Lord Savage Read online

  I couldn’t deny that I was tempted. I knew other ladies who dallied with their male servants, confessing in breathless whispers as they compared the prowess of the French gardener at the Newport cottage, or the groom who looked after the ponies at the lodge in the Adirondacks. I had only listened, with no tales of my own to confess.

  To be sure, there hadn’t been any handsome young men among my own servants who might have tempted me—both Father and Arthur had made sure of that—but it was also a matter of being the mistress. Commanding a servant to perform held little appeal for me, and in my eyes such obedience seemed to diminish the men.

  There would be no challenge to that, and ultimately little satisfaction. As handsome as he was, it would be nothing more than an empty coupling without true passion. I wished instead for a man who was not intimidated by my fortune or position, but who would see me only as a desirable woman, not a wealthy one.

  It could never be like that with the burly Simon, so I decided that for now I would decline a taste of what he was offering, and keep my sights set on Lord Savage. Still, the very fact that Lady Carleigh had offered me the chauffeur for more than transportation was an excellent omen for the week, and I could scarcely contain my excitement.

  Before long we reached the estate. We entered beneath an ancient arch that served as the gate and passed through a small forest and lush green fields before, at last, the house itself came into view beyond a lake that shimmered in the late-afternoon sun.

  Whatever notorious reputation Wrenton Manor had acquired over the centuries, it remained breathtakingly beautiful. I was accustomed to enormous estates, but the ancient titles and blue blood that bolstered English manor houses like this one put them on a level of magnificence that no American oil and railroads could ever achieve.

  The old Elizabethan house at Wrenton had been much enlarged in the last century, and made over into an elaborate brick-and-stone tribute to a medieval castle—albeit a medieval castle with all the most modern conveniences. The house bristled with stone crockets and gargoyles, and from the center of the house rose a tall tower that dominated the surrounding landscape.

  At the very top flew a large red-and-yellow flag featuring the stags of the viscount’s crest to show he was in residence. The rampant, flagrant maleness of the stags reminded me of Lord Savage, and as I gazed up at the bold red flag, I could think of no better symbol of the week ahead.

  I was shown to rooms that were handsomely appointed, with white and gold-trimmed furnishings and pink-and-green scrolled wallpaper. Because it was a corner room, there were tall windows on two sides with splendid views of the rolling countryside.

  As was the custom for house parties, whether in Britain or America, I wouldn’t meet the rest of the guests or my host and hostess until they gathered to dine later that evening. I’d at least two hours to amuse myself.

  To pass the time, I decided upon a leisurely bath, dreaming of Lord Savage, while the lady’s maid assigned to me unpacked my luggage.

  The maid was named Simpson, and, much like the two male servants I had met earlier, she had clearly been hired as much for her youth and beauty as for her skill at looking after ladies. Most lady’s maids were dour, even plain, so as to offer no competition to their ladies, or temptation to their masters. Certainly Hamlin, left behind in London, fit that description.

  But Simpson had a voluptuous figure more suited for a sultan’s harem than a severe maid’s uniform, and her corseted breasts seemed to test and strain her bodice’s buttons as she reached up to hang my gowns in the wardrobe.

  As I watched her from the bath, I wondered idly if Simpson, too, would be willing to offer herself for amorous play to the gentlemen guests. Or, perhaps, even to the ladies, and with my thoughts already simmering with Lord Savage, I let myself consider the shapely Simpson as she moved gracefully about her tasks, her full hips and breasts swaying seductively.

  While I had never explored lovemaking with another woman, I had overheard other women in the cloakrooms at balls. They’d laughed and whispered to one another, teasing whispers that suggested such things were not only possible but pleasurable, especially with a woman like Simpson.

  What would it be like to suckle at those full breasts, I wondered, to flick my tongue over those nipples until they puckered and reddened, and caused their owner to sigh with delight?

  How would it feel to have another woman touch me instead, a woman’s small, soft hands so different from a man’s? How fascinating would it be to kiss and fondle a body that mirrored my own, a body whose responses I could share so intimately?

