Chapter 8
Padua did not sleep well that night. Despite the wine, or because of it, she tossed in her luxurious bed. Images intruded repeatedly on her thoughts. Lord Ywain looking dangerous. Lord Ywain looking stern. Ives bowing for a kiss. Ives caressing her. Ives naked . . .
When she finally woke, her view of the prior night had changed severely.
What had she been thinking? She had behaved outrageously, and she could not entirely blame the wine.
Their conversation no longer appeared merely reckless, but stupid.
Goodness, she would have to leave this house at once, so it did not appear she was really opening the door to a proposition.
Her servant came in as soon as she made a sound. The girl handed over a letter, then went about fixing the bed.
The letter came from the man who did not believe in seduction but who managed, with his direct honesty, to be extremely seductive.
Dear Miss Belvoir,
I trust that the servants have made you feel at home.
Make free with the house as you wish. Do not rush to leave on my account, nor that of my family, none of whom intend to visit town for some time.
When you decide your next destination, I would be grateful if you would write to inform me of the location.
Your servant,
Ives
It sounded as if they would not share dinners in the future. The letter made it clear he would not be visiting the house while she remained there. He offered no apology, however. Perhaps he did not have anything to apologize for.
She opened a wardrobe and removed a clean dress.
The servant girl appeared at her side, took it from her, and pulled out other garments.
As she stepped away to allow the girl free access, Padua noticed the stack of books on the wardrobe’s floor.
She needed to bring those to her father.
Not today, however. Today she intended to enjoy this house, as her host had instructed.
“There is breakfast in the morning room,” her girl said. “I sent down word you were awake, so hot food should be there soon.”
Breakfast first, then the library. She would make today a little holiday, and read to her heart’s content.
All those words and noble ideas would help her forget she had been imprudent last night.
They would block out memories of how her embarrassing behavior had allowed that conversation to take the turns it did.
Before she went down, however, she sat at the lovely inlaid writing desk and found some paper in a drawer. She wrote a quick letter to Jennie, to let her know she had found a refuge for a day or two.
Or maybe three.
* * *
Ives resolved that he would not spend one minute thinking about Miss Belvoir’s Dilemma the next day.
In the morning he visited Jackson’s on Bond Street, where he had arranged for an old friend, Jonathan, Lord Belleterre, baron, to join him for some sparring. Stripped to the waist, fists high, they went at each other. Ives threw himself into the exercise with enthusiasm.
Punch. He’d be damned if he would allow himself to be—punch—distracted again.
Any interest in Padua—punch—Belvoir was the result of unaccustomed—punch—abstinence.
He had crossed a line—punch—last night that he certainly would never—punch—ever—punch—cross again.
He wasn’t a damned schoolboy in need of tutoring on ethics, least of all from Padua herself.
As for her father, hell, the questions he had—punch—about that case needed to be resolved before he—punch—found himself compromised in other ways.
Belleterre called a halt. He strolled over to a chair, picked up a towel, and mopped his dark hair. Belleterre’s quickness and natural studied skill stood him in good stead in boxing, and he had achieved renown in the sport. Ives liked to spar with a man who did not require pulling one’s punches.
“Who is she?” Belleterre asked, dropping the towel.
“What are you talking about?”
“You are all force and little skill today. You are showing aggression for its own sake. I think you would be happier hitting a wall.”
“I don’t think I was that bad. You worked up plenty of sweat.”
“As I would if I boxed with an ape. So, who is she?”
Ives helped himself to a towel too. He mopped his head and chest.
“What makes you assume it is a woman?”
“You are giving in to some emotion, and it is not happiness. Since you have not been in court for several weeks, I do not think it is a pleading gone badly or a case lost. That leaves a woman. Are you still angry that your mistress threw you over?”
“She did not throw me over. Nor have I ever been angry about that.”
“Perhaps it is loneliness that irritates you. Something does.”
Nearby, “Gentleman” John Jackson gave a lesson to a young man of university age. Fists and sweat flew. Ives observed them while he admitted to himself that he had been releasing emotion with his fists. Mostly he had punched out anger with himself.
