Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (22 page)

Carver took another hasty swig of brandy. Sinjun was right; it was time he brought her out in public and showed her off. He didn’t want anyone thinking he was reluctant to do so, and she surely wouldn’t want that either.

***

She shrank away. “No. I don’t want to. I can’t. It’s impossible.”

“Margaret, it will be a quiet, intimate evening with friends. There is nothing to fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” she answered immediately, her face ghostly pale.

He told her to invite some of her own acquaintances, if that would make her more comfortable. “My oldest friend wants to meet you properly—socially. You’ll like Sinjun. He’s a very proper, well-behaved gentleman. Not like me.”

“But I won’t fit in. It will be awkward, distressing.”

Carver put his hands on her waist and drew her close. “Why not ask your friends if they would like to attend?”

“They won’t want to. I know already.” Her stubborn little face was closed off, turned away. Like a child avoiding her bath, he mused.

“Just ask them, Margaret. For me.” Gently he kissed her brow. “I thought you would want to be a part of my world.”

“I like things the way they are.”

“What happened to ‘
life
should
move
forward, my lord, not lie stagnant
’?”

She looked at him again, studied his lips. “I have noticed, sir, that although you accuse women of employing selective senses, your own memory retains the things I say only when they might be used for your own advantage.”

“I’m a member of the House of Lords, sweetling. I’m well trained in subjective hearing.”

That earned him a tiny smile and then a willful shake of her head. “In any case, I spoke of our arrangement. I prefer the secrecy. Perhaps it matters little to you, but I don’t want the entire world to know about us.”

“Of course not. These are a few of my close friends. You and I will simply be two guests among others.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You must trust me, Margaret, I will keep you safe. I would never put you in harm’s way.”

Her eyes flashed up at him. “But you did already. Our very first night together, remember?”

As if he might forget his unfortunate failure to withdraw from her body before he spent. It was the first time in his life that had ever happened, and his dratted conscience hadn’t shut up about it ever since, despite every effort to silence it. He was appalled by his lapse, wondering at the depths of this spell she’d cast over him. “You are right, Margaret. I was careless that first night, but it won’t happen again.” He added with a sudden grin, “Certainly not in the Earl of Saxonby’s drawing room. Although it might liven up the party though, don’t you think?”

She groaned.

“It would definitely make the Society pages,” he teased, feeling her tension melting away, her soft, reluctant chuckles drifting against his jaw as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Would there be illustrations of our wicked embrace to accompany the story?”

“I expect so, Danny. Vastly exaggerating your dimensions.”

“How could they possibly exaggerate my dimensions, Mouse?”

“True. They could not make your
nose
any larger than it is in life.”

They both laughed at that, although he tried not to. She got the upper hand with him too oft as it was, with her cunning, circuitous drollery.

He held her for a moment, enjoying the soft warmth of her body in his arms and the smart trot of her lively heart pressed to his chest. Then she said, “I don’t need you to protect me from your friends, Danny. I can stand up for myself. We country girls are bred from hearty stock, and I have very strong bones.”

“I know. Look how you stood up to me.”

“Until I succumbed to temptation,” she muttered wryly.

“Yes. There is that.” He kissed the top of her head. Her rich brown hair slid silkily against his lips and caught on the rough hairs of his chin where he hadn’t shaved today.

“I was once a good, honest woman, but I let you despoil me, and now look at me.”

Carver leaned back. “
You
seduced
me
, Mouse.”

She denied it, as always. “What did I know of seduction? I was an innocent. I was a maid, and you ruined me.”

Although she spoke teasingly—or he hoped she did—Carver had begun to feel remorse about that. He had, in fact, greeted several new “feelings” of late, and all thanks to her. Feelings, he’d always said, were the domain of hysterical women. He couldn’t understand it. She evidently did not belong with Rafe Hartley, and it wasn’t as if he’d stolen her away on his horse. It was her choice not to marry. But two uncontestable facts remained: he’d taken her virginity, and he’d never before been any woman’s first experience. It was a tremendous responsibility, he now discovered, to ruin a maid.

