Mutual Consent (20 page)

Lady Cartier had posed herself at the parquet mahogany table, one delicate hand on the wine decanter as though she had just reached for it. Her head was turned so that she could direct a glance of inquiry over her slender shoulder, and her lovely face was bathed in the soft light from a branch of candles on the table. “My lord,” she purred.

Lord Chatworth was abruptly struck by the absurdity of burning expensive wax candles at the day’s zenith. He had not given much thought before to Lady Cartier’s penchant for candlelight. The shades in her rooms were already halfway drawn; the lighted candles merely provided the necessary illumination. Candlelight was naturally more flattering to a woman’s face than clear honest sunlight. The cynicism of his thought shocked him. “My lady, I hope that I find you well,” he said.

Lady Carrier came toward him, both of her hands outstretched in greeting. The warmth in her dark eyes was unmistakable, as was the smiling promise of her full sensual mouth. “I am so glad that you have come, my lord,” she said huskily.

Lord Chatworth caught her hands, but he did not turn her hands over to press a lingering kiss into each palm in their usual mating prelude. Instead, he lifted her fingers to his lips in polite salute before releasing her. “I have come on a matter of business only, my lady.”

Lady Carrier was disconcerted but she swiftly recovered. She gestured to the settee covered in striped satin for his lordship to be seated. She took her own place against the cushions, tucking her legs under her so that she sat inclined in the direction of her guest. It was a pose that she had found to be enormously inviting to gentlemen.

She was surprised when the earl chose to settle himself at the farthest end of the settee instead of his usual place nearer to her. It was then that she finally took note of the distance of his expression and the considering look in his gray eyes.

Instantly she recalled the disastrous snub that she had delivered to his lordship’s wife at Lady Chatworth’s own introductory ball and the humiliation of the dowager countess’s chilly set-down. She had remained at the ball only to brush through the resulting mortification and to prove to the world that the incident would do nothing to damage her relationship with the earl. She had been satisfied that she had accomplished her purpose when she had been able to draw him over to her chair and hold him in short friendly conversation. As she had hoped it would, that had instantly quelled the tattlers’ malicious speculation.

It was now borne in on Lady Carrier that the earl had gotten wind of the whole ill-conceived business and that he was displeased. Lady Carrier damned the tradesman’s daughter who had usurped her own coveted place and who had created this misunderstanding between herself and his lordship. However, she was too practiced in the games played between gentlemen and their ladies to allow her spurt of fury to override her cold common sense.

She was determined to retain her hold on the earl and she was confident of her own powers of persuasion. It would take but a show of contrition and the earl would forgive her most magnanimously, for which gesture she would naturally be grateful. Lady Carder intended to make very certain that her gratitude so satiated his lordship that he would be unable to even look at another woman without thinking of her own exciting bed.

She lowered her head in a graceful fashion. “I know why you have come, Marcus.”

Lord Chatworth was taken aback. He had come to the regretful decision of putting an end to the pleasant relationship between himself and Lady Cartier. The lady had had other protectors and so he did not expect there to be much of a scene when he announced his intention, especially when he meant to bestow upon her a lavish parting gift. That his purpose was anticipated, however, pricked his ego. For that reason he spoke in a cooler voice than he had intended. “Indeed, my lady?”

Lady Cartier raised her head. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I have regretted my impetuosity, my lord. I should not have spoken so of Lady Chatworth, I do admit it. It was truly ill-conceived of me.”

Lord Chatworth’s astonished curiosity was not unnaturally aroused. The swift comprehension that something of moment had occurred between his wife and his mistress, which he had known nothing about, was as quickly followed by a stiffening of his manner. He held his face expressionless. “Ill-conceived, indeed,” he said slowly. “I wish you to explain how it came about, my lady.”

Lady Cartier felt a surge of triumph at his lordship’s quiet tone. The earl was willing to be reasonable, then. He had come to express his displeasure over the incident only out of a sense of the duty owed his wife’s position, but he felt no real insult. But she was sensible to the fact that he had not yet granted her forgiveness for her slight to his lady, and so she must continue to play the supplicant for a while.

