Three Weeks With Lady X(36)

At length she made up her mind. "I'll wear the sprigged muslin with the  embroidered roses this morning," she told her maid. "And tonight, the  French silk."

Marie's eyes widened. "Finally, you will wear the French silk!"

"With amethysts in my hair," India said, remembering that she had to appear a proper candidate to become a duchess.

Marie handed her a jar of lotion, and India began swiftly rubbing it  into her legs. She felt different, as if she'd paid a visit to a foreign  country and come home speaking a new language.

She and Thorn had lingered in the gatehouse until she'd had to go home  or risk exposure. They'd been lucky, because she'd darted in a side door  and made her way to her bedchamber without being seen. Marie had been  surprised to find her already tucked into her bed, but she made the  excuse that she'd been exhausted.

And frankly, she had been. After hours in Thorn's arms, she had felt as  limp as a piece of velvet; she'd slept with a dreamless intensity that  she hadn't experienced since she was young.

But now it was all different. Whatever she and Thorn had had between  them was over. Lala and her mother were due later that afternoon, as was  Lord Brody. The Duke and Duchess of Villiers would arrive, and the last  thing she wanted was for Eleanor to think that she was a hussy who  would roll about with Thorn in the open air.

That was a private memory. She knew that she would never again have such a wonderful night. That was it.

It was over.

Thorn had used sheaths every time, and he never suspected that she was,  in fact, inexperienced. So there would be no consequences, other than  the gift of an utterly delightful, sensual memory that she could tuck  away and examine later in life.

She'd had a lover. Most women gained a husband, at some point or  another. But few, in her opinion, had a lover. The thought made her  smile.

"It's nice to see you happy," Marie said, as India handed her back the  jar of lotion. "I've never seen you work so hard," her maid continued.  "But Starberry Court is just perfect. Everyone says so, from the  bootblack to Mr. Fleming himself. It's exquisite."

"Thank you, Marie," India said, feeling a bit guilty because she was happy for all the wrong reasons.

She had to stop thinking about the gatehouse. Last night was like a  fairy tale, like something that happened to a stranger, not to herself.  Though every time she sat down she had to suppress a wince. Clearly it  had happened to her.

Thinking about Thorn made her nipples harden, and her belly take on a  liquid, hot feeling. That was what loose women, who made love not for  coin but for pleasure, presumably felt all the time. The women in  Feather's book.

She had a lot of newfound sympathy for them. This was like being hungry:  it felt urgent. She wanted to find Thorn and pull him into a spare  bedchamber and demand that he ravish her. No. That was over.

From now on, she would be virtuous. As soon as the house party had  concluded, she would return to London and make a decision between her  various suitors.

Unless, of course, Lord Brody was as charming as Thorn seemed to think he was. In that case, she might choose to be a duchess.                       
       
           



       

An entirely virtuous duchess, of course.

After India was dressed, she tried to look at herself as critically as  possible. She was going to conduct a courtship under Thorn's eyes. She  knew he would watch her and Lord Brody.

He didn't think her clothing was feminine enough. Not sensual enough,  with all his talk of generals and the like. A deeply feminine part of  her wanted to prove him wrong. The bodice of her muslin gown was pleated  and caught up just under her breasts, and constructed in such a way  that every pleat made a statement about her best assets. She wore  slippers made in Italy with pointed toes and slender heels. And she  carried a blue reticule sewn with metallic threads.

"Do you think I should wear some lip salve?" she asked Marie.

He maid looked up, startled. "You?"

"Yes, me."

"Why? You are beautiful."

Marie genuinely believed that every man in the vicinity would fall in  love with her mistress. India opened up one pot of salve after another,  until she found her favorite shade of peony pink.

"I see no need for lip salve in the morning," Marie stated.

What she didn't understand was that most men wanted a woman like Lala: a  woman who didn't say much-and what she said was uttered in a whisper.