“Don’t fret, Danny. I went to your bed with the full knowledge that there would never be a marriage.” She looked up at him with large, vulnerable eyes and expanded black velvet pupils. There seemed to be a question hanging there, but for him or for herself, he wasn’t sure.

“But I have treated you well, have I not?” He didn’t think she had cause to complain, for he was sweeter to her than he’d ever been to anyone.

Her lashes lowered, and he saw her bottom lip indent where she tucked it under her teeth for a moment.

“Have I ever made you regret our contract?” he asked again, an uncomfortable, nagging sensation pulling on his nerves like the cold hands of beggars in the street. What did she want from him now? With the baroness, or any other woman in the past, he would know what she was thinking at once. Not so with Margaret.

“I do not regret a thing,” she whispered.

“So you will come to the party?” he urged, drawing their conversation back to his purpose before she could distract him any further from it. “I’ll make certain there’s pineapple tart.”

She pushed her way out of his arms and sat on her chaise, staring into the fire, hands clasped on her knees. “I won’t know how to act, what to do. I’ll always be more at home in a poultry yard than a drawing room.”

Carver flipped up his coattails and sat beside her. “Then I’ll teach you.”

“You?” She snorted.

“I can tell you all you need to know, young lady. All the tricks.”

“I’m not sure I need to know your sort of tricks, Danny.”

“Hush, woman.” He took her clenched hands and separated them. “Pay heed.”

She looked at him, her chocolate eyes brimming with skepticism.

Carver kissed each of her palms and returned them to her lap. “Now, first thing to remember, always wait to be introduced to a gentleman before speaking to him or dancing.”

“There won’t be dancing, will there?” Two hot dots of pink appeared on her cheeks.

“Perhaps not, but when attending a small, informal gathering, one never knows. And never dance with the same man thrice at—”

“I am not utterly ignorant of etiquette,” she exclaimed, suddenly churlish. “We have manners in the country too, you know, Danny.”

He sighed. “Of course.”

“We are not a mindless rabble, just because we don’t count in the eyes of the beau monde.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest you were.”

“What am I allowed to talk about? What do I do with my hands? These are small things that will single me out for mockery. How do I sit? What do I look at?”

She cared very much about the details. He might have known from seeing her at work with a needle. “Very well, surly madam. The most important thing to remember is don’t fidget. Always be composed. A lady’s hands should move gracefully, not flap about like fins. She should enter a room neither too quickly nor too slowly. She should greet the hostess first and, when invited to do so, she should sit—elegantly, like a fallen leaf, not a lump of custard—with her knees together, slightly to one side. Listen to the conversation of others and take your cues from them. You might make a flattering remark or two about the decorations and furnishings in the room, but not too much. Everything in moderation. Do not be self-conscious. Be yourself. If you believe you belong, others will too.”

“All sound and practical advice given with ease by a man who has never felt out of place in his life.” She was quite beautiful when she forgot to be plain, he mused. It was not the cultivated, highly maintained look of the women he usually knew. It was utterly natural, unmanipulated.

He laid a hand on her knee. “When you are with me, you can never be out of place. No one would dare mock you in my presence.”

“How nice. I daresay they will not hesitate to do so the moment I leave.”

“Oh, and your friends never do that, I suppose,” he replied dryly, sliding his hand along her thigh.

“I’m sure there is a law somewhere, Danny, about not bringing people of different ranks together.”

“Too late,” he whispered, leaning close to lick the warm, scented space behind her ear.

She pouted. “And kindly remove your hand. I’m positive
that
is not proper etiquette.”

“No. but it’s the Earl of Everscham’s rule. You’re my mistress, and I do with you as…” he kissed her nose, “…I…” he kissed her chin, “…please.” Finally he found her lips, and fortunately for him, she had no further argument.

On the evening of the Rothespur party, Molly was able to recruit Mrs. Slater and Frederick Dawes to attend with her. A bad cold kept Mrs. Bathurst in bed, and Mrs. Lotterby had volunteered to watch young master Slater.