Lady Carder’s lips parted on a soft sigh. She dared to raise her hand to his jaw and she was not displeased that he caught her wrist. He did not remove her caressing fingers from his face, but merely held her as he waited for her to continue. She shook her head and her lashes swept down as she glanced away. “It is difficult for me, my lord. When I think of you with your lady wife, I think I become a bit mad.”

“Do you, my dear? I am flattered,” Lord Chatworth said dryly.

As Lady Carrier lifted her gaze to his face, she allowed tears to come to her eyes. “I saw her for the first time the night of the ball and my jealousy sprang into full bloom. Oh, Marcus! Do say you forgive me. I was rattled by the appearance of that vulgar tradesman, or otherwise I would never have said it. I never meant to utter such a cutting aside, truly I did not.”

Lord Chatworth silently regarded her. His lids had drooped over his eyes, disguising his thoughts from her. Though nothing showed in his expression, fury coursed his veins. He could guess the sort of thing that Lady Cartier had said.

When he had put down Lady Cartier’s name on the guest list that Babs had requested from him, he had not spared a thought for the doubtful wisdom of inviting his mistress to his wife’s first function. But of course it had been bound to end in trouble of some sort, especially after Cribbage’s histrionic appearance. It said much for his wife’s innate pride that she had not complained of such heavy insult to him, but instead had quietly remarked that despite everything she thought the evening had gone off fairly well.

Lord Chatworth had every intention of learning more about the incident that had been alluded to, but not from Lady Cartier. He would not reveal to her that he had known nothing about it. Nor was she ever to know that he had planned to end their relationship on an amicable note with a costly last gift.

As he looked at her, he abruptly felt complete disgust for himself. For the first time he saw the lady for all that she was, and he wondered how he could ever have become so besotted of her wiles. He no longer felt so much as the snap of his fingers for the woman, nor any regret for his decision to sever their relationship. Quite inadvertently Lady Cartier had ripped the scales from his eyes. She had shown him what a true lady should be.

“Marcus? Pray say that you forgive me.” Lady Carder’s free hand passed up and down the front of his waistcoat and her fingers teased at the garment’s buttons. She looked up at him with invitation in her sultry eyes. “I will gladly accept any punishment that you set for my crime,’’ she said softly.

His lordship’s narrowed gaze opened and she was startled by the blaze in his eyes. Before she could comprehend the meaning of his expression, he had grasped her other wrist and pulled her to half-recline against him. His voice was silky. “Will you indeed, my lady? Then certainly I must satisfy your craving for punishment.”

She cast a look of startled incomprehension up at him before she found herself flung over his knees. His hand closed on her soft shoulder and his forearm lay heavy across her back. “Marcus! What do you intend?” she blurted, a thread of laughter in her voice.

The first firm blow caught her completely unawares and rendered her speechless. The second swat stung and made her yelp in indignation. “Marcus!”

She struggled and kicked then, but to no avail. Lady Cartier’s shrill screams for succor and her lurid curses accompanied each well-placed blow. But the door to the sitting room remained closed; her ladyship’s servants were too well-versed in their mistress’s rare entertainments to interrupt.

Lord Chatworth delivered half a dozen swats to his former mistress’s shapely bottom. Then he tumbled her off of his lap onto the Oriental carpet and stood up.

Lady Cartier sat on the floor, glaring up at him. Hot tears of rage coursed down her face. “I shall kill you for that, Marcus. Do you hear? I swear to you that I will.” He had the effrontery to laugh at her. Lady Cartier paled with fury. She scrambled to her feet, all of her usual poise deserting her.

The earl’s voice was quite cold. “You may try, and with my goodwill. However, I suspect that your energies would be better directed toward entrapping another protector as quickly as possible. I know the depth of your extravagances, recall.”

His lordship’s lips twisted into that peculiarly mocking smile. “Dear Beth, you have just received your parting gift of me.” With that, he walked to the door and yanked it open.

A vase smashed against the panels of the door as it was slammed shut.

