CHAPTER TWO
Estate of the Marquis of Staves, Kent, some weeks later
Sometimes the last straw creeps up on one—if straws can be said to creep—when one least expects it. Lord Hadrian Oakenhurst sat across from his father’s desk and waited with his usual patience for the daily inquisition to end.
“You are absolutely certain Miss Raleigh has not attempted to flirt with you?” demanded his father, the Marquis of Staves.
“No, Father,” Lord Hadrian said. “Not by word or look. She pays me no heed at all.”
“She is ill-mannered, then,” his father pronounced.
“Not in the least,” Hadrian said. “She is cool and civil, precisely as a lady should be, but apart from greeting me when I enter the room and occasionally requesting paper or ink, she applies herself diligently to her studies.” Instead of allowing Miss Raleigh to remove documents to her bedchamber or some warmer room, Lord Staves forced her to work in the freezing-cold muniment room with a shivering servant there to keep watch on her. That was both insulting and unkind; no one in his right mind would imagine she would steal any of the tedious Oakenhurst records. Hadrian didn’t know why she’d accepted his mother’s invitation to spend several weeks here; she must have known his starched-up father would do his best to make her stay unpleasant.
To her credit, Miss Raleigh never once complained, doggedly searching out and copying recipes of remedies in several centuries’ worth of household records.
The marquis grunted. He had asked similar questions and Hadrian had given similar answers for over three weeks, ever since Lettice Raleigh had arrived at Staves Court. It wasn’t Miss Raleigh’s interest in herbs that bothered the marquis, as that was the sort of feminine pursuit of which he would ordinarily have approved. But for the past several years, Miss Raleigh had made a habit of flirting—and at least once indulging in rather more—with well-connected men, often those in positions of power, some frankly unsavory. She had made herself notorious and was now shunned by most of the ton.
The marquis seemed doggedly determined to find an excuse to send her packing, but if he didn’t want her here, why had he allowed her to come in the first place? She was his mother’s distant cousin—ostensibly the reason for the invitation—but Father didn’t let relatives, whether by blood or marriage, get in the way of his obsession with propriety. He had long ago disowned Hadrian’s elder brother, Lord Valiant, for seducing a gently-bred maiden while still at Eton.
“It must be your fault,” Lord Staves said, a familiar note of disdain in his voice. “You’ve been cold and indifferent, I suppose, despite her looks. You’re unnaturally reticent when it comes to women. At one time, I feared you might be a molly.”
Lord Hadrian set his lips together and didn’t respond. They’d been over this before, too. His father had a great many misconceptions that weren’t likely to change, but Hadrian had never forgiven the old man for spying on him until it was proven to his satisfaction that Hadrian found women attractive. One would expect Lord Staves to treasure a discriminating son who kept his occasional amours private, but no—that was for after marriage. The perfect gentleman sowed enough wild oats to show he was a red-blooded man, married a well-bred virgin, and was discreet about his mistresses thereafter.
“I have treated her with courtesy, as behooves a gentleman,” Hadrian said. He had fully expected to dislike her, but maybe she was no longer a desperate flirt. Maybe she had overcome her wanton tendencies. On the occasions when he’d attempted to speak with her—such as at breakfast, when one could sit where one wished, or in the drawing room in the evenings—she had been polite but remote, wrapped in a cool dignity wholly at odds with her reputation. She seemed to wish to be left alone, so why not oblige her?
“Perhaps she has changed her ways, Father,” he suggested mildly.
The marquis made a disgusted snort. “Don’t be a fool. Once a whore, always a whore.”
Hadrian began to be annoyed. “Surely that’s an exaggeration, sir.”
“I know what I know,” the marquis said. “Maybe you’re too young and good-looking for her. She has a reputation for liking older men, the fatter and uglier the better.” In his late fifties, the marquis was still an erect, handsome man with only the suggestion of a paunch. “A couple of the fellows I invited for Christmas are just her sort.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’ll see what happens then.”
Revulsion swelled within Hadrian. He was used to his father’s machinations, but never one so revolting. How could the marquis even contemplate treating a woman in such a villainous way? “For God’s sake, Father. Why are you so intent on proving she’s a wanton?”
“I have my reasons,” said the marquis.
Which meant he didn’t want to say, but Hadrian couldn’t leave it at that. “If you find her so unacceptable, why did you invite her here?”
Lord Staves scowled. “None of your damned business.” As a child, Hadrian had often been beaten for the sin of curiosity. Now the marquis merely champed his jaws. “I was told she’d changed her ways, but I know better—and I intend to prove it. My guests won’t arrive for several days. In the meantime, I command you to flirt with her.”
“Flirt with her?”
“Are you deaf? Yes, flirt with her. Entice her. Kiss and fondle her. I’m not asking you to tup the bitch, damn it. Just warm her up—in private, of course–and report to me. I know what that sort of woman is like. She’s been doing her best to appear cold, but it’s not in her nature. By the time everyone arrives, she’ll be desperate for a tumble. Someone is sure to oblige, and I’ll have good cause to throw her out on her ear.”
