A Well Pleasured Lady Read Free

rippled with muscle. His black hair, well streaked with silver, was long and pulled back with a simple ribbon. The style accentuated the harsh lines around his mouth and eyes and stripped his broad face of any of the softness a fashionable cut would have provided.
    â€œGood heavens, Sebastian, I already told her we knew, and I’m glad I did.” Lady Valéry sounded stern. “You frightened her half to death.”
    Using her most sensible tone, she replied, “I was only startled, ma’am. You have a most aggressive attitude, Lord Whitfield.”
    Lord Whitfield rocked back as if amazed by her accusation, but his faint, mocking smile let her know she hadn’t fooled him. “I have a most aggressive curiosity, Miss Fairchild.”
    Chilled, she wondered—how much did he remember of those long-ago events?
    â€œSo you do, Sebastian.” Lady Valéry’s plucked brows rose in delicate inquiry. “Do you expect me to put that cream in my tea now?”
    â€œHer hand is clean.” Lord Whitfield lifted Mary’s wrist and used his handkerchief to wipe the white film off her finger. “It feels better now, doesn’t it?”
    Mary hated to admit it, but the pain had almost vanished. “Yes, thank you, sir.” She wanted away from him. He stood so close, his legs brushed her substantial skirt, pressing her petticoats against her legs, and he took up all the air to breathe. That had to account for the faint ache in her lungs, that sensation of constriction in her throat.
    She didn’t want to ask the question, but she knew she must, and vigilantly she framed the words. “Have we met?”
    â€œI knew your father.”
    He hadn’t answered her question, but Mary’s nerve failed her. Was it possible he hadn’t recognized her, or was he toying with her? She wanted to peer into his mind, and at the same time shied away. She wanted to interrogate him, and at the same time feared his responses.
    She wanted to run.
    She wanted out of this room, and she said, “If I may, I’ll return to the kitchen and fetch a fresh tray.”
    â€œNo, you may not. You’ll sit down right there and tell me what you’re doing in Scotland.”
    His deep, slow, soft tones brought forth rough emotions she thought long buffed away, but she displayed her thoughts and feelings for no one. She simply stood, one hand limp at her side, one hand allowing his brisk ministrations.
    â€œYou’d better sit,” Lady Valéry said. “Sebastian is not easily refused.”
    Lord Whitfield tossed his limp white handkerchief onto the tea tray where it immediately soaked to a soggy brown.
    Mary glanced toward the farthest stool in the dimmest corner, but Lord Whitfield pointed at the chair that faced the fireplace. “No, girl, sit there.”
    A good housekeeper does as instructed.
    Her rigid corset would keep her from wilting beneath his interrogation, and vigorous self-training kept her spine from touching the chairback.
    Lady Valéry, she was distressed to see, concealed a smile behind her fan.
    â€œLook at me, girl,” Lord Whitfield instructed. “I want to see your face.”
    The trouble with that, of course, was that she would have to see his face, too. But a good housekeeper keeps the guests happy.
    Lifting her head, she stared straight at him and refused to let him intimidate her. Of course, it could have been easier. He stood when she sat. He observed her closely when she much preferred to be invisible. He blocked warmth and light with his mere presence.
    â€œYes, you are Charles Fairchild’s daughter,” hesaid with evident satisfaction. “You have his look—except he never eyed anyone so coldly. Where did you learn that trick?”
    She thought of several replies, all impertinent, and discarded them.
    Somehow Lord Whitfield must have known, and his voice grew gentler. “Want to tell me to knock off, do you? Well,