Babs frowned when she was given the earl’s note. She could not conceive why he had written her, unless it was in order to deliver a snappish reprimand for not going down to breakfast and thus putting off their inevitable
tête-à-tête.
However, far from castigating her for her cowardice, the note extended an apology for his lordship’s conduct of the night before.

Babs stared at the strong black scrawl. She did not know what to make of it. Surely the earl could not actually have meant what he had penned. Nothing in her experience could have prepared her to believe in the civil words that seemed to leap off the sheet.

“My lady? Will you be wanting the cashmere?”

Babs looked up quickly. She refolded the note and tucked it into her dress pocket. “Yes, Lucy. I seem to feel a chill about me.”

The maid placed the fringed paisley shawl about her mistress’s shoulders. Babs gave a fleeting glance to the reflection of herself in the cheval glass, assuring herself of the perfection of her auburn curls and the neatness of her long-sleeved dress. The shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders, while the long gold fringes that edged it fell nearly to the hem of her dress. She had chosen the yellow muslin dress for its modest décolletage and simple lines, and she was satisfied that she presented the very picture of the submissive wife.

When she had awakened that morning, she had tingled in every nerve from the memory of the earl’s crude entrance into her bedroom and the subsequent fight between them. She did not understand why he had left again so abruptly, nor why he had done so without chastening her.

She had hidden in her rooms that morning, giving out that she felt a little under the weather. The maid had accepted her excuse without comment, only throwing a single thoughtful glance at the slight bruise on her mistress’s cheekbone. After Lucy had served her mistress a tray holding a pot of chocolate and biscuits, she had left Barbara alone with her thoughts.

Babs had dreaded what might be said once she came into his lordship’s company, yet she knew that she must face him eventually. She had lingered over her meager breakfast, despising her own cowardice, and then she had rung for her maid to request that a bath be prepared for her.

Babs finished bathing and dressed. She was sitting down at the vanity so that her maid could do her hair when she first saw the bruise marring her cheekbone. Her face tightened. There was little that she could do to disguise the mark. She did not paint her face like some of the ladies she had seen. She could only hope that the bruise would fade quickly. “Lucy, I would like a cloth wet in cold water,” she said quietly.

“Yes, my lady.” The maid brought the cloth, folded over into a square, and the countess pressed the cool compress to her cheekbone.

It was well after the noon hour when Babs was at last ready to emerge from her bedchamber. The earl was not usually at home during the day, but he would in all probability dine in that evening. She thought she would at least have a few hours before she must see her husband.

Babs touched the pocket of her dress. A small frown gathered her brows. “I am going down, Lucy,” she said quietly.

“Very good, my lady.”

The countess was just descending the last stairs when the earl emerged from the dining room. She paused, one hand on the banister. Her heart accelerated when she saw the somber look in his eyes. “My lord, I did not expect you to be at home so early in the day.”

The earl sauntered across the entry hall to her. Situated on the last step as she was, she was on a level with his gray eyes. Babs felt as though his keen gaze could read her every whirling thought. She held herself warily, for despite the note of apology, she was uncertain of what to expect from him.

He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips. There was the beginning of laughter in his eyes. “I am set down indeed, my lady! I had no notion that I had so neglected your company.”

Babs flushed, at once embarrassed and heartened by his teasing. “It is no such thing, as well you know. I am quite accepting of your pressing round of social commitments.”

A peculiar smile touched his face and the expression in his eyes was one that she could not quite read. He drew her down from off the stair. “I am aware of your forbearance, my lady. Upon inquiring, I learned that you had not bespoken luncheon and so I took it upon myself to do so. Shall we go in, my lady?”

“Have you not dined, then, my lord?” asked Babs. She had learned that he usually took luncheon at his club in the company of his peers.

“No, I had a matter of business to sort out instead,” he said shortly. His tone held an unusual degree of grimness.

Babs threw up at him a fleeting glance of surprise. But she accompanied him into the dining room without further comment, unaccountably feeling as though she had somehow trespassed. She allowed him to seat her at the table, afterward thanking him quietly for the courtesy.