Seducing the Beast (23 page)

She might have come to love this place. How strange she felt at home here in this house she should hate.

Aware suddenly of a cold chill on her shoulders, she spun around to find that unpleasant fellow, Wickes, standing a short distance away. She waited, thinking perhaps his master sent him to find her, but he said nothing, merely stared disrespectfully.

“What is it you want Wickes?” she demanded.

His eyes, pale and watery, narrowed slowly, speculating. “Now that’s a question, ain’t it?” He smirked in a knowing manner. “What can I get for a shilling?”

As he came toward her, she backed away. “Leave me alone, Wickes.”

“Don’t act prim and proper with me, whore. Must have somethin’ special under your skirt, eh, to get his lordship tied up in knots? Can’t get enough of you can he? Ought to share some with the rest of us.”

“Shall I tell the earl what you suggest?”

“He’ll be out of the way soon enough. I can wait.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out.” Sneering, he turned away and walked back toward the house. His low laughter trickled up through her feet, as if the earth vibrated with his scorn.

Despite what the other staff thought of her, no one was ever crude or unpleasant. Perhaps this was why Wickes’s nasty comment scored its mark so effectively. It reminded her of the tenuous place she kept in the Beast’s life.

* * * *

By late afternoon, done with his neglected business correspondence, he came to find her. She was in the west wing, touring those stark rooms where he spent his childhood.

“What are you doing in here?”

Lost in mournful thoughts, she didn’t hear his approach. Now she jumped. He stood framed in the doorway, head bent under the lintel, hands behind his back.

“I was on my way out for a ride,” he said. “Will you come?”

When she declined, his eyes grew dark, his face lined with long-ingrained suspicion. “Wickes tells me you’ve been exploring my woods and the heath. Alone and against my instructions, of course. Now I ask you to come with me, you’ll be contrary on purpose.”

Sighing deeply, she stared down through the bars of the window.

“I wanted to show you the estate,” he grumbled.

“I can see it from here.”

Now she heard his steps cross the room toward her. “You cannot see all the estate from here.”

“Oh?” The vast size of the place was incomprehensible to her. From that window on the top floor of the west tower, she could see for miles over fields and tree tops. And in the distance, the silver line of ocean, the sun billowing behind it, expiring in a slow sizzle. Was there more still that he owned?

Now, pointing over her shoulder, he described each field and what they grew in it. He knew every tree and hedge, every square inch. She’d never heard this quiet pride in his voice before. When he spoke of the Swafford responsibilities, it was usually with a tone of weary acceptance, as if they were a heavy burden to bear. She stole a quick, sly glance from the corner of her eye as he leaned over her low shoulder, ducking his head to look through the barred window. He seemed younger suddenly, an eager boy, showing off for a guest. Luke had told her the old earl died more than fifteen years ago and Griff was not quite twenty--younger than she was now--when he assumed the title and the responsibilities entailed. Now, when he raised his hand again to point, she noticed his shirt cuff was a little too long. Maddie rarely sewed by choice, but she longed to pick up a needle and mend it for him.

She realized he’d stopped talking and now he stared at her. “Are you even listening?”

His words took her back, instantly, to their little cottage by the bay, when she sat on his knee and kissed him. Dare she take that chance again?

But he frowned, moving away. “I see you have no interest in the estate. Why should you? Excuse me.” Bowing hastily, he left her there, heart thundering in her breast, the moment lost.

Of all the men in the world she might have fallen in love with, she mused, it had to be an enigmatic beast who, she suspected, only wanted her because she refused to cower at his feet. And he must win, couldn’t stand to lose. He was of the nobility, born to a different world, in which someone like her only existed to serve and obey. For now he was fascinated by her, but the novelty would pass, as Wickes suggested.

Raising fingertips to her cheek, she found tears. Struggling to stop the flow, she had no more leverage against those little drips of water than a piece of driftwood had against the tide. Her emotions were caught up, dragged along by waves of heartbreak pounding at the shore, too wild, too powerful to be restrained. Knocked down, thrown about, she was unable to save herself from the current, had no chance even to catch her breath before she went under. The ferocious sea roared in her ears and then there was silence. She closed her eyes tight.

