Lord Lightning Page 4

  Chapter 3

  That the evening before her might hold the prospect of entertainment was the very last thought in Eliza Farrell’s mind. She had sat in stunned silence as Lord Hartwood had informed her that he found her last offer acceptable and would take her on as his mistress for the term of the next fortnight. He had explained that he would send the money to free her father this very night and make the necessary arrangements to feed Pup. Then he had drawn forth from under the carriage seat an exquisite folding gentleman’s desk upon which he began at once composing the letter to his man of business in London.

  It was only as she sank back against the luxuriant velvet squabs, with her heart pounding louder than the hooves of the carriage’s horses, that Eliza realized that—exactly as Aunt Celestina had predicted—her impetuosity had led her into disaster. It would be only a matter of hours until she learned what it meant to be a fallen woman ruined by a notorious libertine famed for his hot temper and cold heart.

  She was glad that the falling dusk obscured her features so Lord Hartwood could not see her dismay. But she had given him her word, and as soon as she had done so, he had begun to fulfill his side of their bargain with such immediate dispatch that she could not see how to extricate herself from the situation.

  At least her beloved books would be forever out of the bailiffs’ reach, though she quailed when she recalled what it was the libertine lord had demanded in exchange for their safety. She glanced furtively at her new protector, his handsome face lost in thought as one elegant finger absently stroked the side of his aristocratic nose. What could he be expecting? Aunt Celestina had never discussed such matters with her, and though the whispering of her neighbors in Bishops Ridley had given her some hints about what could happen between an unchaperoned woman and a man, she had not been brave enough to ask her aunt for the details.

  Well, she would find out soon. She’d made sure of that, so there was no point now in lamenting her fate. She must set herself to bucking up and getting on with it in a way that would have made her aunt proud—had her aunt been willing to ignore what exactly it was she was about to get on with.

  Her consolation must be this: If she could get through whatever it was that Lord Lightning would demand of her—and if it was not so dreadful that when it was over she must fall into a hectic and fatal decline like Mr. Richardson’s Clarissa—in a fortnight she would return to the world equipped with the books she needed to practice her craft and a fortune of twenty-five pounds. But as she stole one last glance at the intimidating nobleman beside her, she prayed that whatever Lord Hartwood would make her do would not be too unbearable.

  As dusk engulfed the carriage, Edward, too, found himself praying the upcoming hour would not be too unbearable. He had long prided himself on his talent for pleasing women, but he had rarely exercised that talent over the past few years, bored with the company of the sort of women who were drawn to a man whose reputation was as fatally damaged as his own. He’d had enough of the women of the demimonde with their coarseness and their continual demands on his purse and of the society women who watched him undress with feverish anticipation, as if the removal of his shining top boots would reveal a cloven hoof and the doffing of his buckskins, the lashing of a forked tail.

  He shifted uneasily in his seat as the carriage rumbled through the falling darkness toward his town house. How irksome it would be after the fleeting moments of pleasure were over: yet another woman to be beguiled and placated, another woman whose fickle affections, once his, must somehow be tolerated.

  He sighed and drummed his fingers against the rich wood that paneled the carriage door. He was already beginning to regret having made one of those impulsive gestures for which he was so famous. But having made it, he would go through with it. However distasteful it might be, he would use the passion he’d arouse in the mousy fortuneteller during their initial sexual encounter to seal her to him. He could not afford to have her disengaged were he to take her to his mother’s house. He would need to command her loyalty for the brief fortnight that would follow, though he did not look forward to the hour it would take to accomplish this. A bit of brandy would help.

  As he glanced at his mistress-to-be through lowered lids and saw how the blood had drained out of her face, making her freckles stand out starkly against her pale white skin, he realized it might serve them both were she to become foxed, too, so they could get through the necessary unpleasantness quickly. When all that was over he could leave her and get on with the real pleasure he had been looking forward to all day. Only this afternoon he had purchased a copy of Mr. Keats’s controversial new long poem, Endymion. It awaited him now in his valise. Yes, he thought wryly, his new mistress was not the only one who loved her books.

  ***

  It was dark when they arrived at Lord Lightning’s town house, so Eliza was able to form no idea of the exterior, save that it appeared to have a great number of windows and a decided air of elegance. Her new protector guided her wordlessly from the carriage, his fingers barely brushing her shoulder. Even so, his touch set her nerves to jangling.

  Unseen hands opened the tall oak doors as they approached, revealing a grand foyer dark with aged paneling, but Eliza had no time to marvel at the magnificence revealed to her. Lord Hartwood motioned her toward a wide staircase lined with portraits where an obsequious housekeeper awaited her. Showing no hint of surprise at the way her master had materialized out of the darkness with a strange woman in tow, the housekeeper simply curtsied to him politely and led Eliza to a luxurious bedchamber where she left her alone.

  The light from the three-branched candelabra the housekeeper had brought with her flickered fitfully. But even in the near darkness it reflected off the highly polished surface of the marquetry table standing beside a large, richly cushioned bed. It brought out the subtle sheen of the silken fabric that covered the walls and glinted off the golden highlights of the plasterwork adorning the painted ceiling far above her head.