Frederick’s carefree manner and dashing confidence was such that he could enter a drawing room anywhere, charm the occupants, and make himself at home before the first sherry was drunk. On the other hand, there was bashful Mrs. Slater, whose manners were either self-consciously rigid, or cowed and timid. Molly knew it would be a struggle to make her talk at all in exalted company, but the sad lady admitted she had not enjoyed an evening out since her husband’s demise. It was plain to see the time under her controlling brother’s thumb had left her unsure of herself and discouraged, so downtrodden that any confidence she once knew was severely stunted. Molly thought it would be a good deed to bring her to the party, and with Fred to do all the talking, they would both be saved from having to do much of it themselves.

When they arrived at the Rothespurs’ house, Lady Anne dashed over to greet her, excited about playing the hostess at her very first party. When introduced, Mrs. Slater was duly declared to possess “enviable cheekbones,” and Frederick—already known to the hostess, of course—was quickly ambushed with a commission.

“I want you to paint my portrait, to immortalize my first Season, Freddie.”

Freddie?
Bemused, Molly looked at her friend, who replied with a smile, “I would be happy to oblige, Lady Anne.”

Satisfied, Anne tucked her arm under Molly’s and led her farther into the drawing room. “My brother had chosen an awful old fellow to paint me. My eyeballs were so offended by the sight of him that they could barely open in his presence. He had hairy nostrils, his breath reeked of onions, and he complained that I never sat still enough—can you imagine such a thing? So after I met Freddie, I said I would sit only for him and no one else. I do hope you don’t mind.”

“Why should I mind?”

“I didn’t want you to think I might poach your pet away from you.”

Molly replied with mock solemnity, “Lady Anne, I can pass him on to you with impunity. As long as you keep him well fed and watered and clean out his cage.”

“Good gracious. It is quite a liability to look after an artist.”

“Indeed, your ladyship.”

Carver, who had crossed the room to greet her, added wryly, “The creative soul is never an easy one to keep domesticated.”

She shot him a look that she hoped would urge him to behave. He duly kissed her hand very politely, so no one but she would note the wicked gleam in his eye as his lips lightly stroked her knuckles.

Apart from Lady Anne, the Rothespurs’ drawing room was inhabited by males until Molly arrived with her friends. They were introduced to the other gentlemen present, all of them looking at her with great interest. Then she was seated beside Mrs. Slater on a small, dainty sofa, and after answering a few questions about their journey across London that evening, Molly let Fred take the conversation, which he did painlessly and seamlessly. Fortunately, he and Lady Anne were both chatterboxes, and for the first quarter hour, theirs were the voices most often heard. Occasionally Lady Anne’s brother spoke up to rein her in discreetly, and Lord Skiffington interjected the odd comment, which seldom had much to do with anything, but Carver spent those first moments simply watching Molly across the room with his potent, heated regard.

When Lady Anne opened the instrument and invited the ladies to play, Mrs. Slater suddenly perked up and accepted the challenge. Until then, Molly had never even known the lady knew how to play a note, but Mrs. Slater turned out to be far more eloquent on the pianoforte than she was with her speech. Her fingers moved over the keys with great dexterity, and she was soon absorbed in her playing.

Well, it was really no surprise that she’d never known about the widow’s musical bent, thought Molly, for there was no instrument at Mrs. Lotterby’s house, and no room, or coin, for one. But she had surely been a terrible friend for never bothering to know about Mrs. Slater’s accomplishment. Until then, the struggling, widowed young mother was little more than a sad shadow in the corner of her eye, a victim of unhappy circumstance, and someone to be pitied. There was, of course, more beneath, if one bothered to scratch the surface, but Molly had been too caught up in herself to take the time. A woman did not disappear just because she married, lost her husband, and then had a baby. Mrs. Slater had been someone before all that happened, someone with hopes and dreams and laughter in her life. Someone who took music lessons and learned to play beautifully. Yes, indeed, it was important to scratch beneath the surface if one meant to properly know a person.

While sitting at the instrument, the lady’s entire demeanor changed from meek and browbeaten to composed and confident. Molly supposed—like her own ability with needle and thread—music was a way to express thoughts and ideas she could not put into words. The poor lady must have suffered dreadfully for the lack of an opportunity to exercise her skill, for it would drive Molly insane if she could not sew or sketch her designs.