She floated. The sea was calm, bubbling and clicking leisurely over shells and pebbles at the shoreline where it deposited her exhausted body. And her conscience whispered, in Jennet’s small voice, “Is he not worth saving? Is there nothing you can do for him?”

If she ran away without trying to mend that man where he was broken inside, she might always wonder…

She was Maddie the Merciless, for pity’s sake, and she didn’t give up that easily.

The first item on her agenda at supper was Matthew. Barely had Griff sat to eat, when she announced there were several things she had in mind to discuss and this was the first. Too amused to reply, he let her babble on for several minutes, while she reminded him of the evening he’d found those precious Swafford pearls in Eustacia’s London bedchamber, how he now knew he blamed the wrong man. Matthew therefore, she asserted genially, could be reinstated to his post.

She was in a better mood tonight it seemed, on her best behavior. Whether or not this bode favorably for him, he couldn’t decide.

Clearing his throat, he said briskly, “The Earl of Swafford never goes back on any decision once made. Matthew was let go for other reasons in addition to the missing pearls.”

“Because he had the unmitigated gall to fall in love?”

“Precisely. He will not be rehired.” When he saw the dimple in her cheek and thought her preparing an argument, he raised his voice. “And if you had an estate the size of Starling’s Roost to run, I’d take your counsel. As a woman who apparently didn’t exist until I plucked her out of the Thames, perhaps you’ll forgive me when I say your advice is not the wisest I might seek out.”

Smug, he returned to his supper and to the letter he’d received that day from his brother. When the mouthy wench declared it rude to read at the table when one had company, he ignored her, signaling to Gregory for the wine jug.

She leapt quickly to her feet, beating the old fellow to it.

“What does the letter say?” she asked, walking toward him with the jug.

He sniffed. “Gabriel expresses his great happiness in marriage. No doubt he waits for an invite to come home with that woman.”

“Hey ho!” she exclaimed, as if to jolly along the spirits of a child with a scraped knee. “No point sobbing over spilled milk. You should reconcile yourself to it and be civil to his wife.” She snorted. “Oops, what am I saying? Civil? One cannot expect miracles. Or blood from a stone.”

He scowled at her, but nothing deterred her merry grin. He almost preferred her in a temper with her claws out, for then he knew how to defend himself. This evening she’d dressed in another of the new gowns and even wore the lapis necklace she’d rejected so violently the night before. Reminded of the Trojan horse, he regarded her stormily as she poured his wine. Why did she insist on acting like a servant?

He threw down his brother’s letter. “It won’t last. He’ll come crying back to me, once she’s bled him dry of every penny.”

She laughed indulgently. “It is possible for two opposites to come together, by some twist of fate, my lord, and not quite be able to let go again, despite the hopelessness of the situation…
it seems
.” She winked. “Is it so hard for you to believe?”

Shocked, he clamped his lips shut, but although he let her win the skirmish, he was only briefly vanquished, not content to let her taste the sweetness of victory too long. “From now on I don’t expect to see you working in the garden.” His voice echoed around the great hall. “’Tis not a ladylike pursuit.”

Safely back in her seat, she replied with a surface giddiness that did not, for one breath, deceive him, “Am I a lady now? I thought I was just your whore.”

* * * *

She waited, sensing the air thicken with tension until even her tongue tingled with it.

“You might at least try to act like a lady,” he said, “no matter who you are or where you come from, however low and criminal your usual company.” The corner of his lip curled upward. “If ’tis not too much trouble, sweetling.”

“Nothing is too much trouble for you….
precious
.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to remind you of what is expected, should I?”

She kept her smile, knowing he sought to push her temper. Apparently he was uneasy when faced with a woman in a good mood and didn’t know how to deal with it.

For a while they ate in silence, surreptitiously eyeing one another down the length of the table, on their guard. Plates were removed, sweet dishes offered. Madolyn watched how carefully he moved his food around, cutting it into precise pieces, never letting any one item on his plate touch another. When he ate grapes, he examined each one as if it was a diamond and polished it on his napkin, before it slipped away between his firm lips. Between every mouthful, he dabbled his fingers in the water-bowl by his plate.

