Edith Layton (2 page)

But Viscount Sinclair was supposed to be a real rake. She wouldn’t have guessed a real rake would bother tormenting her. That was usually what bitter men or heartless boys did. Perhaps, she thought suddenly, he hadn’t really seen her. Perhaps he’d thought what he’d seen was a shadow or a trick of the leaping candlelight.

“Of course I know it’s awkward,” he suddenly said with such fellow feeling, such a gentle smile, that she doubted her estimate of him and looked at him with hope. “Embarrassing and foolish, isn’t it? My following you into a dim hallway, creeping around like a fellow in a bad farce…but you disappeared. Now you say I can’t dance with you. And I can hardly call on you, can I? In short, then, my dear Miss Bridget—yes, your cousin knew your name, at least—I have a proposition for you.”

Bridget’s heart sank.

“Being a companion is not very lucrative, and there’s not much pleasure in it, either. And as I’ve noticed, there’s no companionship in it at all—for you.”

This was so true she forgot to be wary and just stared up at him.

“But that all depends on whom you companion, you see.” He stepped closer and put his hand on the back of her chair as he bent to talk to her. He smelled of cognac and sandalwood, she thought absently. But not too much cognac; he certainly wasn’t drunk. And there was the scent of fresh linen and soap, clean and masculine. Her nostrils fluttered as she took in his scent. He noticed and smiled slightly.

“Now, if a young woman such as yourself,” he went on, “were to companion an amiable gentleman, she not only would find it much more profitable, she’d have a great deal of pleasure from it, that I can promise you.”

She gaped at him.

“Yes,” he said softly, nodding and smiling down at her, “nothing wrong with your ears.”

“You’re offering me…” She could not bring herself to utter the words.

“Carte blanche,” he said helpfully.

“Carte bl…a position as your
…mistress
?” she gasped.

He nodded. “
Companion
is a better word, though, and a much better description of the position offered. Think of the advantages: a place of your own, your own servant, jewels, fashionable clothing, pocket money…”

“You’re mad!” she said.

“No, my dear, merely entranced. And how else am I to get my hands on you? Think of the logistics, the difficulties, otherwise.”

She arched her neck, flung back her head, and looked him in the eye. “You can’t have seen,” she said, “not clearly. It’s not a play of light or something I should have removed with my napkin at dinner. It’s there, and it’s real, and it’s part of me.”

“Yes,” he said gently, gazing at the long, deep dark line on her cheek, near the side of her nose. It curled down to the margin of her upper lip. His eyes studied it. “Yes, I know.”

“I see,” she said, so beside herself with outrage she forgot he was a nobleman and she nothing at all to him or to the world. “And so you thought my morals as cracked as my face, did you? Or that I was so desperate for the touch of a man that I’d take leave of my senses? The shame’s on you, my lord! My face may be ruined, but my reputation is whole, and will stay that way—that I can promise
you
!”

“I see nothing wrong with your face, my dear,” he said. “Had I, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Now I understand!” she raged, more disappointed than shocked. “Oh, I understand very well. You’re one of those men who find scarred females more attractive than whole ones! One of the kind who hate us, or fear us, or have a score to settle with us—a man who’s pleased to see one of my sex disfigured so cruelly.”

“If you say that seriously, you must need spectacles,” he said, frowning. “My dear, has no one ever told you? You’re lovely. The scar? It only points that out, as a beauty spot might. It doesn’t diminish your beauty; rather, the contrast merely heightens it. Your skin is pure, and your eyes are amazing, gray as night fog. A small straight nose, and such lips…shapely, plump, they were made to be kissed. And that’s not all. It’s
astonishing, because although you’re slender, your form is nothing short of magnificent. Delicate, yet so ripe—lovely. Surely you must know that, too.”

Bridget stared at him, astonished and chagrined. No one had ever said such wonderful things to her, and the someone who was saying them was only a rake. He was making love to her with words, right there in the hall! The worst part was that she felt her body prickling with pleasure in reply to him.

But she knew the truth—who better? And she knew it would free her from his spell.

