A Wild Pursuit Read online

  She glanced again at Fairfax-Lacy. He looked like a gentleman, not like that savage she had married. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would even like having intimacies with him. It wouldn’t be terrifyingly messy and embarrassing as it had been with Rees. It would be…proper. Acceptable. He was quite lovely: all rangy, lean, English gentleman. And without a doubt it would curdle Rees’s liver to see her with such a man. If anything could curdle her husband’s liver, given the qualities of brandy he drank. So why wasn’t she walking straight into Mr. Fairfax-Lacy’s arms?

  Suddenly a pert voice spoke just at her left elbow. “Shall I walk you across the room again?”

  Helene blinked. Bea’s eyes were sparkling with mischief. She repeated, “Shall I walk you across the room, Helene? Because I believe you are expected.”

  “Ah—”

  “This way,” Bea said efficiently, taking her elbow and strolling toward the far end of the room, where Stephen waited. “He is quite lovely, isn’t he?”

  Helene was so nonplussed that she couldn’t quite bring out an answer. “Who?” she finally said lamely.

  “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, naturally!”

  “I thought you found him Old Testament.”

  “That too. But it seems obvious to me that the two of you are perfectly suited,” Bea said in a coaxing voice, as if she were taking a mare over a high jump. “There he is, a perfect specimen of the English gentleman, and here you are, exactly the same in a female form. Both impeccably virtuous too, which must add luster to your friendship. And I think he’s quite, quite interested in you,” Bea said confidentially. “He looked straight in your direction when he entered the room. Whenever I speak to him, he simply glances around the room. Normally”—her smile grew—“I am used to complete attention.”

  Bea had on a dinner dress that had neither a front nor a back. One could only guess how it stayed above her waist, given that her plump little breasts threatened to escape her scrap of a bodice. Men must simply slaver over her, Helene thought enviously. She herself was wearing a gown of Egyptian net over a dark blue silk. She had felt very a la mode in her chamber, but now she felt dismally overdressed, like a dog wearing a sweater.

  But Bea seemed to follow her train of thought perfectly. “I’m certain that he doesn’t like my gown,” she said. “Last night at dinner he kept looking at me as if I had something stuck between my teeth. Come along!” She jiggled Helene’s arm. “You don’t want to wait too long, do you? What if Arabella manages to convince the man that he should wed Lady Rawlings? You could hardly have a liaison with your friend’s husband!”

  Helene thought about that as they moved across the room.

  “You see,” Bea said, not quite as softly as Helene would have liked, “he’s looking at you right now!”

  But when Helene looked up, it seemed to her that Stephen was watching her companion, although with an expression of deep annoyance. She swallowed and curtsied before Stephen Fairfax-Lacy. “Sir,” she said. Bea had glided away without even greeting Mr. Fairfax-Lacy.

  He smiled down at her, and Helene realized again what a good-looking man he was. There wasn’t a whisker on his face, not like her husband, who always had a shadowed jaw by evening.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m quite well.”

  There was a moment’s silence while Helene thought desperately of a conversational tactic. “Did you read this morning’s paper?” she finally asked. “Napoleon has escaped from Elba and is in France again! Surely the French army will not support him.”

  “I believe you are quite correct, Lady Godwin,” Stephen said, looking away. He had decided to play this game very, very slowly, so as not to startle her.

  Helene felt a crawling embarrassment. How on earth could she have ever thought to seduce a man? She couldn’t even carry on a simple conversation.

  “What do you think of the fact that Catholics cannot sit in Parliament?” she asked.

  He blinked, not prepared for philosophical reasoning. “I have long felt that the prohibition should be rethought,” he said finally.

  “I believe it has to do with the wordings of the oaths they would have to take. Wouldn’t it violate their religious vows to take Parliamentary oaths?”

  “Most of the men I know don’t give a fig for those oaths,” Stephen said.

  Helene heard a faint bitterness in his voice and wondered about it. Why was Mr. Fairfax-Lacy in Wiltshire rather than sitting in the House of Commons?

