CHAPTER SIX
Lettice did her best to send another dream to Lord Hadrian. He was far too in control of himself, but she’d met men like that before. All she needed to do was try harder and make him more aroused—unbearably so and therefore unable to concentrate on searching the archives. But she mustn’t make him hot for her, but rather for some other woman. The dairymaid, perhaps—a pretty, buxom blonde with an appreciative eye for a man–or the wench at the village tavern. She tried, really worked at it, imagining the dairymaid baring her ample bosom for him and the tavern wench lifting her skirts bit by tantalizing bit.
But the Hadrian of her vision showed no interest at all in the women she offered. He kept turning to her with warm, appreciative eyes and promises of more of those sweet kisses, and the dream kept trying to fly before she was ready to let it go.
Whatever effect she may have had on him, she also aroused herself to a state of feverish need. She welcomed him in the dream, opening herself to him with abandon—and then a familiar panic welled up. She cut the dream short, gasping with both frustration and despair.
This wasn’t like her. She had long ago learned to suppress the tiny flames of desire that conjuring erotic dreams often kindled, particularly if the man in question was reasonably attractive. Along with arousal would come lack of concentration, then loss of control. She needed safety far more than she wanted desire.
She wished she could leave this horrid house, but along with her obligation to Mr. Pilgrim, she must destroy any correspondence with the dratted symbols. She would have to do it without Lord Hadrian’s knowledge and against his express wishes—which, strangely enough, felt traitorous. He had preserved everything in the archives despite his father’s commands. How unkind it would be to destroy what he cared about so much!
And yet, sentiment aside, the true treason would be in not destroying the correspondence. Perhaps the Mistress of the Succubi already knew about the letters in the archives. Perhaps they were the reason for Mr. Pilgrim’s mission, and Lettice would have only to pass on what little she knew to him. She couldn’t prevent another operative from obeying orders.
The fact that this was all conjecture didn’t make it any easier for her to fall asleep. She woke weary, heavy-eyed, and uncertain what to do. Perhaps she should write to the Mistress for advice—but the Mistress wouldn’t appreciate loyalty to anyone other than herself. Lettice was still dithering when she went down to breakfast.
Lady Staves greeted her with a kindly smile. “You look tired, Lettice. Did you not sleep well?”
“Unfortunately not,” Lettice said.
“That is the fate of those with much on their conscience,” Lord Staves pronounced. “I always sleep extremely well.”
Lady Staves carefully wiped all expression from her face.
“I too had a restless night,” Lord Hadrian said, but he looked remarkably bright-eyed all the same. “Come sit beside me and tell me more about herbs, Miss Raleigh. I’ll take you for another stroll after breakfast. That should shake the cobwebs free.”
What did that mischievous twinkle in his eyes mean? She didn’t like it at all, but she couldn’t think of a way to refuse politely. Lord Staves’ automatic scowl made annoying him almost obligatory, but she didn’t want to upset Lady Staves.
“Thank you, I should like that,” she said in her remotest voice. She couldn’t bear to coo at Lord Hadrian with Lady Staves and Jane watching.
She helped herself from the sideboard and reluctantly took the chair next to Hadrian’s. “Which herbs do you wish to discuss today?”
“Anything that gets the blood running will do,” Lord Hadrian replied promptly. He glowed with suppressed excitement. Had he found something last night?
Lord Staves’ scowl deepened. “There’s nothing wrong with your blood, young man.”
“Hawthorn berries, perhaps,” Lord Hadrian added as if his father hadn’t spoken. “Or mistletoe.”
Good God, she absolutely must leave before Christmas. Every male in the house would try to trap her under the mistletoe. “One gathers the leafy twigs of mistletoe in the spring.” Lettice tried to sound prim, but judging by the expressions on various faces, she didn’t succeed. “Also, it’s a relaxant, not a stimulant.” She babbled on. “One must never eat the berries, as they’re highly poisonous.”
“They’re only useful to invite kisses.” Lord Hadrian winked at Lettice. “I intend to steal plenty.”
While seducing traitors, Lettice had learned never to blush unless she chose to, but she seemed to have lost that ability now. “It’s too late in the season to collect hawthorn berries, and not quite time to cut mistletoe. You’ll want it very fresh for the Christmas celebrations.” Which were approaching far too quickly.
“The servants will gather it,” the marquis said. “Hadrian, you need no tonic other than what your mother or the cook can provide.”
“Oh, but my heart is feeling most dreadfully weak,” Hadrian said, clapping a hand dramatically to his chest. “I have a strong feeling only Miss Raleigh can help with that.”
The marquis glared. Lady Staves sucked in a worried breath. Lettice longed to crawl under a log and die.
Lord Staves set down his knife and fork and stood. “Hadrian, I want a word with you in my library.” When Hadrian didn’t respond, he growled, “Well?”
“Directly after breakfast,” Hadrian said placidly and put a forkful of kidneys in his mouth. His father stomped out.
An hour later, Lettice and Lord Hadrian set out, accompanied by a footman. The chilly grey weather contrasted with Hadrian’s blindingly cheerful mood, surprising since he had just come from an interview with his father.
“What did Lord Staves say to you?” asked Lettice, accepting his proffered arm. They walked around the stables to a path that skirted the Home Wood.
“First that I was going too far in my attempts to warm you up—which seemed awfully unfair to me, since you’ve been doing most of the warming.”
Did he mean the dreams? Surely not; how could he know about her bizarre ability?
“Although not at breakfast this morning,” he said. “Alas.”
“Much as I enjoy annoying Lord Staves, I couldn’t bear to flirt with your mother watching.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “My father is terrified that I have fallen under your spell.”