Unbelievable. Hadrian knew full well that the marquis wouldn’t leave it to chance. He would make certain the poor woman was found in a compromising situation with some lecherous old man.
“Just don’t get caught with her. No one would expect you to marry her, but I don’t want any scandal touching my family.”
The last straw floated gently down—for straws can be said to float—and Lord Hadrian came to a decision he had put off for years.
But before severing his relationship with his father once and for all, he had an obligation to fulfill.
~ * ~
Lettice Raleigh swathed herself in three shawls and trudged upstairs to the muniment room, which was situated at the end of one wing of Staves Court. The marquis was notoriously stingy with fuel, but she knew full well that he refused to heat the muniment room expressly to spite her. Lettice had ruined two good pairs of gloves in just one month. The ink stains would never wash out, but without gloves, her fingers were stiff and achy, meaning she got very little work done.
She didn’t particularly care about the gloves, but having to wear them while writing, as well as being obliged to pity the servant who was set to watch her, were only two of the many irritations that had beset her since she’d arrived at Staves Court. Lady Staves had been uneasily kind and polite to Lettice during the month she’d been here, but Lord Staves made it clear that he despised her. His strictly proper manners imperfectly concealed a sneer, and he made a point of leering at her when Lady Staves and her starchy companion, Miss Devoe, weren’t watching, and making the occasional crude remark to his silent, utterly abject heir, Lord Gentry. She was far too experienced to let such rudeness disturb her, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it.
Apart from some enjoyable puttering in old documents, this visit was a waste of time, as she’d known it would be. It wouldn’t restore her reputation. Nothing would. She wasn’t permitted to reveal that she was a so-called succubus, nor could she explain that she’d worked for the government during the war as a spy—it being far too unladylike an occupation to expose to the light of day. In any event, no one would believe what mattered most to her—that she hadn’t actually gone to bed with any of the men she’d sent erotic dreams and coaxed into confessing their secrets.
Lettice organized the papers and books on her desk, enjoying the solitude but wishing it wasn’t so perishing cold. She huddled in the three shawls and flexed her fingers, which even in gloves refused to get warm today.
“Chilly, isn’t it? This must be the coldest day of the year so far, after the worst summer ever.”
She started; Lord Hadrian had come into the room in his typically quiet manner. He acted as family historian and came in from time to time to find or replace various documents. He was invariably polite and never assessed her in the odious way most men did, and yet his cool, grave presence made her feel judged even more than by the others. The fact that she rather liked his dark good looks increased her disquiet, which was also absurd. Men seldom affected her in a positive way; at best she viewed them with indifference.
“My father’s commands be damned,” Lord Hadrian said. “I’m going to start a fire.”
Lettice couldn’t prevent herself from gaping. No one ever countermanded the marquis’s orders.
The corner of Lord Hadrian’s mouth twitched into the beginning of a smile. He jerked his chin at the footman who’d been set to watch her. “Charles, order tea for Miss Raleigh and me,” he said, “and fetch some logs for the fire.”
“B-but my lord, the marquis…”
“If he finds out, refer him to me,” Lord Hadrian said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the blame.”
Lettice opened her mouth to refuse the tea, but it was too late; Charles had hastened away. Until now, she had steadfastly spurned Lord Hadrian’s occasional offers of refreshment. She might be obliged to remain at Staves Court for a month because the Mistress of the British Succubi willed it so, but she disdained polite, insincere gestures from such as Lord Hadrian.
Foolish of her, when often she longed for a warm beverage to thaw both her frozen fingers and her insides. Pride seemed to matter more than anything else just now—more than comfort or good manners or common sense.
Lord Hadrian went to the fireplace, where some kindling and firewood remained, doubtless from before her arrival at Staves. As efficiently as any servant, he got a blaze going.
“Come sit by the fire,” he said with an utterly charming grin. She’d seen his smile before at meals, but it had never been directed at her. It was quite—quite stunning. “I know—let’s move a table over here. Why should you ruin perfectly good gloves because of my father’s tiresome commands?”
She eyed him warily. Why would he smile at her in such a way? Surely Lord Hadrian hadn’t developed a prurient interest in her at this late date. He was known as a fastidious man, not the sort who would dally with a wanton, and he’d been refreshingly distant up till now.
“Do you wish to incur your father’s wrath, Lord Hadrian?” she asked. “Because I don’t.”
“No need to fret,” he said cheerfully, lifting a small table and placing it by the hearth. “He needs a better excuse to get rid of you than an unauthorized fire.”
Again, she found herself gaping—and also burning with the shock of his words. She hadn’t expected anything so blatant from the mouth of this cool, reserved man.
What was the use of being on one’s best behavior if this was the consequence? Sometimes Lettice became so enraged that she wanted to commit a horrid sin out of pure spite, but none appealed to her—particularly not the sexual ones.
Lord Hadrian brought over two chairs and set one for her. She didn’t move from her desk.
“Please, Miss Raleigh, forgive my plain speaking and come sit by the fire. I have nothing against you.”
