Barbara Metzger (19 page)
Authors: Lord Heartless
Spite, that's what it was. Carissa now understood why Lord Hartleigh lived on the outskirts of London, sowing more than his fair share of wild oats. He'd been driven to it by that self-righteous, sanctimonious shrew, the same way Carissa was being driven to the opera. Of course she would ride in Hartleigh's elegant coach, if it could carry her weight with the chip Carissa held on her shoulder.
To ... to the devil with all of them, she angrily thought once the viscountess had fled the house, claiming to be suffering an agitation of nerves that required the liveried footman—the large, handsome footman, Carissa noted—to carry her to her carriage.
Carissa had tried to live her life circumspectly, she reminded herself, as honorably as she possibly could. She'd gained nothing by it. No one believed in her virtue, not even Hartleigh himself, who should know better. At least he knew she was not his mistress, although he might have renewed expectations after that kiss she'd so brazenly shared with him. Virtue might be its own reward, but Carissa was reaping the wages of sin, without the enjoyment. That was going to change. Mrs. Kane decided she might as well please herself, since her behavior pleased no one else. She would go to the opera or Drury Lane or Vauxhall Gardens, and shame those high-nosed hypocrites with her presence.
For spite, too, she decided to buy a new gown, selling her wedding ring to finance the purchase. If that dastard Phillip Kane wanted to declare her his wife, let him provide her another. He hadn't provided her much else but aggravation. Besides, the ring had likely been paid for with her own funds. Carissa was not going to worry about Phillip exposing her widowhood as a sham, not at the theater. What would he gain by that except a wife he did not want and a child he could not afford?
The more she thought about his furtive behavior, his admitted “troubles” with the army, his needing funds so desperately, she realized that Phillip would not wish to be seen in public, any more than she wanted her deceased husband resurrected. He only wanted money from her, not a marriage. Well, she'd rather buy another gown for Aunt Mattie than give another groat to the man who'd already taken everything, including her future.
Pearl-gray was what she had in mind for her new gown, dignified, demure, and decorous. The inexpensive dressmaker her aunt knew of had an unclaimed gown, however, that she'd part with for half its worth. The frock was of burnt orange silk, with an ecru lace overskirt. It had three bands of darker ribbon at the hem, and matching trim at the low neckline and short, puffed sleeves. The gown fit perfectly, delineating both her slim hips and her bounteous bosom. There was nothing modest about the dress except its price, and Carissa loved it, from the whisper of the silk as she moved to the lace that barely concealed her breasts. With a matching ribbon at her throat and a coronet of orange rosebuds in her hair, Carissa felt she looked every inch the lady. Or a ladybird with good taste.
The entire household stood in the hallway to admire Mrs. Kane in her finery. Everyone except Sue, of course, who complained that she was not permitted to drool on the silk. Lesley was the most appreciative. He'd heard of Agatha's visit and could imagine what was said. He'd have words with his stepmother another time, and see that she never darkened this doorstep again with her venom. For now, though, he was thankful that the witch had convinced Carissa to show some starch of her own. Whatever it took to see her dressed to the hilt—and what a hilt—and out in Society where she belonged was fine with him.
Lesley knew he couldn't buy Carissa the dress, but he could purchase a pair of opera glasses or a filigree flower-holder for her, some impersonal item she could carry. He decided on a fan, the perfect thing in case she wished to avoid the inevitable stares, and he took only an entire afternoon to select the perfect one. It was silk, with laughing cherubim painted on it, and she adored it.
Carissa also adored how he'd invited Aunt Mattie's rooming-house cronies to share their box. Impoverished gentlewomen all, they gaily waved and called out to their prosperous relations, who could not, therefore, pretend they hadn't seen Hartleigh and his supposed housekeeper. He'd invited his stepmother first, as was proper, sending round a note saying that although he would be using the family box, she and her wards were welcome to share it with his other guests, including Mrs. Kane.