Was there a deeper meaning behind his use of the word spell? “What nonsense.”
“Not at all,” he said. “You’re a beautiful woman with unusual, even uncanny seductive power, so why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you have far too much commonsense.” Should she read anything into his choice of the word uncanny?
“Usually Father complains about my lack of susceptibility,” Hadrian went on, “but now that I have shown myself to be as weak as the next man, he fears I shall do something rash that harms the pristine reputation of Staves.” With a flick of the chin he indicated the footman, who followed at a respectful distance. “Hence the minder.”
“You’re not as weak as the next man.” He raised his brows at her, and she blurted, “Please don’t be.”
“Why not? I should rather like to succumb–lock, stock and barrel.”
“Oh, dear,” Lettice said. “Please don’t do any succumbing. It—it will only lead to disappointment.”
“For whom? You couldn’t possibly disappoint me.”
“Please don’t jest, Lord Hadrian.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the footman plodded slowly along well behind them. “Any liaison between us would be…disastrous.”
“I’m not jesting,” he said, “but you needn’t worry. I shan’t do anything rash.”
Sooner or later, he would do something rash; every man who showed interest in her did. She would have to repulse him as she had the others—but oh, she wished she were a different woman without a past. Although if that were the case, he would feel obliged to marry her, which had certainly never crossed his mind.
She wished she hadn’t let her thoughts stray in the direction of marriage, because now it was crossing her mind. She mustn’t let herself entertain such a foolish dream… She scarcely knew Lord Hadrian. Not only that, he was utterly dependent upon his father. Most important of all, no gentleman, especially not a son of the Marquis of Staves, would see her as anything but a prospective mistress.
They meandered along the path to the border of a meadow, but there were no herbs to gather, and they both knew it. “This is a waste of time,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Hadrian said. “Walking is healthy exercise, and I wish to tell you what I discovered after you left me last night.”
~ * ~
Hadrian watched with a mixture of satisfaction and dismay as Lettice paled. She didn’t relish his infatuation, but his curiosity affected her far more.
“Can you not leave well enough alone?” she cried, turning on her heel and heading toward the house.
“I don’t want to,” he said, “but yes, I suppose I can.” More or less. He need not upset her; he thought he already knew her great secret, but he could put any questions to Val, who wouldn’t fail him. But by then Lettice would have left Staves, and in London she might try to avoid him. She wouldn’t succeed, but…
What was he thinking? He never pursued an unwilling woman. He’d never wanted to and didn’t think much of men who did. And yet, the prospect of losing her became more unendurable by the minute. He had no choice but to persevere.
In silence they passed the footman, who stolidly took up the rear again.
“But wouldn’t you like to know what I found last night?” he asked.
After a pause, she sighed. “Very well.”
“I unearthed a letter which I believe was written by Sir Walter Raleigh to an ancestress of mine,” he said. “You are his descendant, are you not?”
“Not directly,” she said, “but it’s the same family.” She hurried along, head held high, and didn’t ask what the letter was about.
Usually one would, he thought; it was only human to feel an interest in one’s ancestors—unless one didn’t want a nosy man to make certain connections between present and past. “Quite the ladies’ man, wasn’t Sir Walter?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lettice said.
“Good Queen Bess was certainly enamored of him,” said Hadrian. “She sent him to the Tower when he married without her permission.”
“She was enamored of many men,” Lettice said with a dismissive flick of the chin.
“I read the letter as a boy, but I didn’t understand much of it at the time,” Hadrian said. “It was signed with a symbol that reminded me of the one at the bottom of your letter. I believe it’s meant to be an erect penis penetrating a flower, whilst your symbol represents a penis on a leading string.” He couldn’t help but grin. “Very appropriate.”
She glowered at him. “What makes you think it was written by Sir Walter, if it was signed with only a symbol?”
“Because I recognized his handwriting,” Hadrian said. “He carried on a substantial correspondence with the Lady Staves of the time, mostly to do with poetry—but not always, since the letter in question answers a request for advice.” He paused, watching her narrowly. “About how to reject the persistent advances of an unwelcome lover.”
She flinched—ever so slightly, but he caught it.
“A lover who, as Sir Walter phrased it, ‘hath served his purpose’.”
No reaction; she had controlled herself now.
“I couldn’t find any other such letter, nor alas, anything with your symbol,” he said.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again.
“My ancestress was an unusual woman,” he said. “I have read much of her poetry, and she seems to avoid the subject of love.”
“It’s not the only interesting subject in the world,” Lettice said pettishly.
“No? Perhaps one of the most interesting, though.”
She hunched an indifferent shoulder.
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that she asked a man for advice on such an intimate matter?”
“Perhaps they knew each other well. Perhaps they had been lovers. How should I know?”
“My other find was even more interesting,” he said. “It was at the bottom of a tin box with a number of that same ancestress’s keepsakes.”
She didn’t show the slightest interest—and yet the tension emanating from her told him she was dying to know.
“It was a scrap of paper with several sketches of phalluses on it. It reminded me of the sort of thing my sisters did when they had a tendre for some man or other—practicing the look of their Christian name with his surname or title. Perhaps my ancestress was practicing a rather unusual signature of her own. Some phalluses were wrapped in chains, some in shackles, two on leading strings like your symbol.”
“It’s not my symbol!” she cried.
“I beg your pardon–that of your correspondent. How do you sign your letters?”
“With my name,” she shot back. “Did you spend all night satisfying your annoying curiosity?”
“Most of it,” he said. “Except when I fell asleep at my desk and woke from a rather distracting—and highly unsatisfying—dream.”