India never whispered. She considered whispering girlish. The truth was that she was more likely to yell, at least around Thorn.

Plus, she had a straight nose, instead of an adorable little tip-tilted  one. Her hair was too thick and wouldn't stay up properly. And her lips  were too big, though she had the idea that applying pale pink color  helped with that problem.

She knew they were too big because she'd been called "fish-lips," back  when she was a child trading mushrooms at Mr. Sweatham's shop. She would  bring him a box of mushrooms from the forest, and he would give her  flour and bacon in trade. He always gave her more than the mushrooms  were worth, but her pride was never as big as her stomach was empty.

She could still hear that derisive hiss in Sweatham's son's voice when  he would say, "There's Lady Fish-lips!" or even worse, "Charity  Fish-lips!"

The memory was a steadying influence. Her immediate goal was to see Lala betrothed to Thorn.

After that, she would find just the right husband.





Chapter Twenty-one

By the time the carriage drove up to Starberry Court, Lala was ready to  throw herself in front of the horses. Her mother had been suffering from  heart palpitations for three days, until she had declared the previous  day that she simply could not make the trip to Starberry Court.

It wasn't until Lala's father said that he could no longer afford to  feed his family that Lady Rainsford gave in. His lordship was probably  exaggerating, but he made his point.

Today her mother spent the entire trip from London pointing out that if  Lala ate less, her father wouldn't be so concerned about feeding the  family. Never mind the fact that Lady Rainsford couldn't seem to stop  buying bonnets and shoes and even new gowns. And it was the mistress of  the house who insisted they have three courses at every meal, as in  other fashionable households. And it was Lady Rainsford who retained a  doctor to visit the house every single day, the better to listen to her  heart.

"I cannot believe that Dr. Belview refused, utterly refused, to  accompany us," she said fretfully as the carriage turned down a long  drive that Lala thought must lead to Starberry Court. "He is appalling  disloyal! I am strongly considering reminding him of his Hippocritical  Oath or whatever that is called."

Lala sat next to the window, biting her tongue. The line of trees opened up, and Starberry Court came into view. She gasped.

Her mother didn't notice, since she was busy patting her forehead with  an infusion of lavender, which someone had told her was efficacious for  headaches.

The house was huge, with imposing wings stretching to the left and  right. Two carriages were drawn up on the gravel circle, and a number of  footmen milled about in front of the door.

Panic gripped Lala. She could not do this. She simply could not do this.  This was not the simple country house she had expected from Mr. Dautry,  who didn't always wear a waistcoat when he walked in the park.

This really was the estate of an earl or a duke. The mistress of this  house . . . The mistress of this house would need to be not merely  smart, but brilliant. Accomplished. She would have to be able to read.

Her mother finally glanced out the window. "It's like a bandage," she said, making even less sense than usual.

Their carriage was slowing.

"A bandage covering a suppurating wound, the wound of bastardy," Lady Rainsford clarified.                       
       
           



       

Lala's heart sank. "Mama, Mr. Dautry is a perfectly respectable  businessman. It is not his fault that the duke was not married to his  mother. You mustn't speak in this way before him."

Lady Rainsford straightened. "Your father threatened me last night."

"What?"

"He threatened me. He said that if you don't marry the bastard, he will  not pay for another season." Her voice trembled. "Even though it goes  against every part of my nature, I will abandon my daughter to . . . to  the filthy lucre of ill-gotten gains." Her hands were pulling at her  lace handkerchief again.

Lala's hands itched to slap her parent. The impulse was so wrong that  she hardly knew what to do with it. "Mama," she said, taking a deep  breath, "I beg you to calm yourself."

The carriage had stopped now, and any second their groom would open the  door. He would find her mother with a wild tinge to her eyes, pulling,  pulling at her handkerchief. Lala dropped onto her knees on the carriage  floor, her hands over her mother's restless ones. "Mama, you want me to  be happy, don't you?"