“I cannot restrain myself around you,” Mayne said. Though it was really Garret talking, not Mayne. It was the private man, a man in love. A tear fell down Josie’s cheek and she absentmindedly brushed it away. All she could see was the corner of his shoulder now, but he was reaching out, drawing Sylvie to him.
Josie shivered. If he ever pulled her into his arms, she would—she would fall into them like a tree toppled in a lightning storm.
Sylvie was of a different caliber. Ashes where Josie would be fire. “Mayne, I scarcely think this is a proper moment for—”
He swooped. Josie held her breath. That’s what he would do, of course. He would sweep Sylvie into his embrace, and she would melt against him, just the way all the heroines of the Minerva novels did. Then Sylvie leapt back into her view.
Her voice was colder than a February Sunday in Lent. “How dare you! How dare you maul me in such a fashion, Lord Mayne!”
Kiss her again, Josie thought. She wants to be seduced. You were too fast. Or she’s too shy.
“It seems we must clarify our relations,” Sylvie stated, her voice frigid. “I am never to be approached, or mauled, in any fashion.”
It’s because she’s French, Josie thought. An Englishwoman could never resist Mayne. Oh God, if only he would speak to her with half the longing he poured into one word to Sylvie, she—she—
“I am fond of you, and I shall certainly allow you your marital rights.”
Josie instinctively gasped and then clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Did you hear me?” Sylvie asked impatiently. “I wish to make certain that you understand me, Mayne. I realize that you have lived in England, and have absorbed some regrettable customs here. But I must ask you to give me every consideration that you would give your own mother.”
“My mother,” Mayne said, finally.
Josie’s heart sunk. He didn’t have that liquid note of happiness in his voice anymore.
“Of course!” Sylvie replied. “Surely I needn’t tell you that the most important women in your life, those deserving of the most respect, are your mother and your wife. Pooh! This conversation is quite foolish, is it not?”
“I think it is remarkably interesting.”
“I do not believe for a moment that you would treat your mother with anything less than the most delicate and filial respect. She is a holy sister of the Church, is she not? I fail to see why you should treat me with any less courtesy.”
“My mother did indeed retire to a convent,” Mayne said. “But you, Sylvie, are no nun.”
“I deserve precisely the same courtesy,” Sylvie said. “A lack of decorum led to the downfall of the French monarchy.”
“I meant you no discourtesy.”
There was a moment of silence and then Sylvie said, painstakingly, “I find this subject rather distasteful, but I have always believed that it is better to be quite clear in matters such as these.”
Josie was gripping the edge of the hayloft opening so hard that her fingers were white.
“I agree,” Mayne said.
Of course, she shouldn’t be listening. No one should listen to this. For Sylvie was explaining in her ravishing French accent that she would dislike it of all things if Mayne took it in his head to manhandle her whenever he felt the wish. In fact, she would prefer that perhaps an amicable schedule could be—
Josie had to bite her lip. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or snort. Annabel would die laughing when she heard this.
Not that she would ever disclose that she had done such an ill-mannered thing as listen to a private conversation of this nature. She edged a bit farther away, and some strands of hay fell onto Gigue’s back.
“Sylvie,” Mayne said, interrupting her lecture. “Darling, you simply don’t understand how things are between a man and a woman, chérie.”
“I assure you—” Sylvie said. From where she was, Josie could just see the curve of Mayne’s cheek as he cupped Sylvie’s face in his hands. His fingers were long and strong. He leaned toward Sylvie and Josie almost gulped. He had the longest eyelashes she could imagine on a man. No wonder—
No wonder Sylvie was silent in his arms. Josie felt pricks in her eyes again, and now she really felt ill-mannered, watching. They were so clearly in love, so beautiful together. Mayne would persuade Sylvie to kiss him, and years from now they would laugh at her reluctance. Laugh surrounded by their children.
Josie shut her eyes tightly so that she couldn’t see his bent head, the tenderness in his fingers, the passion in the way his shoulders bent toward Sylvie. She never would be a woman like Sylvie, a woman whom a man like Mayne would worship, the way he did Sylvie. Tears slid hotly over her fingers. She was the sort of woman whom a man felt he could maul with impunity. She was the sort of woman who ended up behind the stables, being pushed against the wood, while Sylvie, delicate, beautiful Sylvie, was adored by Mayne.
Her body was rocking with sobs now, but she didn’t make a sound, just pressed her hands over her mouth.
All the exhilaration of watching Thurman’s face disappear behind brown sludge was evaporating. How was she to get home? How could she bear to—
Her eyes flew open.
The slap startled Gigue too, and she kicked the wall in protest.
24
From The Earl of Hellgate,
Chapter the Nineteenth
I know no better name to give her than that of Shakespeare’s fierce Amazon queen, Hippolyta. In mourning because the lovely Peasblossom had flown back to her little nest, I wandered down the streets of London, scarce knowing where I was. This particular day I had visited Hampton Court, and although drained by sorrow, I had been to King Henry VIII’s tennis court and taken three very fair sets from a certain gentleman of my acquaintance…
I t’s rather disconcerting to bring a woman to my house,” Darlington said as the hackney slowed to a close.
He couldn’t be as disconcerted as Griselda was. After a lifetime of appropriate behavior, she was throwing all caution to the winds and actually entering a gentleman’s house? And yet…She looked at Darlington’s strong, lean body and his unsettling beauty. She was going to his house. She would think about propriety, spouses, and other unpleasant topics tomorrow.
“Aren’t all young bachelors accustomed to bringing females into their dwellings?” she asked, shaking off the sense that she was like one of those women, who were for hire, presumably.
“I don’t think so. My mother visits occasionally, but she sends a footman to fetch me to her carriage rather than enter the house herself.”
“Why doesn’t she enter? Or request that you visit her?” Griselda asked.
“Have you met the duchess?”
“We have been presented.”
Darlington grinned at her. “Then you know that my mother is charmingly irresolute.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know her well enough to make that judgment.”
“My father ordered the entire family to avoid me at all costs, at least until I had set myself up in a decent marriage.”
“How very—very—” But she couldn’t think what to say.
He didn’t seem to mind. “My mother is fond of me and so she comes to visit, nimbly making her way around my father’s commandment. He knows, but turns a blind eye.”