“How kind,” she sneered, hoping he caught all the disgust in her voice. She didn’t move.
“It’s nothing to do with kindness,” he said in a low voice, prowling toward her.
What did he want? She rose, knowing an urge to cringe from him. She didn’t think she could bear it if he tried to kiss or fondle her. The very notion made her ill, but pride and anger forced her to stand her ground.
He muttered, “At the moment we have a common enemy in my father.”
She wished he wouldn’t stand so close. He was young and handsome, with longish, dark hair, broad shoulders and a confident stance. He was no doubt virile, which disturbed her more than it should. She had to remind herself that he was a man like other men, with a wet mouth and pawing hands, but for some stupid reason his masculine beauty made her wish to believe otherwise.
“I must speak to you privately,” he said softly.
Dismay assailed her. Surely he didn’t wish to make her his mistress. That would definitely make an enemy of his father. “Why?” she blurted.
“Come and sit by the fire,” he said calmly, “and I shall tell you. Believe me, I am only trying to be helpful.”
Doubting that, resentful but not wanting to appear rude—and, admittedly, enticed by the blessed heat–she took a cookery book from the pile on her desk and allowed him to set a chair for her. She warmed her hands while he worked the bellows. She said nothing, bewildered but seething inside. If he wasn’t attracted to her, the term ‘common enemy’ made no sense. She had nothing in common with this man except birth and upbringing. She was the daughter of a baron and as such a member of the ton—or would be if she hadn’t been forced to ruin herself for the sake of her country.
She opened the cookery book at random but couldn’t concentrate on the words. The Mistress of the British Succubi had assured her, when first recruiting her, that all would be well in the end. She had kept her promise with regard to payment. In return for exposing spies and traitors during the war with Napoleon, Lettice now had a comfortable pension and would never go without. But it seemed there was no end to the insults and degradation.
Lord Hadrian took a seat across the table from her. His eyes were a cool blue, she realized, and his glance penetrating. “Miss Raleigh, if you find yourself forced to leave here, do you have someplace to go? A place of refuge, I mean, where you will be safe and cared for?”
Of course, he must assume that she was desperate—destitute, even—to remain at Staves in spite of being persona non grata. “How kind,” she said again, “but you need not concern yourself with me.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said.
“My circumstances are none of your business,” she retorted. He said nothing, waiting for a genuine answer, his blue eyes and his silence both patient and insistent. Goaded, she said, “And no, my alternative to Staves Court is neither a brothel nor the River Thames.”
He flinched. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forgive my plain speaking, my lord, but you meant exactly that.” She almost enjoyed that flinch—but not quite. A whisper of shame made her relent. She didn’t like the bitter person she had become. “If you must know, I have the means to support myself.”
He nodded. “That’s good. Believe me, I’m not enjoying this conversation any more than you are, but it’s necessary.”
He turned away as Charles the footman scurried furtively into the room with more fuel. Lettice flipped the pages of her cookery book whilst Lord Hadrian fed the fire. Footsteps and the chink of crockery sounded in the corridor. A maid came in with tea and a plate of macaroons, followed by Hadrian’s mother, Lady Staves, draped in a huge yellow shawl.
“Hadrian,” she said, indicating the fire, “are you quite sure this is a good idea?”
“I’m entirely sure,” Lord Hadrian said. The maid put the tea tray down, curtsied and left.
“Your father is certain to go into a rage,” Lady Staves said. “I’m so sorry, Lettice. My husband insists on the most Spartan conditions. If it were left up to me, we would have fires whenever there was the slightest chill.”
“I’ll tell him you scolded me,” Lord Hadrian said. “His ire will be directed at me, and he can shout all he likes.”
“Thank you, dearest,” Lady Staves said, “but that won’t stop him from taking out his bad temper on the entire household, and lamenting to me about how disappointed he is in you–so unfair of him, when you’re truly a paragon.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but this time Father has gone one step too far.”
His mother raised her brows, but she didn’t attempt to dissuade him. “I see Cook has made macaroons. How delightful.” She took one and drifted out.
“Your poor mother,” Lettice blurted. “Will he really blame it on her?”
Lord Hadrian grimaced. “He cannot tolerate opposition, so she encourages him to think he has her support. On the rare occasions when she disagrees with him, he sulks for days.” He seemed to recollect himself, frowning. “Shall you pour?”
Lettice accepted the mild snub—he must regret discussing his family with her of all people–and obliged, passing him a dish of tea and then pouring her own. She inhaled the steam, savoring the aroma—the choicest Pekoe. If she and not Lord Hadrian had ordered the tea, the kitchen would doubtless have provided something inferior.
They certainly wouldn’t have given her macaroons. She wasn’t hungry, but she snatched one up anyway and took a blissful bite. She sipped the tea and set the dish on the table, her fingers still clasped about it, soaking up its blessed warmth.
Lord Hadrian hadn’t attempted to touch her. Perhaps he wouldn’t, and all would be well.
“Would you mind very much if I closed the door?” he asked.