friend Dossett explained that several members of Lady Chute’s family were not pleased with the meager amounts settled on them. One of the cousins had an acute affection for gambling and considerable losses to show for his efforts. There was pressure from the elders for the nephew to add to the various settlements, but he was reluctant to part with his inheritance. Since he did not want the house, it seemed sensible to sell it before one of his scheming relatives began stripping it of its valuable contents.”
“Ah, I see.” Suddenly realizing her predicament, Lady Fayre tried to step away, but she was trapped. “Mr. Brawley,” she began, probably wondering when she had lost the upper hand.
“My given name is Maccus. You will not go to perdition for using it. In fact, I insist,” he said, staring at her lips, marveling at their fullness. He was aware that willful ladies, even the noble kind, had a tendency to bite.
“You have asked for my guidance,” she protested, her forehead furrowing in frustration.
“In some instances, instinct prevails over your rules. Permit me to demonstrate,” Maccus said, just wanting a small taste.
With two fingers he tipped her face upward and lowered his mouth to hers. Her full lips were rigid, already forming the numerous reasons why they should not be kissing. He jerked his mouth away. “Say my name, Fayre.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “This is not right.”
“Not the way you are doing it. Standish must have been a lousy lover,” he said, despising the unknown man for touching her.
Her mouth parted in shock at his crudeness and he ruthlessly took advantage. Sealing his mouth over hers, his hands moved from the window casement to her slender shoulders. Not satisfied with the tiny taste he had originally wanted, he groaned and pulled back. His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Who are you kissing, Fayre?”
She had placed one hand on his chest. The other delicately brushed over her slightly swollen lower lip. “You.” Knowing he expected more, she added, “Maccus. But I still do not think—”
Painfully aroused, he silenced her with a quick, hard kiss. “Good. Let’s see how long I can keep you in that condition.”
“Two and twenty minutes,” Fayre murmured, still be-fuddled by her encounter with Mr. Maccus Brawley six hours later. The man had kissed her senseless. Worse still, she had liked it.
“Fayre, what is wrong with you?” Callie whispered, dragging her back to the present. They had attended Lord and Lady Pindar’s ball this evening together with her friend’s mother acting as their chaperone. “You have been staring at Mr. Lesterfeld so intently his face is as red as strawberries in the summer.”
She should have slapped Mr. Brawley when he first put his hands on her. Instead she had melted against him the instant his tongue had playfully stroked hers. “I am in trouble, Callie.”
Becoming alarmed, her friend pushed her toward the balcony. “Come along. You obviously need fresh air to clear your head.”
The ballroom was overflowing with guests, but Callie was determined. Within minutes the cool evening air was bathing Fayre’s face. She moved away from the doors, preferring the shadows.
“You owe me for saving you,” Callie said, leaning against the stone wall. “Mr. Lesterfeld was on the verge of breaking under your passionate stare. A few minutes more and he would have been begging you to marry him.”
Perplexed by her friend’s glee, Fayre asked, “Lesterfeld? What does Mr. Lesterfeld have to do with this?”
Callie choked on her laughter. “Goodness, it is worse that I thought. Poor Mr. Lesterfeld. Done in by stargazing. God save him if you ever look him straight in the eye.”
“Oh no,” Fayre groaned, dreading that she had inadvertently encouraged the bashful gentleman fifteen years her senior. He had quietly buried one wife and was seeking a replacement. “I had not even noticed.” This was what happened when you spent the afternoon kissing an inappropriate gentleman. “Maccus Brawley is to blame.”
Callie turned to face her, the humor of Fayre’s predicament still dancing in her warm brown eyes. “Maccus Brawley. You mean the gentleman we met in the park with Lord Yemant? What does he have to do with poor Mr. Lesterfeld?”
Across town, Maccus had tracked Lord Standish to one of London’s seedier gaming hells, aptly named, Moirai’s Lust. The establishment welcomed anyone willing to risk his fortune on a turn of a card or the faithless dice. Often, young noblemen drunk on their self-importance and the belief that they would live forever found their way to the dangerous alley. When their luck failed them at the tables, there were several brothels in the vicinity willing to lighten their purses before they fell drunkenly into their beds.
The stench in the alley reminded him of his childhood—of the narrow dingy streets packed with years of dirt, sewage, and rotting garbage. It was a place where no one grew old because disease, hunger, and violence claimed the ones who were fortunate enough to live beyond infancy. Few individuals found their way out of the crooked maze of dead-end streets. Maccus had survived. It was nothing he boasted about. Rather, he wished he could wipe the images and foul odors from his mind.
He entered the gaming hell, dodging two fighting men and the three who were sweeping the combatants into the street. The hell consisted of a large main room with private saloons that could be had for a price. A woman observing a game of whist looked up and smiled as he approached.
“Good evening, handsome,” she purred, appreciating what she saw and likely calculating his wealth. If she was a prostitute, she was a well-paid one. The quality of the green dress clinging to her curvaceous figure rivaled what was worn in most ballrooms. “In the mood for games?”
