A Well Pleasured Lady Read Free Page B

hadtaught her she didn’t want Lord Whitfield touching her.
    He seated himself. His fingers templed before his chest and his elbows rested on the arms of the chair while he studied her.
    Apparently, chasing women and subduing them was nothing unusual for him. She wanted to lift her hands and check her strictly restrained hair to see if tendrils had escaped. She wanted to rub her finger, which still stung, and the places where he’d touched her, which still throbbed from his oppressive hold.
    But she didn’t. A housekeeper didn’t fidget —especially when a man was about to destroy everything she’d worked to build. “How did you know my father?”
    â€œWe were neighbors once,” Lord Whitfield said. “And he was kind to me.”
    Kind? Yes, that described her father perfectly. He was also loyal and proud and a wastrel, just as Lord Whitfield had said. She’d loved her father, worshiped him, and in his joyous, thoughtless way he’d infected her with his philosophies and ruined her life.
    She didn’t like to remember her father.
    â€œYou are the stillest woman I’ve ever met.” Lord Whitfield studied her more, drawing her into the clasp of his gaze. “I wonder why.”
    Because the hunted always take refuge in stillness. Mary fought dueling urges—she wanted to close her eyes against him. At the same time she needed to watch him. Without moving, he seemed to be circling her, looking for a vulnerable spot to attack.
    â€œAnd silent, too.” He tapped his fingertips together as if in thought. Turning to his godmother, he asked, “Discreet?”
    â€œVery.” Lady Valéry no longer smiled behind her fan. She no longer smiled at all, and Mary began to sense the earnestness of Lord Whitfield’s intent. Of Lady Valéry’s intent, also?
    In deference to Lady Valéry’s serious demeanor—surely she wasn’t curious on her own behalf—Mary asked, “What help could Charles Fairchild’s daughter render to you, Lord Whitfield?”
    He said, “There is a lady, a very beautiful, intelligent lady, who was the mistress of several of our revered government leaders. She had a great deal of influence on them, which she used wisely, but unwisely, she recorded all in her diary.”
    Mary found her attention straying from him to Lady Valéry. A half smile hovered around her mouth, lighting, then flitting away like a butterfly.
    â€œThe diary was stolen by those who wish to use it for ill, and in the process the beautiful lady will be harmed.”
    A combination of dread and inevitability mixed in Mary, and she wanted to scream at him to get to the point.
    But a housekeeper never shows impatience.
    â€œThe beautiful lady could pay money to these scurrilous rogues and they promise they will return the diary, but she fears—and I agree—that that is unlikely. Yet if she doesn’t pay, the diary will bepublished, and with it her chance for discretion and anonymity.”
    The room was silent except for the crackle of the flames. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, and Mary thought incongruously that she must have the chimney cleaned. Carefully she avoided the realization that made her stomach twist in dismay. The realization that the diary Lord Whitfield sought was…
    She looked straight at Lady Valéry. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes.”
    It was only a whisper of sound, but to Mary it cracked like the closing of irons around her wrists. For Lady Valéry, she would do anything.
    As she struggled to retain her composure, to remain for this time, at least, the calm and efficient Mary Rottenson, Lady Valéry made her way to the door. Opening it, she spoke to Tremayne. Returning, she seated herself as calmly as if she hadn’t just given another direct order and circumvented the chain of command Mary had so carefully set into place.
    When had Mary’s life