  I chuckled to myself, sinking more deeply into the perfumed water to hide how taut and rosy my own nipples had become. The fullness of my breasts bobbed gently just below the water’s surface, and I longed to have a gentleman here to admire them. Such lascivious thoughts for me to have! Wryly I decided that there really must be something in the very air at this house, exactly as Hamlin had feared.

  But even the most interminable afternoons finally pass, and at last it was time to go downstairs for dinner. Whatever other qualities Simpson might possess, she was an admirable lady’s maid, and when I paused one final time before the pier glass in the bedroom, I could only be pleased by my reflection.

  My dress had been delivered to me only yesterday at the hotel, directly from the shop of Monsieur Poiret. The gown was so daring that I might have thought twice about wearing it in London, and in staid New York, ruled by conservative Mrs. Astor—no.

  Like all of Poiret’s chicest dresses, this one was deceptively simple, with a slender, draped skirt that seemed to pour like liquid silk over my hips and legs. The neckline was cut square and dangerously low, with only a breath of silk gauze, embroidered with glittering faceted beads, over my bare shoulders and upper arms. Most shocking of all was the color, or rather the lack of color: the gleaming silk was exactly the same creamy color as my pale skin. Even from a short distance, I appeared to be more nude than clothed.

  Blurring the lines of decency further was the jewelry that I had added liberally, ropes of gleaming pearls that only contributed to the sense of excess. I’d had Simpson dress my hair in the latest fashion, pinning the heavy chestnut waves into a burnished cloud around my face and elaborate curls around a twisted knot at the crown. One final jewel—a glittering diamond star that was both a signature and a lucky piece to me—was pinned into my hair over my right temple.

  I smiled at my reflection with satisfaction, slowly opening my black-feather fan. I was accustomed to being beautiful, for I’d been beautiful since I’d been born—a final gift from my mother—but I’d never looked so blatantly and shamelessly seductive. Dressed as I was, there was no possible way that Lord Savage could overlook me, or my intentions.

  I forced myself to walk slowly down the stairs, the slight train of my dress slipping down the steps after me. I could already hear the voices of the other guests, assembled in the library before being called to dinner. I wasn’t uneasy about entering such a gathering alone, for like all widows, I’d had much practice doing so since Arthur’s death. I liked the attention I always drew, and it was a little game with myself to see how many gentlemen would look my way, and how many wives would not approve.

  But tonight I did not wish simply to enter this particular room. I wanted to make an entrance that announced myself not to every male guest but to one in particular. I needed to be sure that Lord Savage saw me to be composed and confident and unquestionably desirable, without a hint of nervous breathlessness.

  Which is exactly how I did it.

  Conversation stopped as I paused in the arched doorway. There were perhaps twenty ladies and gentlemen in the room, and every one of them turned to look at me. The ladies stared, mostly with envy, a few with admiration.

  But it was, as always, the gentlemen that I most impressed. I’d never seen such frank desire in so many male eyes, like a palpable force directed entirely at me.

  I smiled slowly, pulling my train to one side in a wa
y that deftly drew my skirt even more closely around my body. Although only one man in the room really mattered to me, I purposefully didn’t seek him out first, keeping both my gaze and my smile general, to encompass them all. No matter what I was thinking, I refused to appear too eager. I was determined to let Lord Savage come to me.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Hart, welcome.” Lady Carleigh swept forward, taking my hands in her own. “How happy I am to have you join our little party!”

  “How honored I am to be included, my lady,” I said. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful house than Wrenton Manor.”

  “I would venture in turn that old Wrenton has never had a more beautiful guest, Mrs. Hart,” the viscountess said, making a quick and approving study of my revealing gown. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your mere presence is sufficient to rouse the ghosts of all my husband’s most rakish ancestors.”

  “You are too kind, my lady,” I murmured politely, letting my glance wander about the room. “Too kind by half.”

  “By halves or wholes, I’ve only told the truth,” Lady Carleigh said. “But then I suppose you’ll have more interest in the living than in long-dead ghosts. Let me present you to everyone you do not yet know.”