  But there was no time to be lost in gazing about at the magnificence of her surroundings. At any moment Lord Lightning would return and she would learn, for better or worse, exactly what it was he would require of her. Her empty stomach, which had been growling with hunger only a moment before, lurched. Thoughts flooded into her mind, unbidden, and ungovernable.

  To what unimaginable act might he subject her? To what humiliations might she be exposed? Surely her aunt would not have warned her so frequently of the danger of giving way to her passion had those dangers not been considerable.

  What had possessed her to agree to Lord Lightning’s offer? Her aunt had taught her to control her fiery Aries Ascendant. Eliza knew better than to give in to the impulses of the moment—or at least, she had thought she did. But she need only look now at the huge bed that dominated the center of the room, its dark paneled headboard piled high with the thick pillows whose richly embroidered satin covers gleamed dully in the dim candlelight, to know how completely she had acted without thinking and wonder how high the price would be that she would pay.

  If only Aunt Celestina had not died. Her aunt had so often helped her rein in her unruly nature. But her aunt was dead. And all Eliza had left to hold on to after all her years of loving care were the very books whose rescue had put her into Lord Lightning’s power—those and the secrets of the astrologer’s art her aunt had passed on to her.

  Eliza reached into her satchel and pulled out a handful of almanacs. Perhaps even now her aunt’s teachings might give some insight that could help her survive the oncoming ordeal. She had seen good in Lord Hartwood’s chart. She must not lose sight of that, no matter how intimidating he might seem when she found herself alone with him here in the dark.

  Her fingers searched through the bag’s contents until she felt the velvety smooth surface of the paper on which she had drawn His Lordship’s natal chart. She drew it out and laid it on the side table, but it was too dark for her to read it there. Since the little light present in the chamber fell almost ent
irely on the bed, she seated herself gingerly on its edge where it was just possible for her to make out the tiny print of her almanacs.

  Though she knew she did not have enough time to calculate the exact positions of the planets at this hour, there was one technique that might provide some reassurance. Her aunt had learned it from one of her German correspondents. It had the advantage of requiring almost no calculation, so it would take her only a few moments to extract the information she needed. But as she heard the sound of a door opening behind her and swung around to face it, she realized she would not have even those few moments.

  Lord Hartwood strode into the room. A footman followed behind him carrying a tray on which rested a decanter, glasses, and a plate of dainties. Silently the footman set the tray on a side table and then bowed and removed himself from the room.

  She was alone with Lord Lightning.

  He had removed his exquisitely wrapped neck cloth and now was garbed only in a loose silken shirt, its top buttons open, and in pale superfine breeches that fit his long legs like a second skin, displaying his muscular calves to advantage. His shining Hessian boots were gone, replaced by soft kid dress shoes which muffled his steps as he moved soundlessly across the room toward the bed.

  The dim light gilded his pale curls. How could she have not noticed before how very large he was—and how magnetic? She felt herself drawn into his orbit, like a small planet caught in the grip of a fiery sun. She knew she should resist, yet that sun was so magnificent. She should be appalled to find herself here—scandalously alone in the bedroom of a libertine—and a half-clothed libertine at that. Yet she could not help but admire him.

  But there was little time for that. Lord Hartwood was observing her, too. His dark eyes glinted in the candlelight, their expression hard to interpret. As they rested for a moment on the books and papers spread out upon the bed, a half smile flickered across his lips. “So you even take your books to bed with you, do you?”

  At the sound of his deep and resonant voice, Eliza bit her lower lip and reached for the paper that bore his horoscope. But anxiety made her clumsy, and her hand knocked it off the richly embroidered counterpane. It fluttered to the floor, but before Eliza could rescue it, Lord Hartwood reached down to pick it up. He peered at it for a moment in the dim light, then handed it back to her.

  “So what do your stars tell you now, little seer-ess? Will you survive your visit to Bluebeard’s Castle?” His long form lounged against the bedpost. One languid arm snaked around it, making the strong muscles of his broad shoulder stand out as they strained against the thin fabric of his shirt.

  Instinctively, Eliza drew back. Then, with as much sangfroid as she could muster, she replied, “I cannot say. You interrupted me before I had finished with my calculations.”

  “What was there for you to calculate? You’ve already told me my character is an open book to you.”

  Eliza ignored his sarcasm. “Your character is complex, my lord. There are warring strains within your nature. But as I have just such a disposition myself, I feel certain I shall be able to furnish the proper interpretation, if you would be kind enough to grant me a few more minutes.”

  Despite his desire to get things over with quickly, the woman’s refusal to be cowed caught his attention. At her first sight of him, clothed as he was for the evening’s sport, her face had quivered with an emotion he believed was fear, and yet she had responded to him so steadfastly—with something in her brave green eyes he had never seen in those of a woman he’d brought to his rooms. With a qualm he realized it might be innocence.

  “Continue with your labors,” he heard himself saying, much to his own surprise, as he strode over to the large comfortable armchair that furnished one corner of the room.

