Chapter 4
Elf had never been in Walgrave House before. Until Cyn and Chastity’s inconvenient attachment, the Mallorens and the Wares had definitely not been on visiting terms.
Elfled Malloren would never gawk at anything, but as silly Lisette Belhardi she felt free to stare as much as she wished.
Gloomy, she decided, looking around the large square hall.
Ponderous, even. Dark paneling covered the walls and ceiling in a fashion at least forty years old, and the only ornaments were four large marble statues.
No fashionable classical nudes here. Instead four eminent men of Rome loomed stern-faced and rigid, fully dressed in togas and laurel wreaths.
She detected the hand of the old earl, the Incorruptible. This was doubtless his vision of himself.
So, how did the new earl see himself?
She wasn’t given much chance to stare or ponder. Walgrave steered her toward the curve of the massive oak staircase, clearly not in the mood for delay.
Discarding most of her vague plans for escape, Elf seized on Portia’s trick. “Oh, my lord. I hesitate to bother you, but I do need to relieve myself.”
“Doubtless. Come along.”
He continued up the stairs and led her to a room.
A bedroom.
She’d never been in a bedroom with a strange man before! Then she made herself relax. This was just part of her plan. He’d leave her alone, and she would escape.
He helped her off with her domino, then indicated the closestool behind a screen. “There you are. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The room had two doors—the one through which they had entered, and one into an adjoining room. He locked the latter and pocketed the key, then left by the former. She heard the key turn in that lock too.
The window. Portia had escaped by a window.
He’d undoubtedly meant what he said about only giving her a moment, so Elf ran to the window and flung it up. One glance killed hope. A sheer brick wall ran down to the ground.
Portia had used cording from the bed to form a rope, but this room offered no such conveniences, and besides, Elf knew she had no time. Hearing footsteps, she closed the window and ran behind the screen, only reaching it as the lock turned.
“Still at it?” he asked, with a great lack of delicacy. “I hope you’re not of a gut-tied disposition.”
Elf found she did need to use the convenience. Partly to cover the embarrassing noise of her action, she called out, “Not at all, my lord. I was just tightening my laces.”
“A singular waste of time.” His comment reminded her that she faced a fate worse than death with no sign of escape. Nervous tremors began in her belly.
She’d never believed it would actually come to this.
It was all very well to think about experimenting with sex, but now it was close and real, she had no taste for it at all. She didn’t want such intimate relations with a man she hardly knew, especially when what she knew of him, she didn’t like.
Moreover, he was showing no particular warmth or fervor. She shuddered at the thought of such indifferent invasion of her body.
And what of the possibility of getting with child? The mere notion of having to tell Rothgar she was pregnant with the Earl of Walgrave’s bastard was enough to give her a case of the vapors!
Still, she had to pretend to be coyly willing and pray for a chance to escape.
She hastily tightened her laces. Then, making sure her mask was firmly in place, she emerged. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my lord.”
“No matter. We have plenty of time.” He was relaxed and smiling, but she judged it more a case of good manners than warmth. She supposed it would be churlish to scowl at the night’s bed partner.
He unlocked the adjoining door and gestured that she should go through it.
Obeying, she found herself in another bedroom, rich with the light of two branches of candles.
This was doubtless his own bedroom, since a number of personal possessions scattered it—his razor case on the washstand, a powdered wig on a dummy head, a line of books between gilded bookends.
She turned to watch him stroll to a walnut side table which held a crystal decanter and glasses. He poured deep amber wine into beautiful goblets. “Come, Lisette,” he said, offering her one. “You’ll enjoy this as much as my suckling.”
Feeling her cheeks flare red beneath the mask, Elf took the wine, admiring it as she played for time. “Oh, my lord. What a pretty glass!”
Could she get him drunk? She doubted it. His capacity must equal her brothers’, and they could drink remarkable quantities of claret and port without progressing beyond bosky.
She sipped. As expected, she tasted excellent port, but she pretended surprise. “Oh, my lord! What a fine wine! What is it?”
“Port. One of the few good wines that do not come from your homeland. Perhaps I can educate your palate as well as other parts of your body.”
