A Well Pleasured Lady by Christina Dodd Page B

no matter how long she lived.
    And Lord Whitfield, she saw, hated them, too. Hated all of them. Even her, the woman he brought as an offering, the woman he would pretend to love.
    Perhaps the anguish he created when he touched her wasn’t merely the collapse of isolation. Maybe it was hate, burning through his soul and touching hers.
    She glanced longingly toward Lady Valéry’s carriages and escape. The Scottish servants were already unloading the trunks, and the ostler was speaking to the horses, rubbing their noses, telling them they were almost done. Mary wondered why he still wore a roughly knit scarf tucked around his face and a cap pulled over his ears.
    Then he turned and looked at her.
    She blinked in astonishment, and looked again.
    It wasn’t Hadden. The man was old and stooped, and he limped as he turned his back and walkedtoward the next team of horses. She simply missed her brother, and saw what she wished to see.
    â€œPay attention.” Lord Whitfield squeezed her. “The show is about to begin.”
    Servants lined the walk between the carriage and the door. Some of the younger maids and footmen poked each other and giggled. Female guests didn’t arrive carried in a man’s arms, as Mary well knew, and as well as she could, she tried to appear dignified. After all, she’d been a housekeeper, in charge of youngsters like this.
    Then a burly footman stepped out of the crowd and bowed. “M’lord, would you like me to carry the lady?”
    â€œNo one is allowed to touch my precious Miss Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield said. “She is mine, and mine alone.”
    Mary clenched her jaw to contain the words that wanted to boil forth. He mocked her and claimed her in one brilliant stroke, for this bold declaration had reached the nobleman who stood staring from the top of the broad stairway.
    She strained to see. It wasn’t Ian, her dark-haired rescuer of yore. She relaxed. Praise God it wasn’t Ian. She wasn’t ready to meet him yet. “Who is that?”
    â€œBubb Fairchild, the new marquess of Smithwick.” Lord Whitfield smiled broadly and nodded up at Bubb. “The head of your family.”
    â€œMy God!” Bubb started down the stairs. “Is that you, Whitfield?”
    â€œYour eyes don’t deceive you,” Lord Whitfieldagreed. “I’ve come to attend your house party—should you wish to extend me an invitation.”
    As Bubb neared, she could see he looked like a Fairchild. Like her. Like Hadden. Only richer. He fairly reeked of money. A tailor had worked for days on the frock coat he wore so carelessly. A barber had styled his blond curly hair so it curved around his round cheeks. A valet had shaved his strong chin without a nick. He embodied the skill of a battalion of servants, and at the same time, he was flawless in himself. In his fifties, he was tall, well formed, and handsome enough to send women’s hearts fluttering. If ever a man was built in the image of God, then God must look like Bubb.
    He batted his brilliant blue eyes. Incongruously dark lashes lent him an innocent appeal, but his smile was different from Mary’s. He smiled as if he meant it.
    â€œGood God, man, of course you’re welcome to my house party!” He extended an arm as if he would give Lord Whitfield a manly hug.
    Mary felt Lord Whitfield stiffen.
    Bubb must have seen, for smoothly he changed his gesture and clapped him on the back, instead. “If you hadn’t ignored so many invitations before, I would have sent another one this time. And you brought…?” He smiled at Lady Valéry, and she smiled back.
    â€œMy godmother, duchess of Valéry.” Lord Whitfield introduced them, his gaze never leaving Bubb.
    As unself-conscious as a babe in arms, Bubb beamed a welcome at the older woman. “It is an honor to have you in our home.”
    Lady Valéry inclined her head gracefully, accepting his