“I hope my common ways don’t embarrass you, my lord,” she said suddenly, having observed this performance for some time and no longer able to stay silent. “I suppose I must be grateful to you--such a man of riches and consequence--willing to tolerate my rustic manners and teach me proper behavior. In exchange for what little I can give you.”

“You give me plenty.”

There was a moment when his eyes, formerly stern and uncompromising, reached into hers with the needy hands of a child and she forgot everything she meant to say. When he looked away again, she recovered.

“I confess, sir, I’m shocked you chose me, when you might have any other woman--someone you need not train like a disobedient pup.” She smiled sweetly. “Wouldn’t it be preferable to share your bed with a woman who knows how to behave herself?”

A quick spurt of laughter shot out of him. “Why would I want that? I much prefer a bedmate who doesn’t behave herself.”

“’Tis not what I meant, as you well know.”

He wiped his mouth, still chuckling. “But that, my sweet, is why I chose you. We’ll discuss the matter further upstairs, however. I look forward to it.” And speaking low, he muttered, “
Vous ete en bonne bouche.
”

“Am I indeed? A choice morsel?”

He looked up sharply. Eyes narrowed, he aimed his fiercest sparks down that long table. “You speak French too?”

“
Mais oui.”

Frozen in his seat, he considered her in a haughty way, as if assessing livestock for purchase. “
Un femme qui sait trop.
”

Of course he would think she knew too much. How unsettling it must be for the stiff-necked ogre. “
A votre avis,
” she replied with an easy shrug.

“Yes indeed--
in my opinion
. My opinion is all that matters.”

“Poor
bete
,” she teased. “How lonely you must be in your state of perfection.”

He brooded over his discovery for a few moments. “I don’t suppose you mean to tell me where you acquired this knowledge, or who I should blame for the creation of such a monstrously smug, self-righteous young wench, with a fondness for telling other people how to behave and assuming everyone but herself in the wrong?”

Although he might have been describing himself and she longed to point that out, Maddie held her tongue. Instead she merely smiled and he returned to his letter--either a ridiculously slow reader, or deliberately avoiding conversation.

“If you will not rehire Matthew, simply because he fell in love,” she said smoothly, “it proves to me all the bad I ever heard about you!”

He was unmoved by her threat. Sighing, he shook his head, still studying Gabriel’s letter.

“But now to my next matter,” she added, sitting up straight, businesslike.

“Hmm?” He turned the letter to read on, feigning absorption in its contents.

“Nathaniel Downing….”

“The pirate?”

“…is no pirate. Can you not arrange his pardon with the queen? If you and she are such close friends, can you not--”

“No,” he interrupted sharply. Then, to her surprise, he equivocated. “We’ll discuss it later.”

She licked her lips, hope flaring to life.

He smirked at his letter. “Upstairs.”

Her shoulders sagged and she set her pewter goblet down with a hearty bang.

Slowly he wiped his lips on a napkin, hiding his laughter. Arrogant bastard!

“I’m afraid I feel a headache coming on.” She paused, perusing the fruit platter offered by Jennet. “Our negotiations may be stymied before they’ve begun this evening.”

That got his attention. “Blackmail now is it?”

After some consideration, she chose a tender peach from that expensive, largely imported bounty.

“Blackmail is what women do best,” he added sourly.

“You think you know women, because of a few bad ones you’ve met.”

“And you had a poor opinion of the earls of Swafford before you knew any.” He folded his letter, dropping it to the table at last.

“Nathaniel Downing is innocent.”

“Of course he is. Any criminal will tell you they’re innocent.”

“Very well.” She fluttered her lashes, leaning back in her chair, bringing the peach to her lips. “I can be just as uncooperative as you, my lord. And similarly fat-headed.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

She took a dainty bite of fruit and chewed slowly. “Don’t come to me tonight, I definitely feel a headache already.”