Agatha would sooner take tea with Attila the Hun. She would not sit with that woman, lending countenance to the disgraceful affair, as Lesley well knew. Unfortunately, even if she'd been willing to purchase tickets for herself and her stepsisters, all the other boxes were taken. Lady Hartleigh would
not
sit in the pit with the rabble, which meant she and her stepsisters had to be the only members of the ton not in attendance at such a major social event of the Season. Agatha would have gnashed her teeth, except that always gave her the headache.
The dowager would have had more than a migraine if she'd seen the widow—and her reception. Beyond the nods and half bows from the antique aunties’ kin, a few of the viscount's gentlemen friends called at the box during intermissions. They were his friends, which meant they were neither trying to sniff out more scandal nor attempting to cut him out with the beautiful widow, at least not seriously enough to call forth a challenge. They were everything courteous, respectful, and appreciative. Lesley was thankful to his friends and proud of Carissa's gracious acceptance of their admiration. He was also careful to introduce Carissa to each gentleman using her title, her great-aunt's title, and her father's title. The highest sticklers might never accept her, but she was Macclesfield's daughter, by George, and now everyone knew it.
The Earl of Macclesfield was not quite so gratified. He entered the box at the last intermission, when Lord Hartleigh had gone to fetch refreshments. With an angry jerk of his head, the earl cleared the box of the old ladies.
"It don't suit me to have m'daughter the
on dit
of the day,” he declared by way of greeting to the child he hadn't seen in nearly five years.
It didn't suit him to
have
a daughter, Carissa thought. The earl had not seemed to mind her starving or going into service, so long as his friends did not see. She had no intention of brangling with him in public, however, so she merely inclined her head. “Good evening, Father, and how do you do?” He did as well as ever, she saw, somewhat grayer and somewhat more gone to fat, but with the same impatience for underlings, such as his wayward daughter.
"You'll never bring him up to scratch, you know. Hartleigh's not stupid enough to buy what he's been getting for free."
Carissa ignored the unveiled innuendo. “Not that it is any of your concern, Father, since you washed your hands of me long ago, but I would not think of trying to bring Lord Hartleigh up to scratch, as you so inelegantly put it.” Again out of spite, and feeling good to so upset the old curmudgeon, Carissa waved her gloved hand at the surroundings, at herself. “I am quite enjoying my life as a fallen woman, don't you know. A box at the opera, a fancy gown, gifts. I am certain jewels will come soon, aren't you?"
Macclesfield glowered. “You always had an odd kick to your gallop, girl."
Acknowledging his opinion with a brief nod, she went on: “Besides, you know I cannot be thinking of remarrying. You've seen Phillip."
"That loose screw? He wants money, not you. Pay him off and he'll return to the rock he crawled out from. No one'll be the wiser. You ain't been dunderheaded enough to mention the bounder to Hartleigh, have you?"
"No, I would not bother Lesley with such trifles as a husband."
The earl was thinking. “You know, Heartless just might marry you after all. Be just like that randy young rip to hitch himself to a whore, just to set the ton on its ears. If you nab him, I'll give you my blessings."
Carissa sat taller. “If I marry Lord Hartleigh, which is an impossibility as matters now stand, I shall not need your blessings, any more than I have needed them these past years to raise my daughter, your grandchild. Save your prayers for your shriveled soul, Father. You'll need them."
Aunt Mattie was enthusing over the lovely time they'd had, despite the somewhat uncomfortable circumstances, during the entire ride home. She was positive they'd laid all the gossip to rest, with Lord Hartleigh's contrivance. She must have thanked dear Lesley a hundred times, Carissa thought, well aware they hadn't changed a single mind.
Aunt Mattie kept praising the viscount to the skies, even as she undressed for bed, declaring the whole while that she was sure she wouldn't sleep a wink, so excited was she by the evening's entertainment.
She was snoring by the time her great-niece returned from checking on Philippa. Carissa was exhausted from the tension of the evening and the preparations beforehand, but she knew she couldn't fall asleep with such a strident symphony next to her pillow. She could not even join Pippa on her narrow cot, for when she checked, the dog had been stretched on one side of the child, the cat curled up on the other. And the dog snored as loudly as Aunt Mattie.
So she decided to share Lord Hartleigh's bed.
This was not a moment's decision, since she'd been thinking of nothing else for days, it seemed. She wanted him, he wanted her. What could be simpler? Carissa had only to smother her scruples, the way she covered the canary.