  “Why should we expect Catholics or Jews to be more circumspect than Anglicans?” he continued.

  “Surely to establish oneself as a Catholic in this country, given its Anglican past, implies a deeper fidelity to religion than one might expect from an ordinary gentleman,” Helene said. She was quite enjoying herself now. He wasn’t regarding her in a lustful fashion, just with the sort of normal engagement one might expect during a conversation.

  But she waited in vain for a reply. He appeared to be looking over her shoulder.

  “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said, with a bit of sharpness to her voice.

  He snapped to attention. “Yes, Lady Godwin? Do forgive me.”

  “Is there something interesting that I should see as well?” Helene said, deciding on the basis of his really quite charming smile that she wasn’t insulted after all.

  “It is merely that impudent little chit, Lady Beatrix,” Stephen said. “I truly can’t imagine what Lady Withers is thinking, allowing the girl to dress in that unseemly fashion.”

  Helene turned as well. Bea was sauntering across the room toward them.

  Stephen felt as if the girl were some sort of irritating gnat. Here he was, having a remarkably informed and intelligent conversation with the woman who might well become his future mistress, and there she was again. About to interrupt their fascinating discussion of religious oaths. Lady Beatrix seemed to have dropped the melancholy pose with which she had originally entered the room. She looked strikingly exotic and utterly unnatural. And potent. Too potent.

  “Do you know, I don’t think that is the true color of her hair?” Stephen said. He could hear the rancor in his own voice. Why on earth did the girl get under his skin in such a fashion? “Look at that bronze. Have you ever seen such a color in nature?”

  “But why would she color her hair?” Helene asked with some fascination. “She can hardly be showing gray.”

  “Of course not!” he agreed. “She’s barely out of the schoolroom.”

  Helene didn’t agree with that pronouncement. Beatrix Lennox was obviously far too ripe for a schoolgirl, and besides, hadn’t she debuted some three years ago? That would put her at about twenty years old.

  “I expect she colored her hair merely to shock people,” Stephen said with a shrug. “She’s obviously artificial.” He turned back to her. “Not like you…a true English gentlewoman, bred to the bone.”

  Helene felt a pang of envy toward Bea. It wasn’t high on her list of wishes to be described as a well-bred filly at Tattersall’s. Naturally, she ought to be pleased by the compliment. But it would be fun if just once, she were considered dangerously attractive. Able to shock someone. Helene had never shocked anyone in her life. Well, perhaps her husband. There was that time with the chamber pot…Helene wrenched her thoughts away from the unsavory topic.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” she said, opening her fan. Esme always flirted with her fan to great effect. Unfortunately, Helene hadn’t the faintest idea how to do the same thing. She waved it gently, but the only result was that she was unable to see Stephen at all. She snapped it closed.

  At that moment Bea joined them. “We have been discussing poetry,” she said with a twinkle. “And I am sent to discover each person’s favorite poem. Arabella has had the splendid idea that we shall have a poetry reading on Friday evening.”

  “I haven’t read any poetry in years,” Stephen observed.

  Bea looked up at him from under her lashes. “We’ll have to do something about that. Perhaps I’ll
lend you a book from my private library.”

  To Helene’s amazement, a ruddy tone appeared in Stephen’s lean face. “That won’t be necessary,” he said brusquely. “I was quite fond of poetry as a boy. I’m certain I can remember something.”

  “Have you a favorite poem?” Bea asked Helene.

  “I am acquainted with Shakespeare’s sonnets,” Helene said uncertainly. “But some of them are hardly suitable for reading aloud.”

  “I’m sure you will find something you deem appropriate,” Bea said, and Helene was unable to dismiss the idea that the girl was laughing at her.

  “And your favorite poem?” Stephen asked her.

  “A love poem by Lord Byron,” Bea said, drifting away. “It’s quite, quite beautiful.”

  “That girl is trouble,” Stephen said, rather unoriginally.