Glancing around the room, she was glad to see everyone paying attention and admiring her friend’s playing. Very proud and pleased for Mrs. Slater, she made up her mind to purchase a small spinet for her as soon as she had enough money. What was the good of her own success if she could not share it with her dear friends?

Beginning to feel as if the evening would not be nearly as uncomfortable as she’d imagined, Molly’s spirits improved, and she lost some of her own reserve, but not enough to attempt a tune on the pianoforte.

Watching the faces of Carver’s friends, she wondered how many knew the truth about their relationship. They were gracious to her, very civil. Lady Anne’s brother clearly made an effort to put Molly at her ease, smiling pleasantly and angling a few subjects in her direction without questioning her pointedly to make her the center of uncomfortable attention. He had also, she soon discovered, provided pineapple tart, just as she’d been promised.

She soon decided that Sinjun Rothespur, Carver’s oldest friend, had a likeable, unpretentious manner and an endearing smile. As for Lord Skiffington, he was the typical rakish blade, bent on pleasure. The sort that never properly grew up. Yet he was tolerable and not at all stuck-up. On his best behavior perhaps, she thought.

When Lady Anne took over the musical entertainment, it only allowed them all to appreciate the superiority of Mrs. Slater’s playing. Their young hostess had a heavy hand on the keys and distinct lack of rhythm, but what she lacked in certain areas she made up for in sheer determination and bravado. Frederick offered to turn the music for her, and soon he was singing along, a born show-off, while Lady Anne thumped away at the pianoforte, her ringlets bouncing, eyes shining. Molly watched them together and saw two lively, spirited young people who might be in very real danger from each other.

Better have a word with Fred later. Wouldn’t want him getting his heart broken, and it was doubtful the Earl of Saxonby would let his young sister fall in love with an artist. She glanced slyly at Mrs. Slater, for she’d harbored some romantic hopes for the pretty widow and handsome, merry Fred, but the lady watched him now with a kind smile and seemed to be enjoying the dreadful noise as best she could, tapping her foot in an effort to keep time even when there was no discernible beat to the playing.

Alas, mused Molly, one could not make love bloom where there was no seed. On the other hand—she looked for Carver—one could not stop love growing in places where it should not either.

Oh, where had he gone? He was no longer in the chair where he had sat moments ago.

Suddenly a large hand tapped her shoulder, and she turned her head to find him behind her, having apparently moved across the room while she was watching the entertainment. His lips moved in a slight smile as he looked down at her. There was no word exchanged, no need for any. The tender touch of his fingers on her bare shoulder spoke an entire soliloquy. However, Molly refused to let her imagination run away with her again. Just as it had in regard to Fred being Mrs. Bathurst’s long-lost son, her mind was eager to sew neat seams around the facts. She might want to believe Carver was in love with her, but her wishes didn’t make it so. Even if he was capable of such a feeling, what good would it do? She was still a dressmaker, and he was an earl. Their love could flourish only in shadow.

But tonight she felt connected to him in a new way. A deeper way.

It was as if they were alone together in that room.

The glorious sensation lasted just five more minutes.

When the doors opened, everyone seemed surprised. The music stopped abruptly, and Lady Anne rose from the instrument to greet her new guests. A hollow silence fell over the room, unnatural and sinister as cockcrow in the afternoon.

***

“Covington. I thought you were otherwise engaged,” Rothespur exclaimed.

“I decided to come after all. You know the Baroness Schofield, of course.”

It was a good thing Sinjun had the ability to play perfect host and hide his thoughts, for Carver knew his were written all over his face at that moment. His gut tightened, as did his jaw. His teeth began to hurt.

Fletcher Covington walked into the party with Carver’s former mistress on his arm, smirking like a man who just won a fortune on the Epsom Derby.

Carver would have left at once, but Margaret laid a hand over his fingers, where he’d placed them upon her shoulder moments before, and when he glanced down at her, she shook her head very slightly. Her color had risen, but she was composed, her eyes calm, her hand steady.