  The other guests paraded before me in a well-mannered blur. I wasn’t good at remembering names on any occasion, but especially not now, with my thoughts roiling with Lord Savage. I’d glimpsed him already, standing near the fireplace and watching me as Lady Carleigh and I moved about the room with the introductions. Even without looking directly at him, I sensed his presence, his nearness, his gaze upon me as I made meaningless pleasantries.

  Still I wouldn’t look his way to encourage or even acknowledge him. I’d behaved like a foolish schoolgirl when he danced with me, and I wasn’t going to do it again. He’d said we were alike; tonight I would make sure I acted like it. I might not have a title, but I was Evelyn Vanderwick Hart, and I did have my pride.

  With my dress, I’d blatantly signaled my interest. Now it would be up to him to act upon it.

  “One more introduction, Mrs. Hart, and then you shall be free to choose your own companions before we go in to dinner,” Lady Carleigh was saying. “Lord Blackledge, may I present Mrs. Hart, of New York? Mrs. Hart, Baron Blackledge.”

  “Mrs. Hart,” the baron said, swallowing my hand in his thick-fingered grasp and holding fast. “I have been fascinated by you from the very moment you appeared among us.”

  “I am honored, my lord,” I said, trying to slip my hand free of his unobtrusively. The baron was a large man with a barrel chest and ginger hair above a ruddy face. His smile was more fierce than friendly, baring far too many teeth, as if he wished to devour me on the spot. “It is not easy to stand out in such impressive company.”

  “A woman like you would stand out anywhere, Mrs. Hart.” He squeezed my fingers more tightly to keep me from escaping, then harder still until it hurt, all the while watching my face for my reaction. “In Bombay, they’d worship you like a goddess.”

  “The baron has spent considerable time in India, Mrs. Hart,” Lady Carleigh said. “He is so thoroughly at home there that I almost expect him to appear in a turban.”

  Resolutely I kept my expression even, not letting the pain he was causing show. I didn’t know what sort of little test this was, but I would not give in, and finally he relaxed his grip enough for me to pull free.

  That was enough for me. No matter how the baron flattered me, I resolved to keep clear of him for the rest of the visit. He was a bully, and one who clearly enjoyed inflicting pain, too, a most unsavory—and dangerous—combination.

  “I have always thought India must be a fascinating place to visit,” I murmured without a smile. “Such an exotic and faraway land.”

  The baron leaned closer with confidential relish. “It is the complete opposite of Britain, Mrs. Hart. True, the natives are a heathen lot, but in sensual matters they are entirely our superiors.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” In my opinion, it would not have been difficult for anyone to surpass the baron himself. “I suppose you must draw your conclusion from the brothels of the cities?”

  “No, no,” he said, warming to his subject, and to me. “You will see models of fornication carved into the walls of their very temples, displaying postures and inventiveness that would astound even the most skilled English whore.”

  “On the walls of their temples, my lord?” I asked, doubting him. “That would be quite curious for a place of holy worship.”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “They are completely frank, and as free with their rutting as beasts in the wild. In fact, my dear, I have a book in my room filled with engravings of lewd statuary, if you should care to see it for, ah, inspiration. Nothing but cocks and cunts.”

  “Pray recall that Mrs. Hart is a newcomer, Baron,” Lady Carleigh said, a note of caution in her voice. “You don’t want to put her off on the first night.”

  But the baron would not be deterred; he leered openly at me. “I haven’t forgotten for a moment that Mrs. Hart is a newcomer, my lady. Not for a moment. Later, when the entertainment starts and the Game begins in earnest, I mean to make her my prize. Eh, Mrs. Hart? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Consider what you and I could—”

  “What the lady would like, Blackledge, is to have you step away,” Lord Savage said, appearing at exactly the right moment. “She’ll be fortunate to have any fingers left, the way you were wringing her hand.”

  “Lord Savage,” Lord Blackledge said curtly, his fierce, toothy smile instantly becoming a grimace as he faced the other man. “You’ve a damn lot to say for Mrs. Hart’s welfare. She’s a newcomer, you know. She’s fair game.”

