Three Weeks With Lady X(21)

In the back of India's mind, the sting got a little sharper. One had to  suppose that Thorn had kissed Lala-how else could he have deemed her  perfect?

After a struggle, India managed to control a bitter pulse of jealousy by  telling herself that jealousy was unbecoming. Unladylike.

She ignored the part of her that didn't give a damn about being a lady and just wanted Thorn to consider her kisses perfect.

Dear India,

Today I received an invoice for Aubusson carpets. Are you nailing them  to the roof in lieu of slate? There isn't enough floor space in the  entire house for this number of rugs.

Thorn

P.S. I am sending this letter by one of my footmen, Fred. He's a country  boy. I told him that you are not to be alone in that house at any time.  The groom will return with your reply.

Dear Thorn,

The carpets are an investment for future generations. Lala's mother will appreciate the furnishings, even if you don't.

India

P.S. Fred is a lovely fellow.

Dear India,

You do realize that I won't be marrying Laetitia's mother, don't you?

Thorn

Dear Thorn,

Count your blessings.

India

Dear India,

I received another collection of invoices, and now I am rethinking  marriage altogether. I'm not sure it's worth it. Did we really need that  much champagne? Not to mention the barrel of Colchester oysters, the  knitted stockings, and the pound of Fry's drinking chocolate?

Thorn

Dear Thorn,

Of course you must marry. Many men your age have already been  inconsolable widowers, wooed, and won their second wives. You are a  laggard in that respect.

India

P.S. The stockings are for your footmen (three begin next week), the  oysters for Lady Rainsford (who adores oyster soup, according to  Adelaide), and the chocolate for me.

Dear India,

You must be living for pleasure, considering that pound of chocolate. I  think I'd prefer to remain unmarried and develop a gluttonous lust for  chocolate. In bed. The oysters throw a strange light on Lala's mother;  you do know what they are good for, don't you?

Thorn

Dear Thorn,

I have heard something of the virtues of oysters, but I believe that  they need to be fresh to be efficacious in that respect. I'm surprised  that you have need of such a remedy, but I shall hasten to lay in an  order for regular shipments whenever you are in residence.

India

Dear India,

You injure me; truly, you do. I would display my virtues, but I'm sure that, as the virtuous woman you are, you might faint.

Or not.

Thorn

Dear Thorn,

I see enough wilted vegetables in the regular course of things.

India

Dear India,

You have thrown down the gauntlet in terms of my vegetables, and my  supposed shortfall. I could have proved it to you the other night.

Thorn

Dear Mr. Dautry,

There was no other night. You were dreaming.

Lady Xenobia India St. Clair

Dear India,

I'll be there tomorrow for another inspection of your progress.

Thorn





Chapter Twelve

India could glimpse sanity on the far horizon. Soon the drawing room  walls would be covered with Lyonnaise silk, hand-painted with apple  blossoms. One of her favorite Italian painters would finish work in the  dining room by afternoon; he had first painted it gray-green, and now he  was almost done gilding the painted swallows that swooped across its  walls.

India had sent Adelaide-whose taste was impeachable-back to London to  choose furniture from Thomas Sheraton's and Jean-Henri Reisener's  showrooms. They would have to accept whatever was available, but she had  a very good relationship with Mr. Sheraton, in particular, and was  reasonably optimistic that he would give her whatever he had and tell  his customers that the pieces they'd ordered had been delayed.

A man specializing in Italian glass had arrived the day before, carting  with him a true treasure: an enormous Venetian blue-glass mirror, along  with the alabaster mantelpiece that would be installed after the silk  was on the drawing room walls.                       
       
           



       

And she had borrowed a master gardener from Lord Pendleton's estate in  the next county. (Pendleton was still very grateful to her for the  successful birth of his child, in which frankly-since she hadn't been  the woman in labor-she had played no real part.) The sound of men  working in the gardens drifted through the open windows. Already the  lawns had been weeded, neatly mown, and rolled smooth enough for a  tennis game. The flowerbeds had desperately needed pruning; now they  looked presentable, though rather bare.

When Thorn jumped from his carriage that evening, she was waiting  respectably in the drawing room, rather than leaning in the doorframe  like a night-walker. She had also taken the time to bathe and put on a  gown without a speck of plaster or dust or paint on it.

The moment Thorn walked into the drawing room she could tell that  something was wrong. His body was vibrating with pent-up emotion as he  strode toward her. She started to drop into a curtsy, but he leaned  forward and brushed his lips over hers. As if they were siblings. Not  that she had a sibling, but she imagined they kissed like that.

"We must be quick, India," he said without further greeting. "Show me  the floors you've paved in gold, and I'll be back on the road."

"You are not merely walking through the house and leaving!"

"Yes, I am."

She shrugged. "Fred plans to serve the dinner sent by the innkeeper  here, if that changes your mind. We might begin in the ballroom. It  turned out well." That was an understatement. The walls had been  stuccoed in the faintest pink, and the decorative molding was gleaming  white. She'd had wall sconces installed with pale green blown-glass  shades, a tint that matched the delicate chairs. She thought it was  perfect.

He walked through the door, looked around, and said, "It looks good. What's next?"

India's mouth fell open. She put her hands on her hips. "This room is not good!"

"It isn't?"

"It is utterly gorgeous. It is better than Versailles. It is better than any ballroom you've seen before!"

A germ of amusement lit up his eyes, which just irritated her more.  "It's hardly my forte," he said, not sounding in the least apologetic.

"I had workmen in here day and night! The night before last, none of us slept because-"

At that, his scowl matched hers. "What do you mean, you didn't sleep?"

"Francisco and I had to paint the stucco before it dried," she explained. "If you don't finish painting-"

He took a step toward her. "Francisco and you?" His voice dropped a  level, and all that anger he was carrying in his body channeled right  into his words. Maybe he wasn't as controlled as she'd thought.

"Francisco Bernasconi," she said, holding her ground. "He's a master of  stucco, the best in all England. Three or four years ago, he showed me  how to do it, and now I always help."

"I didn't hire you to do manual labor!"

"It's one of the reasons I'm successful," she explained. "If I have to, I  can bake bread. I can show a cook how to make mayonnaise and not break  it. I can paint stucco, I can move furniture, I can-"

"The hell with that," he growled. "How old is this bloke?"

India frowned. "That is irrelevant."

"It's not irrelevant. How old is he?"

"Barely thirty, I suppose. But his age doesn't matter: what matters is  that he trained in Florence under a maestro. He's an artist."

"I suppose he's in high demand?"

"Always. It was a miracle that we were able to get him here on such short notice."

His eyes flared. "He came because he's in love with you. I suppose they all are."

"Francisco has never said a single inappropriate word to me, ever. You do him a huge injustice to suggest it!"

He looked at her lips and then straight down her body. "Were you wearing that?"

"Of course I wasn't wearing this gown!" India was beginning to feel  truly incensed. Thorn had been in a mood when he'd arrived, and now he  was being absurd-as if he were jealous or protective, which he had no  right to be.

"Well, at least that's something," he muttered.

"What are you talking about?" she shouted at him, now losing her temper  altogether. "I didn't wear this gown, because I wore another gown, and  what does that matter anyway?"

"He watched you bend over. All night long."

"I wasn't bending over!" she retorted. "Not that it makes any difference."                       
       
           



       

He closed his eyes for a moment. "India, tell me that you weren't on your knees."

She didn't speak to that, because of course she had been on her knees.  Francisco and his men worked on the upper walls, on the delicate leaf  work around the moldings, and she worked below. "You are an  extraordinarily rude man," she said, turning to leave. "I'll show you  the dining room walls, after which you can return to London."