He had come damned close to offering Padua an arrangement at dinner. In the easy intimacy of their conversation, it had not even seemed inappropriate. Rather the wine and warmth led him to consider it a splendid solution to her sudden lack of home or support.
What had he been thinking?
That he wanted to take her upstairs to bed, and that possibly he could.
It was the calculation of a scoundrel. A rake. A man not only with wicked tastes—all men had those—but also with a wicked heart. His worst side had gotten the better of him, because she was lovely and interesting, and, yes, damn it, vulnerable.
“Whoever she is, do not allow her to make you an idiot. Find another if she is not amenable,” Belleterre said. “Remember Mrs. Dantoine? You had a tendre for her once. She has returned to town.”
“Has she now? It has been, what, five years.” He had had more than a tendre for her back then. Lust had almost deranged him. She had chosen another. One with a title and enormous wealth. She had enjoyed carte blanche for several months, then disappeared.
“She will be at Charlene’s salon on Tuesday,” Belleterre mentioned, pacing back into his position. Charlene was his own paramour, who entertained friends every Tuesday evening. “You should come. I am told Mrs. Dantoine has asked after you.”
Ives stood opposite Belleterre and raised his fists.
He tried to remember Mrs. Dantoine’s beauty.
Small, neat, and blond—his memories got that far.
But while he sparred, and tried to picture her face, the mental image that kept forming was of a dark-haired woman with luminous skin and sparkling eyes.
* * *
If one is going to live in a palace, even for a few days, one wants to show it off.
Padua decided to do just that after indulging in several delicious hours in the library.
So she wrote Jennie again in the late afternoon, and invited her to visit at Langley House the next day, if she could get away from school.
At twelve o’clock the next day a footman found Padua on the terrace, working up her courage and spirits to make another visit to Newgate. The footman provided a reprieve by informing her a visitor had called. At her instruction, he left and returned with the caller.
Jennie hid her amazement until the footman left them alone. Then her eyes widened. “‘Safe’ hardly describes your situation, Padua. Whose house is this?”
“It belongs to the Duke of Aylesbury.”
Jennie looked over her shoulder, alarmed.
“The family is not here,” Padua explained. “I have been put here as an act of charity for a few days, while I find other accommodations.”
Jennie sat on the bench beside her. Her eyebrows knitted. “Who offered you this charity? Lord Ywain? He is Aylesbury’s brother. It was odd enough he called on you at the school, but if he has now given you a home—”
“It is only for a few days.”
“If you say so.”
“You appear unconvinced.”
“I am sure you know what you are doing. Only . . . do you? Such a man . . . his interest in you does not—”
“Does not make sense? I agree. So you can rest assured he is not interested in me.”
“I intended to say something else.”
“Perhaps you should say it, then.”
Once more Jennie looked over her shoulder. Then she angled her head closer. “His interest in you does not speak of good intentions. There. I have done my duty.”
Padua could hardly defend Ives, considering that dinner. “You sound as if you are familiar with his character. Have you two met?”
Jennie laughed. “I may be a gentleman’s daughter, and related to a baron by marriage, but I never moved in such rarified circles. I do, however, know people who know of him.”
“Know of him, but do not actually know him, you mean.”
“Well, yes, but—after he called on you, I wrote to a friend who has not dropped our friendship despite my current circumstances. She has married very well. Her husband is the cousin of a viscount. So while she does not move in the highest circles, either, her shoulder brushes against the edges of them at times. She wrote back at some length.”
Nothing but tittle-tattle, in other words. Rumors shared by women in drawing rooms when they paid calls. Nothing this friend had to report could be of any value or worthy of confidence. Padua detested such gossip and refused to participate.
Usually.
“What did she confide?”
“That he is among the most well-respected barristers in England. That for the most part his character is without blemish. That he has an income that is impressive, and considerable charm to go with his handsome face—and he is handsome, isn’t he?
I near fainted when I saw his face in our reception hall—that he even has a friendship with the prince regent despite their age difference. ”
“He sounds like a paragon.”
“Doesn’t he indeed.” Jennie’s lids lowered. “Except for one flaw, he would be perfect.”
Padua waited for it. Jennie waited, almost bursting. Padua sighed. She was not very good at wheedling gossip out of people.
“What flaw is that?”