Her own father thought she was a whore. All of London thought she was Hartleigh's mistress, the mother of his backdoor baby. Even the old ladies had struggled to hide their titters as Lord Hartleigh leaned closer to Carissa during the performance, or held her hand overlong as he helped her into the carriage. Her own husband assumed she was having an adulterous affair—and thought to profit by it. Well, Lord Hartleigh was paying her handsomely. He was acting the part of protector, provider, and particular friend. The only thing he was not was her bed-partner. Carissa was about to change that.
She was not ashamed of anything she'd done in the past, even if her actions had cost her reputation. She'd done what she had to, to care for her daughter. Carissa had not sacrificed her honor yet, not by marrying Sir Gilliam, not by dallying with the scores of men who had propositioned her, thinking her a lonely widow of easy virtue. Virtue wasn't easy and it wasn't very satisfying, either.
What she was about to do was wrong. Carissa would not try to delude herself into thinking the circumstances could justify her actions, although she did not think she had the power to stop, now that she'd decided to go to him. They were no star-crossed lovers, no innocents giving all for love. She was a fallen woman and he was a rake; that was the sum total of her excuses.
There was no future for them, she knew. Lord Heartless would move on to the next woman who caught his fancy, or the wife he would be forced to take. And Carissa's heart would go with him. She was going to suffer no matter what, and forever, she feared, so she might as well enjoy what she could of him now.
The decision made, Carissa was not merely going to fall from grace; she was going to leap before her good sense overcame her. Still in her evening finery, she raised her head, raised her candle, and raised her hand to knock on Hartleigh's door as soon as she heard Byrd leave.
His coat was off, as were his shoes and his neckcloth. Lud, she hadn't thought of what he'd be wearing, only that her own night rail was flannel, too faded and darned for an
affaire.
He looked up from the papers he was reading, expecting Byrd, perhaps. “What...?"
"I couldn't sleep,” was all she could say, not having thought about this part of the evening either.
"You couldn't sleep?” he repeated curiously as he rose to his stockinged feet. “And you thought I might have a book of sermons to make you drowsy? Or did you mistake my room for the kitchen, thinking to fetch some warm milk?"
"Don't be a nodcock, my lord. You know why I have come."
"Mrs. Kane, I have absolutely no idea what in heaven's name you are doing in my bedroom. I might have my fond hopes, but women bent on seduction do not go around calling their lovers by their titles. Women in a gentleman's employ do not keep reminding him of the canons he'd be breaking."
"Very well,
Lesley,
do not be a nodcock."
"Ah.” He smiled, raised her hand to his mouth, and tenderly kissed the palm. “But I need to hear it from your own lips, my dear. There will be no recriminations in the morning?"
What was she supposed to say, that she did this all the time, that she never regretted a night's pleasure, or that she ached for his arms so badly that no amount of guilty feelings was going to sway her? She merely shook her head. No, she would not blame him, nor ask for more than he was willing to give.
"And your Aunt Mattie won't come charging in here with a pistol and a special license?"
For answer she turned and locked the door, then handed him the key. “Ah,” he said again, satisfied, dropping it to the floor. He took the pins out of her hair, letting roses also fall to the ground at their feet. Then he held out his arms and she stepped into his embrace, as if coming in from a long, cold journey.
His lips on hers were everything she'd been dreaming of, fairy dust and fireworks and floating on air. Six senses did somersaults in her mind, in her insides. His hands were touching her everywhere, as if he'd memorize the feel of her, and she reached for him, too, to unbutton his shirt, to know his bare skin.
Lesley caught her trembling hands, brought them to his lips, and stepped back. “No. I am honored, I am moved, I am tempted beyond mortal man's frail resistance, but no, my dear. I cannot accept your charming offer."
"No?” Carissa gasped. “No?” She'd humiliated herself, come panting after him like a mare in season, and he said no? “But I let you touch my—I let you touch me. And take down my hair, and oh, good heavens, my buttons are undone!"
He was smiling, the devil. “And delightful buttons they were. Here, turn around and I shall do them up for you again."