She rose to her feet, lifted her chin, and faced him squarely. “This ‘beauty spot,’” she sneered, “is so lovely. You’re right. How fortunate I am. Why, I don’t even have to bother drawing it on. It’s always there. See how deep and well defined it is, too. Some females wear beauty spots in the form of flowers or hearts. But see mine? How unique. It’s in the shape of a snake or a worm, how delightful. Cut line, my lord rake. It’s the plague of my life. Haven’t I seen people look at it, then away, then back again, as though they can’t help themselves? I have, time and again. Haven’t I heard people whisper, ‘Oh, how pretty she’d be—if not for…’? Be sure I have, time and time again.

“A woman’s face is her fortune,” she went on bitterly, “and I have neither, my lord, nor any luck. I’ve had other offers such as yours over the years. In fact, I’ve had no other kind…well, only one other. But I know—too well!—that a certain kind of man considers a female’s damaged face evidence of damaged goods.”

“Do they?” he asked, obviously diverted. “Odd, I’ve never found it so. Most courtesans don’t have any scars.”

“Y
ou
would be an expert on such women. I suppose,” she spat, and then stopped, aghast at herself for speaking to a gentleman that way, appalled at having such a conversation with any man. She steadied herself. “I must again ask that you leave, or I’ll have to leave myself,” she said stiffly. “And I’ve been asked not to do that. You see my problem. So I give you one last chance to be the gentleman I thought you were. Well?”

“I’ll leave, of course,” he said, backing away. “For now. But think about what I’ve said, will you? The position I offered is still open. And I remind you that you mentioned your supposed ineligibility for it long before you mentioned your morals. Be that as it may. Think about those spectacles, too, will you? Because it occurs to me you can’t have seen me clearly, either. Not that I’m vain. But I’m not an ogre.”

“No,” she breathed as he bowed. “No,” she whispered to herself, watching him turn and leave, strolling down the hall back toward the ball, “not an ogre—just a monster.”

She stood straight, but her lower lip was trembling as she fought for control again.

“Miss?” a voice said hesitantly. She looked up to see that a footman had left his post and stepped closer to her. “Good for you!” he said softly.

“And y’can double that from me,” the other footman said. “’Ere’s to you, my lady!”

“No, I’m not a lady,” Bridget said, smiling through her tears.

“Mebbe not, but you’re a lady right enough for our money,” the footman said.

She inclined her head, just as a great lady might do. But only because she was too touched to speak right away.

“One thing he said that was true is that you’re lovely, miss, and that you are!” the first footman said staunchly.

She nodded. How lucky she was, she thought sadly; she’d just received two of the best compliments of her lifetime. One from an unprincipled rake with possibly the most evil intentions she’d ever come across, and the other from a footman who felt sorry for her.

The front door opened. The page returned with her aunt’s coachman in tow, looking grieved.

“Miss Cecily din’t bring no wrap tonight,” the coachman said. “I would’ve remembered. Only her shawl, and she carried that in with her. I looked, too, everywhere, but weren’t nothin’ else there.”

“I know,” Bridget said. “But…can we let that be our secret?”

“Oh,” he said, and looked hard at her. He sighed. “Aye, lass. We working folk have got to stick together, don’t we?”

“Aye,” she said, and sighed, too, envying him, because he, at least, was paid in coin for his labor.

When he left she settled herself back on her chair. The footmen marched back into their places. That left her sitting by herself, thinking about the offer she’d gotten, puzzling over how her mind worked. Because wicked as it was, and certain as she was that she could never accept such a terrible offer as the rakish lord had made—still, there was no doubt that in some strange way she felt as good as she felt bad about it.

That was undoubtedly wicked, too. But pleasantly and safely so, because there was about as much future in such thoughts as in any of the other air dreams she regularly indulged in to enliven her life. She smiled to herself as she kept her lonely vigil in the drafty hall.
Being offered carte blanche from such a gentleman? And to imagine accepting it, even for a second? That was even more of a delusion than her usual fantasies, since she had a better chance of having some previously unknown ancient relative pass away and leave her a vast fortune along with a castle somewhere in Spain.

T
he Brixton family departed the ball as night was beginning to leave the sky. Cyrus Brixton, exhausted after a night of small-stakes gambling in the room set aside for the gentlemen at the ball, folded his hands over his paunch and slept as his carriage bore him home again. But his wife and his daughter couldn’t stop talking.