  But Helene had had enough of this torturous flirtation. She was exhausted. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said with a curtsy, “I will join Lady Rawlings.”

  Helene had hardly sat down next to Esme when Bea plumped herself on Esme’s other side. “Disastrous!” Bea announced.

  “What?” Helene asked, but Esme seemed to know precisely what she was speaking about and responded with a choked giggle. Helene narrowed her eyes. “What are you discussing?”

  “You, darling,” Esme said, with such fondness in her voice that it removed the sting. “Bea and I have been conspiring to bring you together with that estimable gentleman on the other side of the room, but you’re not doing your share.”

  Helene already felt tired; now she felt obstinate as well. “While I much dislike the idea of my affairs being discussed in public,” she said, “I also resent the imputation that I have not attempted to…to sway Mr. Fairfax-Lacy’s attentions. I am wearing a new dress, and I allowed myself to be walked over to him, like a lamb to slaughter. It is not my fault that the man has no conversation.”

  “You must have discussed something,” Esme said.

  “Topics I introduced,” Helene snapped. “First I brought up Napoleon’s escape and then the position of Catholics in the government. He had nothing to say to either issue. Really, if this is what he’s like in Commons, it’s no wonder the government never gets anything done!”

  Bea sighed. “He doesn’t want to talk about legalities, Helene. The man is bored with the House. He wants to talk about frivolous things. Men always pretend that they want intelligence in their mates, but it’s not really the case.”

  “What sort of frivolous things?” Helene asked.

  “I don’t agree,” Esme put in. “I think Bea has the wrong end of the stick. In my experience, it doesn’t even matter what you talk about. The man is burnt to the socket. Look at those circles under his eyes. Unless I miss my guess, he’s rather desperately hoping to find a warm body to curl up with. All you have to do is indicate that interest, Helene.”

  “You make it sound easy,” Helene muttered.

  “It is easy,” Bea said. “You watch, and I’ll do it right now. He’s utterly uninterested in me, so there’s no threat to your future.”

  Helene grabbed her arm. “I can’t let you do that!”

  “Why on earth not? I do it enormously well,” Bea said with some satisfaction. “In fact, I think one could fairly say that I am an expert.” She sauntered off, and sure enough, even the very sway of her hips was a promise.

  “I do believe that girl is more outrageous than I ever was,” Esme said thoughtfully. “She must be quite unhappy.”

  “Nonsense. She’s having the time of her life,” Helene said. “Look at her now!”

  Bea was laughing up at Stephen, waving her fan gently before her face. Her piquant little face was glowing, her eyes sending the man a speaking invitation. Her bosom brushed against his arm, and even from the other side of the room, Helene could see him start.

  “I can’t possibly do that sort of thing,” Helene said flatly. “I just couldn’t.” She felt positively riddled with embarrassment at the very thought.

  “Bea is not doing much,” Esme said. “There’s only one important thing, and that’s to let your eyes tell Stephen that you’re available. That’s all. It’s easy.”

  “Easy?” Helene said in an appalled voice. “That’s not easy! Available? How on earth does one indicate such an unseemly thing?”

  Across the room, Bea was laughing up at Stephen. She seemed to be vibrating with desire. Then she turned around for the merest moment and grinned at them. The desire wiped from her face and was replaced by pure mischief. She looked like a girl just out of the school room. The next second she turned around and threw Stephen another languishing look.

  “Ah,” Esme said with some satisfaction, “she can still be herself.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Helene said, feeling just on the edge of tears. “I can’t do this. I must be missing the ability. Rees always said—” She snapped her mouth shut. She didn’t want even her own best friend to know that she was a frigid woman who would never enjoy bedding a man. Her own husband had said so, and she was fairly certain he was right.

  “Don’t despair, darling. Mr. Fairfax-Lacy doesn’t like what Bea is doing. See?”

  Sure enough, Fairfax-Lacy was frowning at Bea and clearly growling some sort of reproach. “He’s just the man for you,” Esme said with satisfaction. “Not Bea’s type at all.”