  A vivid blush colored her cheeks as, her fingers shaking, the woman picked up one of her almanacs and quickly flipped through the pages until she found the entry she was looking for. Then she peered intently at the horoscope—he wondered if it was his or her own—her eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration.

  Her lack of self-consciousness, so unusual in the women with whom he was acquainted, gave her face an elusive charm, and he rather enjoyed watching her as she worked. Though as her head remained bent over her work, he remembered the ultimate purpose of this interview, and some of the pleasure he had been feeling abated. Alone with her now, he felt, as he had not felt in his carriage, the enormity of what he was about to do to her. Such innocence should have been saved for some honest, earnest man, who could have shared the delusion of love with her—at least for the first few times. Not to Black Neville’s son, cursed with Black Neville’s cold unloving nature.

  But it was too late for regret. She’d made her bargain. He’d paid to free her father. Her books were safe. So shaking off his doubts, he strode to the side table and decanted the brandy into a glass. He held it up to the light and lost himself in contemplation of its warm amber glow, while she went on serenely consulting her charts.

  Only a few moments later did she look up. A wide smile filled her open features. “It will be all right,” she said. “Uranus sextiles your Venus by solar arc, while Jupiter conjoins your Moon and Mars. Your anger will be tamed by love, and good fortune will come from—” Here she blushed again, more prettily this time. “Well, from the things associated with Mars.”

  “The god of war?”

  “War, yes. But in astrology he is also lord of iron, fire, anger, and, well—” she hesitated again “—of manly passion.” The little fortune-teller’s blush had spread beyond her face and now flowed into the portion of her freckled chest that was visible at her throat.

  Manly passion, indeed. She must really be a virgin.

  He swirled his brandy in the glass, inhaling deeply as the vapors released, then drained it down. It was a shame to abuse a good brandy by guzzling it so quickly, but he felt himself in need of the instant resolve the brandy would furnish. Then he stretched back in his chair and gazed at his quarry, enjoying the artless way in which she displayed her rounded and surprisingly graceful arms as she grabbed at her books and stuffed them clumsily into her bulging valise. But his appreciation of this display was cut short as he noticed the quivering of her hand. The woman was trembling.

  Had he been a kinder man, her anxiety might have caused him to take pity on her and let her go. She was so completely out of her depth. But he was not a kinder man. He was Lord Lightning, and the woman should have taken more care than to get herself into this situation. Why should he give in to sentiment just because she was an innocent?

  But even so, her hope-filled words had cooled his enthusiasm for what must come next. She would not find love with him, no matter what she saw written in the stars. He was not capable of it, and only a very foolish virgin would have been so naïve as to admit to a libertine like himself that love was what she hoped to find in their upcoming tryst.

  It reminded him forcibly of why he avoided virgins.

  But things had gone too far now for him to stop without looking like a fool himself. So it was time to get it over with.

  He stood up and walked over to the sideboard. In a moment he had filled a second glass with brandy and brought it to where she sat so stiffly on the edge of the bed.

  She took it willingly, though as her small fingers brushed his when she reached for the glass, he realized they were ice cold. He was about to warn her to drink the brandy slowly and to savor the delicate aroma, but before he could say a word, she slugged it down as quickly as he had drunk down his.

  Her swallow terminated in a choking sound, followed by a violent fit of coughing. He reached his arm around her shoulders and pounded on her back until the coughing stopped.

  “You’re supposed to sip it, not suck it down like a sailor guzzling grog.”

  “But that was what you did. I only followed your example.”

  “Well that should teach you not to. Don’t you know I’m famous for setting a very bad example?”

  The girl smiled, rather ch
armingly. Then she sank back against the pile of thick pillows that furnished the bed.

  She looked so odd lying there amid the pillows on which he had entertained some of the most beautiful—and wanton—women in the kingdom. But it was not just her modesty that made her different from them. He struggled to define what it was. Then it struck him. It must be that ridiculous spinster’s cap of hers—the first object of that kind to ever have made its appearance in his bed.

  As if she had read his thoughts she raised a hand to her cap, though after she touched it she stopped. “Would you prefer I remove my cap?” she said, uncertainly. “Is that customary?”

  “Quite.” As was much else she would soon discover. “It does look rather uncomfortable with all those pins.”

  “It is. The pins dig into my head. But such caps are meant to be uncomfortable. They are the very soul of propriety.”

  “Then you must remove it directly. Too much propriety is likely to send me into a fit of sneezing. I am quite allergic to it.”

  He was relieved to see her smile, and even more relieved when she tilted her head toward him and let him pull out the pins that affixed the cap to her hair. When he had removed it, he placed it gingerly on the table beside the bed. If only it turned out to be as easy to divest her of the rest of her garments.

  Without the cap her hair was surprisingly thick and lustrous. He leaned toward the candelabra and pinched out all but one flickering flame. Then, gazing at her with his most smoldering look, he murmured, “Your eyes are beautiful in the candlelight.”

  It was meant to be mere moonshine, but as the words left his mouth, he realized, with some surprise, that they were true. Her eyes were striking—large, green, and luminous—though disturbingly intelligent. He could see in them, too, the effort she was making to control her fear.