“A triumph,” Cecily’s mother told her daughter again. “You danced every set and behaved as prettily as can be. You’ll have your pick and be wed before the year is out, see if you’re not!”

“Well, I had my eye on James Worth, you know, but Lord Montgomery is ever so charming, too, isn’t he? And the Viscount engaged me in conversation for ever so long and danced with me right afterward,” Cecily said
smugly. She didn’t have to name the viscount in question; her mother smiled just hearing the title.

“He’s looking for a wife,” her mother said with satisfaction.

“Which is wonderful, isn’t it? Because I’m looking for a husband,” Cecily giggled.

“Viscount Sinclair?” Bridget gasped.

Both women turned to stare at her.

“And why not?” her aunt asked. “We are not titled, of course, but your own grandfather was a baron. You never met him and may have forgotten, being out of the family so long. And Mr. Brixton’s family has been here since the Conqueror.”

“N-No, it’s not that,” Bridget stammered. “Viscount Sinclair is—he’s—he’s a rake!”

“Any gentleman would act the rake if he found himself being ogled so openly,” her aunt said stiffly. “As to that, you’re fortunate he didn’t do more than mock you with his attentions when he saw you gaping at him like that. As who did not? Truth to tell, Bridget, we’re very disappointed in you. Thank heavens Cecily had attended other balls before tonight’s, or else I’d worry she’d be considered ill bred, having such a companion.

“I suppose you knew no better, coming from the wilds of nowhere, never having attended a young lady before. But listen, Bridget: You’re here to watch our Cecily and lend her countenance, not to call attention to yourself! Poor child, I know you can’t have thought—but we never considered you’d behave so,
especially
a person such as yourself, with such a deformity. We thought you’d be perfect for our Cecily, a perfect…”

A
perfect foil for her beauty
were the words her aunt left unsaid. But it was true, so Bridget said nothing. Instead
she held her breath, afraid the next words spoken would send her back to mad Cousin Mary.
Anything but that
, she thought nervously, and waited.

“…a perfect companion. And so you yet may be. But you must remember Cecily needs someone modest and unobtrusive—not bashful, mind, but refined and retiring—as her constant companion. We thought that with your handicap, you’d be shyer than you are. I suppose it’s not your fault, given the relatives you’ve lived with. But Cecily does
not
need a lively young person to keep her awake. She
certainly
doesn’t need you offering her advice on gentlemen. Indeed, I can’t think of anyone less suited for that than you!”

There were insults and there were insults. Bridget drew in a breath, ready to announce her leaving. She didn’t know where she’d go, but she had her limits.

“You don’t know society or London,” her aunt went on. Bridget let out her breath with relief. “I’
ll
advise her about gentlemen, thank you very much. As for the Viscount, he’s been a widower for more than a decade, and of course a healthy man must have his outlets. But he’s all that’s correct when he’s in society, and since he’s come in search of a wife, he’s the unexpected catch of the season.

“Besides, it’s precisely your job to see that Cecily is never alone with him—until he declares himself. So you see, ogling him so brazenly was potentially disastrous. Still, we can mend matters. We’ll tell him it was because you’re new to London and were astonished to see such a fine gentleman.”

“No need, Mama,” Cecily laughed. “I told him already! Well, he asked about Bridget while we were talking.”

Her mother gasped.

“I knew he felt sorry for her, and so I told him we’d taken her in, and he looked at me with
such
approval for it.”

“Clever puss,” her mother said, and went on to discuss first the Viscount’s income and intentions and then the best gown for Cecily to wear when she saw him again.

Listening to them, Bridget hoped they’d get home before she cast up her accounts. She made herself feel a little better by realizing that if they didn’t, at least she could say it was the motion of the coach that was making her sick.

But she was still upset as she prepared for bed. They wanted him for Cecily? Fine! Wonderful life poor Cecily would have with him if they did marry; she’d have to comb the women out of his bed before she got into it with him. But she couldn’t warn her aunt or Cecily or even tell them what he’d offered her, because they wouldn’t believe it. And if they did, they’d believe she’d asked for it. Well, she supposed she had, in a way. She shouldn’t have indulged in that fantasy, she shouldn’t have thought he couldn’t see her scar, she never should have played peekaboo with a rake.