Maccus shook his head ruefully. The dark-haired temptress might have appealed to him a few weeks earlier, but not this evening. A certain lady with hair of cinnamon fire was haunting him. He could still taste her on his lips; her scent made him hunger for more, like a tantalizing spice.
“I am looking for Xavier,” he shouted over the din of voices.
The brunette accepted his rejection genially. “And would he want to be found by you, handsome?”
“Maccus Brawley. And yes, Xavier tolerates my presence,” he replied, his voice infused with charm.
Inclining her head, she said, “Try one of the back tables. There was an uproar earlier over a woman.” She rolled her eyes in disdain at the idiocy of men. “Knives were drawn. Xavier is soothing the delicate feelings of his noble patrons.”
“You have my gratitude.” Maccus bowed over her extended hand. “And who are you?”
The smile she bestowed on him had his stomach clenching. She reminded him of a sleek black cat toying with a little mouse with her sharp, lethal claws. “It is not who I am that is of importance, Mr. Brawley. What you might find more fascinating is who I can be for you—perhaps, later, when your commitments have waned.” She sauntered by him, letting her supple body brush against his.
“Are you a diviner?” he asked as she passed.
“No, handsome. Your face gave you away. I have seen that look countless times, and only a woman could put such a prickly mix of perplexity and annoyance on an intelligent man’s face. Best wishes on the hunt.”
“I must have your oath that you will not tell a soul,” Fayre insisted, thinking what her brother might do to Mr. Brawley if he learned of their meeting.
Callie sobered, realizing Fayre was not jesting. “Of course you have it. On my honor,” she promised. “What is troubling you? Is it Standish again?”
“No,” Fayre said, wrinkling her face at the thought of the loathsome man. “Not Standish. It is Mr. Brawley.”
“Are you letting his rudeness at the park bother you?” Callie asked, visibly relieved Fayre’s upset was something she could address. “Lord Yemant was very apologetic about his friend, though if you are seeking a kind word from that gentleman I believe he will leave you wanting.”
Leave her wanting. He had certainly done that! “I have seen him since the park; this afternoon, in fact. We both attended the same art exhibition,” she admitted, already regretting her reckless confession. Mr. Brawley had not sworn her to secrecy about their bargain, though she was positive he did not want her attempt at polishing him to be common knowledge among the ton.
Callie squealed in excitement and seized both Fayre’s hands. “Was this a planned meeting?” she asked eagerly. “Oh, what am I thinking? You despised Mr. Brawley almost immediately. I was worried you were planning to bash his head in with your parasol.”
Fayre winced, conceding that the thought of denting Mr. Brawley’s hard skull had occurred to her more than once. “I did not despise him exactly. His arrogance offended me. After Lord Standish, I have had my fill of gentlemen who believe every lady they encounter should yield to their dictates.”
“Good grief, Fayre, this reminds me of that romantic novel we were reading to each other last autumn. How did it go . . . ‘so sparks their indignation, slowly it fans into the flames of love,’ ” Callie quoted excitedly. “It sounds like the gentleman is courting you.”
Fayre could just imagine Mr. Brawley’s cynical response to such an outlandish suggestion. There was no romance involved in a bargain. “One kiss does not amount to a courtship.”
“He kissed you!”
“Hush, keep your voice down,” Fayre said, checking around them to see if they had been overheard. “There are enough rumors being bandied about regarding my close friendship with Lord Standish and Lady Hipgrave. We do not need to add Mr. Brawley to the unsavory broth of innuendos.”
The quiet reminder of Fayre’s current state of disgrace dimmed Callie’s natural vibrancy. “Perhaps your Mr. Brawley is a sign that despite Lord Standish’s slanderous efforts, most of polite society is sympathetic to your unfortunate plight.”
Callie’s view of her fellow man was too optimistic for her not to be disappointed one day. “According to my mother, sympathy rarely extends beyond the morning room. The only reason I have not been publicly shunned this season is due to my family’s considerable influence. Still, it has not prevented the daring from sniping at me.”
Only this morning, her mother was upset with her because Lady Winthrope had omitted Fayre’s name on the invitation to next week’s card party. The royal princesses were expected and the marchioness was being highly selective in choosing her guests. Fayre had shrugged off the slight, not particularly caring if she attended the card party. The duchess, however, viewed it as a personal slap in the face and an indication of the severity of her daughter’s disgrace. Fayre had left the morning room before her mother could suggest once again that Fayre should retire to Arianrod.
“And what of Mr. Brawley?”
Fayre rubbed her head. “An aberration. I cannot think of one reason why he kissed me.” Or why I liked it. “Curiosity, I suppose.”
Callie pursed her lips, glancing at her slyly. “He is a handsome gentleman.”
It was no reason to kiss a man. Fayre recalled how Lord Standish had held her protectively in his arms and declared his enduring love. She then thought of Mr. Brawley and his effortless charm as he proposed his mutually beneficial bargain. “Those are the worst kind.”