  A fact which Bea exuberantly seconded a moment later. “He told me to go wash my face,” she reported with some glee. “I do believe that Mr. Higher Than Thou M.P. doesn’t like my maquillage, even though it is imported all the way from Paris.”

  Helene felt a little steadier. She had never worn rouge in her life and couldn’t imagine why she ever would. Perhaps she and Stephen were suited after all.

  Just look available, she told herself. “So, I simply look…look—”

  “As if you want to bed him,” Bea said.

  “I’ll try,” Helene muttered. Never mind the fact that she didn’t wish to bed anyone, and couldn’t believe that any woman would wish to do so voluntarily. Except for reasons of revenge.

  “Or you could just tell him,” Bea suggested with a wicked grin.

  “I most certainly could not!”

  “I have an idea! The poetry! We’ll use the poetry.”

  “What do you mean?” Esme asked her.

  “We are each supposed to read a favorite poem on Friday, remember? If Helene reads the right kind of poem, and looks at Fairfax-Lacy while she does it, it won’t fail! That way you need not embarrass yourself,” she told Helene. “The poem will do it all. And I’ll warrant he’ll visit your chamber that very night.”

  “An excellent idea,” Esme said, nodding.

  “But I don’t know any love poetry,” Helene pointed out. “Besides that of Shakespeare.”

  “Good,” Bea interjected, “because we don’t want love poetry, silly!”

  “We don’t?”

  “Do you love him?” she asked.

  “Well, no.”

  “Precisely my point. This is an altogether different type of poetry. And not to worry, I never travel without my favorite authors.”

  “You are remarkable. You travel with…with this sort of poetry all the time?” Helene asked Bea.

  “Naturally,” Bea said, opening her fan.

  Helene watched with fascination as Bea shook the delicate, lacy confection slightly. She held it just below the level of her eyes, and somehow she looked ten times more delectable. I shall practice with my fan tonight, Helene thought. In front of the mirror. If I read the poem with a fan covering my face, no one can see me blush. Helene loathed the fact that she blushed constantly, like some sort of green girl.

  “Don’t forget that your friendship with Mr. Fairfax-Lacy will curdle your husband’s liver,” Bea said with relish.

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten that!” Helene said. Why on earth would she even consider doing such an immoral act otherwise?

  “Just remember to look at
Stephen while you read,” Esme advised. “I shall put the two of you next to each other at supper so you can practice giving him desiring looks. Naturally I’ll have to be on his other side, since Arabella is determined that we should marry.”

  “I rather agree with Arabella,” Helene said. “He would undoubtedly make a good husband, Esme. I was just thinking how very much I wish that I had married someone like him, rather than Rees.”

  “He’s not for me,” Esme said, shrugging.

  “Nor me,” Bea said, with the little yawn of a cat. “He’s all yours, Helene. If you can stomach all that virtue and pomposity, that is.”

  “He’s not pompous!” Helene protested, and then realized that her two friends were laughing at her.

  “Not pompous—perfect for you. We’ll confer over poetry tomorrow, shall we?” Bea said, a twinkle in her eye.

  “Better not,” Helene said, biting her lip. “If I have to read something shocking, and”—she narrowed her eyes at Bea—“I have the feeling that your choice will be along those lines, I’d much rather not know the worst before the moment arrives.”

  Esme put an affectionate arm around her shoulder. “I’ll be there, cheering you on.”

  “As will I!” Bea put in brightly.

  Helene looked at Stephen Fairfax-Lacy again. He was leaning against the mantelpiece, deep in conversation with a stout lady from a neighboring estate. He was the very picture of a timeless kind of elegance. The kind of elegance that her husband didn’t even dream of. Rees didn’t give a toss what coat he drew on in the morning. He’d never tied a cravat in such intricate, snowy folds in his life. And since no decent servants would stay in his employ, he didn’t have a gentleman’s gentleman to tie it for him.