But now they were ordering her to be modest and unobtrusive? Ha! She’d be as silent as a deaf and dumb clam if she ever had to be in the same room as the rakish Viscount again. If he actually had the audacity to court Cecily with her there, Bridget thought, she’d pray to become invisible!

The thought of the Viscount’s reaction to an invisible women retching while he was wooing Cecily cheered Bridget—almost enough to make her stop seeing that curling smile, those amused and knowing eyes that
watched her through the last of the night into the dawn, following her down into uneasy sleep.

The invitation came three days later.

Cecily had almost given up hope. Other men had come to call. The Viscount hadn’t.

“Just so. He is exactly right,” Aunt Harriet said with satisfaction as she read the Viscount’s note again. “A day later and it would be an afterthought; a day sooner and he’d look overeager.”

S
he’d say “just so” if the villain had
C
ecily’s dress half off in her front parlor
, Bridget thought grumpily as she sat sewing and listening. A
n inch lower and it would be a scandal, an inch higher and we wouldn’t know he cared
, she mocked to herself, imagining what Aunt would say if she did discover her daughter in that monster’s lustful embrace.

“C
ongratulations, my dear future son-in-law!” is the most likely thing
, Bridget thought, and found herself depressed. Well, and why not? When Cecily married, Bridget would have to go to another relative, find a new home again. There was no knowing if the next relative who took her in would live in London, or if she did, whether she would even so much as leave the house to take tea with the local vicar. There might never be another ball or party or…

“I’ll wear the yellow silk—no, the figured satin…no, not for an afternoon,” Cecily was saying. “My new white gown! Yes! It’s sprigged with those cunning violets. Oh, it’s the very thing!”

“Perfect! I’ll wear violet, too,” Aunt Harriet said happily. “We shall look a pair.”

Bridget doubted it. Cecily was an artless girl, naive, almost a little foolish in her conversation. She was tiny, shapely, with a halo of fat sausage ringlets around her
pretty little face. Her mama was all show and ambition. She was tall and stately and looked as though she could balance a tea tray on her bosom. But they were both blond, Bridget thought fairly, trying to suppress her smiles at the idea of Aunt Harriet promenading with a silver tea set on her breast.

She saw Cecily looking at her quizzically, and bit her lip. She was so used to being on the outside of other people’s conversations, having to make her own amusements, that she’d gotten into the habit of doing it more and more often. If she wasn’t careful, she thought in sudden alarm, she’d be mad as poor old Cousin Mary before she knew it, walking around constantly smiling at jests no one else could hear.

“What will you wear, Bridget?” Cecily asked again.

“Oh, sorry. Wear to where? I mean,” Bridget said as Cecily giggled, “where are we going?”

“We’ve been invited to a pleasure garden with the Viscount.”

Somehow Bridget wasn’t surprised that pleasure would be involved in whatever the Viscount wanted to do.

“Bridget will look neat,” Aunt Harriet said. “What she wears isn’t as important as
how
she wears it,” she added, sending her niece a significant glance.

“Oh, a
pleasure
garden! Like Vauxhall Gardens!” Bridget said excitedly, as what they were talking about sank in. “Or Raneleigh! Or the Spring Gardens! I’ve read about them for so long and longed to see one! They say they have flowered walks and fountains, and great rotundas for music and dancing, and galleries for art, and fireworks displays, too!”

“And dark garden walks for other things,” Cecily said with another giggle.

Aunt Harriet exchanged an amused look with her daughter. “Which a young lady should not know about,” she chided Cecily gently, “or at least not
speak
about.

“You must have read old books,” she told Bridget. “Most of the pleasure gardens are closed, made over into estates or public parks. In my youth there were dozens; now there are only a few, and many of those have been converted to botanical gardens. As for the ones left intact
—everyone
goes to Vauxhall now. You might find yourself falling over your own dressmaker there! The Viscount has more exquisite taste than that, of course. He’s taking us to an exclusive garden, he says, with an ornamental lake and swan boats.”

“We’ll promenade, he’ll have a chance to get to know me better,” Cecily said happily.