  “Perhaps to you,” Lord Savage said, his smile faintly bored. “Mrs. Hart is not a newcomer to me. We’re old, old acquaintances. We have a certain … understanding.”

  A certain understanding: oh, I did like that, and I flashed him a quick smile of gratitude.

  The baron’s ruddy face turned a deeper red. “We shall see how long that lasts, my lord, once she—”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Lady Carleigh interrupted. “I note that it is time to go in for dinner. As is our custom here at Wrenton, we shall follow precedence for the last time tonight. Lord Savage, you shall take in Lady Winthrop. Baron, Lady Wessex. Mrs. Hart, I believe you will be with Mr. Gilbert.”

  Obediently we all began to find our appointed partners and line up according to their rank. It was always the same with the English, I thought, going two by two like well-bred animals heading into the ark.

  I’d hoped that here in the country things would be less formally determined, so that I might sit beside Lord Savage. As an American, without a noble title of my own, I would be doomed to be paired off with the only gentleman who was likewise as undistinguished, a stout banker named Mr. Gilbert. Even now I could see him bearing determinedly down on me, ready to claim my company.

  Only a few steps away, Lord Savage stood waiting for his partner to finish a conversation, and quickly I seized this last opportunity to approach him, touching his sleeve lightly with the ivory blades of my furled fan.

  “I must thank you, my lord,” I said in a confidential whisper. “You were quite my gallant knight-errant to rescue me like that.”

  He glanced down at my fan, frowning.

  “I did not act from gallantry, Mrs. Hart,” he said without lifting his gaze from the fan. “My reason was not to defend you from Blackledge’s attentions, but to mark you as my possession before the rest of the room. I do not like the tedium of petty rivals, Mrs. Hart.”

  “Your possession?” I repeated with surprise, and a bit of indignation, too. “Your possession? Lord Savage, I do not understand how—”

  “You will,” he said, and turned away to offer his arm to Lady Wessex, leaving me standing openmouthed with outrage.

  “Mrs. Hart?” Mr. Gilbert said, his arm crooked for me to take. “Shall we join the others?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert, you are too kind,
” I said, taking the banker’s arm as I continued to glare at Lord Savage’s back. “I am glad to discover there is at least one true gentleman here tonight.”

  My indignation continued throughout the long dinner. I was seated near the far end of the table, yet near enough to Lord Savage that he could have raised his glass to me in salute if he wished it, or even exchanged a word or two across the arranged flowers and silver candlesticks. Instead he devoted himself entirely to listening to Lady Wessex as if she were the most fascinating of women, and if he glanced at me even once during the course of the meal, I did not see it.

  But I saw him.

  Through all twelve courses, I could not make myself ignore him. Over the turtle soup and the salmon, the saddle of beef and the roasted game birds, the molded chaufroid and the sorbets, through champagne and Bordeaux and cognac, my gaze kept returning to him.

  The black-and-white severity of evening dress suited him, setting off the sharp planes of his face in the candlelight. His dark hair was sleekly combed back from his forehead, his angular profile fit for an ancient coin, and he was as effortlessly seductive as any man I’d ever seen.

  Perhaps he hadn’t meant possession as I’d heard it, as ownership. Perhaps he’d meant it in a sexual way, a prediction of how he intended to make love to me.

  My heart beat a bit faster as I considered this possible explanation. Surely that was how he’d be as a lover, strong and sure. Perhaps I’d reacted to the word—possession—as an American—an American who was accustomed to buying whatever I pleased, no matter the price. Perhaps here in England, where words often seemed more layered with subtlety, he’d intended something quite different.

  I sipped my champagne, studying him. I had no wish to be his possession as property, but to be possessed by him—that was entirely different.

  At last Lady Carleigh rose, signaling the end of the meal. In most houses, the ladies would retreat to the drawing room and leave the table to the gentlemen and their port and cigars. But at Wrenton, the expected things were seldom done, as I soon discovered.