“Oh, my lord . . .” Elf simpered, sipping slowly and seeking desperately for a way out of her predicament. Something in Walgrave’s manner suggested that he had only one goal and would not lose sight of it. Could she use her dagger on him?
She took another tiny sip and smiled at him.
He drained his glass, put it down, and came over to her.
“Getting to like it?” He plucked the glass from her hand and tossed it carelessly to roll and spill on the carpet. “That’s a fine augury.”
Elf stared shocked at the glass, relieved it hadn’t shattered, but concerned about wine stains in the carpet . . .
Then he seized her.
“My lord!”
She was tight in his arms, and his lips sealed hers.
Elf struggled free. “Stop! My lord, have pity!”
“Why?” His expression showed absolutely no uncertainty.
“I . . . I’m afraid.”
“It won’t hurt too much.”
“Not that, my lord! But it’s a mighty step, to lose my virginity. I want to think on it!”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, and kissed her again.
Elf lost her temper. She kicked his shin with all her might. Since, unlike the captain, he wasn’t wearing boots, he cursed and dodged back.
But he held on to her arm.
She made a fist and swung at his bulging breeches.
He twisted and took it on his hip, bruising her hand. The next thing she knew, she lay facedown on the bed, her wrists gripped behind her, with a heavy knee in the small of her back.
“What the devil’s the matter with you?” he snarled.
“I don’t want to do it!” she wailed, hastily returning to her character. “I’m frightened.” And now she spoke the truth. She was helpless.
“You’re a cursed vixen. Very well, Lisette, have it your own way. But you’d have found swiving a great deal more comfortable than what’s going to happen now.”
He released her hands, but with his weight pinning her to the bed, she could scarcely breathe, never mind struggle. He raised her skirts.
She began to struggle then, kicking and twisting, but he pulled loose first one garter, then the other. Then he captured her hands again and tied them together.
When Elf realized he wasn’t going to beat her or do something even worse, she stopped fighting.
He pulled down her stockings and used them to tie her ankles together.
Then he picked her up and carried her into the next room.
There he placed her, quite carefully, on her side in the middle of the big bed.
He even pulled the covers from under her so she lay on the sheet.
She stiffened when his hands went up under her skirts again, but he just untied her hoop laces so he could pull off the cane contraption.
“There,” he said, tossing it aside, then pushing back his disordered hair. “That’s the best I can do, you silly creature.” He flipped the covers over her. “I’ll be sleeping in the next room with the door open. If you change your mind, just say so.”
She watched him go, thinking she surely should have been able to handle this whole affair better.
Elf didn’t know how comfortable swiving would have been, but it could hardly have been less so than her predicament.
Her bound arms began to burn and a mad need to stretch her legs plagued her.
Twitching around, she managed to roll onto her front, making matters worse.
Now she was sunk in the feather bed having to strain her neck in order to breathe.
A hundred times she was tempted to call him, but she managed to resist.
Instead, she tried to consider her options.
If she became the earl’s lover, she might have a chance to escape. But she couldn’t imagine becoming his lover without being recognized.
If she revealed her identity, he probably wouldn’t try to seduce her. He’d always seemed to dislike her saucy tongue and irreverence toward his sex. He certainly wouldn’t let Elfled Malloren escape, however, to tell Rothgar about the plot.
Elf wriggled a bit and managed to get her head into a slightly more comfortable position. Really, this was such a ridiculous situation! Was there any hope she could tell her brothers about the treasonous plot without revealing her string of follies? Gloomily, she concluded there wasn’t.
Thank heavens Cyn was well away. He’d be disgusted with her.
After much thought, she concluded she’d have to continue to be Lisette, the reluctant French mistress. That way she might manage to avoid recognition and escape in the morning. If only she could persuade him to untie her.
Then she realized she still had her bodice dagger.
How to use it, though?
She very much doubted she could stab Walgrave with it, but it would serve to cut her bonds. If she had use of her hands.
Or had her hands at the front.
It was a risk, but she took it.
“Monseigneur?” she called, remembering to use French. After a moment, she called again, louder. “Monseigneur!”
He’d left the door open, and she heard movement in the next room. Then light flared. In a few moments, he appeared, a branch of lighted candles in one hand.
Elf’s plans were momentarily fractured by the sight of him.
He must sleep naked.