“And we shall walk a step or two behind the couple,” Aunt Harriet told Bridget, “far enough back to give him privacy, close enough to remind him we’re there.”

All Bridget’s desire to see the gardens fled. “But if you’re going, Aunt, why do you need me?”

“Do you want him to think we’re peasants? A girl of good birth needs more than her mama in attendance. Besides, that way I can have a seat if I get weary, and Cecily will still be properly chaperoned.”

W
ellington’s legions would be needed to properly chaperone a girl in the company of the
V
iscount
, Bridget thought. But she nodded. At least she’d see a pleasure garden, even if there was little pleasure in it for her.

There was less pleasure in dressing for the actual day.

Bridget stared glumly at herself in the mirror, or tried to. She couldn’t really see past Cecily, who was twirling in front of her looking glass, trying to see herself from
every angle. Cecily was radiant in her violet-sprigged gown, with violet ribbons twined through her ringlets. The color enlivened her wide blue eyes, and she looked young and charming. She was whirling so much that Bridget saw only glances of herself. She thought she could have saved herself the bother. She had five day dresses, and the best that could be said of the one she wore was that it was one of them.

The good thing about the current fashion was that it didn’t matter if a girl had a fortune or tuppence. She didn’t need yards of fine fabrics, hoops, and crinolines, as women had in the past. Now fashion called for all dresses to be basically alike: simple, high-waisted, and round-necked, falling straight from beneath the breasts to the toes. Bridget’s was a dark green. Of course, silk would be nicer than muslin, but the color suited her, and the fashion showed off her—

Not that it mattered. She could wear a gown of spun gold and it wouldn’t matter, she thought miserably. Viscount Sinclair had come to her secretly, in the dark, and asked her to whore for him. He was taking her cousin out into the light, with an eye toward asking her to be his wife. And for icing on the cake, she had to pretend it hadn’t happened and walk behind the two of them, pretending not to mind that either.

Cecily stopped spinning, content that there couldn’t be any improvement in her appearance. Her maid, watching her adoringly, had told her that many times, and she could see it for herself. But Bridget was silent. Cecily noticed her at last. She tilted her head to the side and gazed at her cousin’s reflection behind her in the looking glass.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you look very
well, Cousin Bridget. And it’s not just because I’m getting used to your face.”

Her maid gasped.

Cecily’s laughter was bright. “Oh, Meg,” she told her maid, “Cousin Bridget told me to be honest with her from the first, and it isn’t as if it’s any secret. No use pretending that scar isn’t there—it would be like ignoring the nose on your face. But it doesn’t look bad, Bridget,” she said thoughtfully, watching her cousin. “Indeed, it does not. In fact…it gives you a certain air, you know? With your dark hair and those dark eyes, it gives you a certain savage look. Like a gypsy, or a woman with a strange and exciting but violent past. Not exactly brutal, but certainly turbulent. If you were a man, it would be dashing. As it is, it’s…wild-looking. Many men find that attractive, I believe.”

C
ecily is young
, C
ecily’s foolish
. C
ecily never has a private word with me, and she has no reason to be cruel to me, so it isn’t that
, Bridget thought frantically, and said calmly, “If you say so, Cousin.”

“Well, I’ve heard gentlemen say so,” Cecily said, and giggled. “Which is why Mama’s so right, you know. If you stare at the Viscount today, he’ll definitely get the wrong idea.”

“Shall I change to a white frock, then?” Bridget asked in a monotone.

“Oh, no! I was just saying how well you looked in the green, silly,” Cecily laughed.

Bridget looked at her cousin with new eyes. Yes, she thought, she did spend much too much time listening to her own interior conversations. She ought to have listened more in the month she’d been here. Cecily and her mama really were a pair. “Thank you, Cousin,” she said.

All her worry was for nothing. He didn’t even notice her, or if he did, it was in that first and only look he passed over her when he was welcomed in. One brief glance, and then those bored eyes swept past her and back to Cecily, and he smiled, at last. Bridget almost wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing, if it had been some fantasy she’d cooked up to pass the long hours she’d sat in the hall that night, waiting for the family. But no. If it had been a fantasy of hers, he’d have declared his love and admiration for her, not his lust and low estimation of her.