She was right, he thought, why should their evening be cut short? He had finally drawn her out of hiding, and the last thing he wanted was to see her run back again into her mouse hole at the first sign of trouble.

Everything was going so well. Until now.

After a slight delay, their trainee hostess, Lady Anne, scrambled to welcome the new arrivals, but a crisp chill had cut through the atmosphere of the room. The baroness made her disdain for Margaret and her friends quite obvious.

“Ah yes,” she murmured. “You are that seamstress…Roberts, isn’t it? The runaway bride who jilted that poor country lad because she had bigger fish in her net.”

Furious, Carver stepped toward her, but again a subtle movement from Margaret prevented him from making a protest.

The baroness chortled. “Don’t mind me, just a silly jest.”

“No one else is amused,” Carver replied, curt.

“I can’t think why. I know you love a good joke. Perhaps it’s amusing only if it’s not at your expense, Danforthe.” She looked at Margaret again, her eyes narrowed slyly. “You’re quite flushed, Roberts. Must be the heat of the evening. I do hope I have not said anything amiss.”

“Not at all,” said Margaret quietly. “I am flattered you remember me at all, madam.” Clearly she had more poise in the face of rudeness than he did, he thought, and his admiration for her leapt another few steps that night.

The baroness entreated them all to continue the party. “Don’t let me disturb you. Please, play on Lady Anne.” She and Covington swept away to be seated.

Carver caught Sinjun’s eye and read there a silent, hapless apology. He shook his head, gesturing that it didn’t matter, even though it did, of course. There was no doubt that Covington had done this deliberately, springing Maria on the party to create maximum disruption, but it was hardly Sinjun’s fault. He couldn’t have known, or he would have prevented it. Covington picked his moment well, because Lady Anne was such an untried hostess and would probably not have any idea how to handle the situation—even if she had an inkling of her guest’s discomfort—while Sinjun was the peacemaker, always wanting everyone to get along and avoiding confrontation.

Now Anne continued her playing, and they all sat stiffly, pretending not to feel the tremors of discontent filling the room.

***

A light supper buffet was served. Although a footman offered, several times, to refill her glass, Molly only sipped her wine, anxious not to lose any control. She felt as if she was being tested tonight and would need all her wits about her.

The large ruby earrings swaying in the Baroness Schofield’s ears every time she gave that shrill laugh seemed to flare in the corner of Molly’s eye, drawing her attention when she would rather look at anything else. The woman kept touching them too, then letting her fingers drift down the side of her elegant neck. Finally, when Lady Anne politely asked about them, she explained they were a recent gift from an admirer, and she threw a pointed glance at Carver.

Molly looked at her lap. Of course they must have been a parting gift. She knew he always gave his ladies jewelry when he moved on. But each time the baroness ran her fingernails down the side of her neck, Molly thought of Carver’s hands once following the same path. Touching that woman as intimately as he lately touched her.

When Mrs. Slater gently asked if she was all right, Molly forced a smile, not wanting to spoil anyone else’s evening. Fred and Lady Anne seemed to be the only guests who were not troubled in some way by the late arrivals. Their hostess was possibly oblivious to the fragile air and undercurrent of drama. Fred was his usual entertaining self. Thank goodness for Fred, she mused glumly.

At one point, the Duke of Preston, who had escorted the baroness into the party, began a conversation about horse racing. It was nothing Molly could take part in or, indeed, have any possible interest in. But as talk turned to wagers lost and won, the baroness suddenly raised her fan to her lips, caught Molly’s eye, and then leaned over to Lady Anne and whispered in her ear.

The young lady instantly glanced over at Molly too, so she knew—had she been in any doubt—that the whisper was about her.

She raised a hand to her hair, anxious that it should not let her down by unraveling to her shoulders, as was its tendency whenever Molly was agitated. The room seemed very large suddenly, but there was not enough air in it. Like one of those bitter cold midwinter days when the breath was sucked out of one’s chest. Her body was shrinking into the upholstery of the sofa, her veins freezing and cracking.