Her Lord & Master [Taken by Surprise Anthology] Read online

  "It might as well be you, as anyone else," her mother repeated. "And you are fooling yourself if you think you will dish out vengeance in a heap. You can have no conception of what he might require of a potential wife."

  No, she hadn't thought that far ahead. At least in concrete terms. All she knew was that she would do anything to humiliate the beast. Go to any lengths to pay him back in his own coin for what he had done to Julia—what he was about to do to yet another innocent and unsuspecting girl.

  "So you'd best keep those feelings hidden when you step up onto the public stage of consideration. There could be much benefit to it," her mother added.

  Jenise couldn't think of one thing. But the fact remained that Julia must be informed. "I will be Julia's avenging angel," she said at last.

  "In his marriage bed?"

  "I will smite him long before things get to that point."

  "My dear girl, I'm truly in favor of any girl casting her lures to attract a man of status and wealth such as "Wick. But this romantic notion of vengeance ill suits you and will color your appeal to him. Leave off all such notions, and proceed as if the one thing in the world you wish is to marry him. Then, all will go well."

  Jenise snorted. "Well, under whatever guise I wish to proceed, I cannot do so without Julia's knowledge. Painful as it will be, it is time to talk to Julia."

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  And yet, it was the most delicate question. How did she approach Julia with the notion that in the name of revenge, she wished to attract Wick's notice?

  It was one thing to theorize about it, quite another to make the plan concrete.

  Not so easy, after all. And perhaps an unrealistic product of her overheated imagination. No one was a match for Wick. He toppled women like dominoes, never looking back. And who was to say what was the truth of his motives now? Did he truly want a wife, a child, an aura of respectability at last? Or was it purely an exercise in obscenity—corrupt a virgin, get a child.

  For that alone, he ought to be punished, but she didn't think there was a girl or woman in the whole of London—or England for that matter—who thought in those terms, or even thought it was possible to bring down the mighty Wick.

  Except her.

  And what chance had she? Even with her mother's confidence that she qualified on all the counts that mattered.

  But the idea had rooted so strongly, she could do nothing less. It was an abomination to listen to the gossip, to the thread of lust and longing that wove through every account by every friend, and every friend's mother who had any kind of hope that her daughter might be The One.

  When even her own mother believed that her daughter could be The One.

  "And so on it goes," she closed her account to Julia of this day's on-dit, after she and her mother had returned from shopping and appropriating some books from the library with which they hoped to tempt Julia out of her gloomy mood. Julia, who was where she always was, in the blue room, feeling blue, and waiting to hear the news of the day.

  Jenise went on, phrasing her next thought with care. "And one just feels there ought to be something someone could do to stop it—to stop him somehow, in the name of every innocent girl he's ever defiled."

  "Oh, how I wish—" Julia said wanly, running her fingers

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  over the leather-bound volumes of romances arrayed on her lap. She looked up as their mother entered with the tea tray. "Yes, I picture it all the time, I dream of it—an Amazon to cut him off at the knees, to render him impotent, begging, mewling for mercy ..."

  "Exactly," Jenise murmured. "An Amazon, bold, brazen, fearless ..."

  "And who would this be?" their mother asked. "And why would she be so stupid as to enrage a man with fifty thousand a year?"

  "Julia agrees something must be done," Jenise said defiantly.

  "Yes?" their mother murmured, pouring tea. She handed a cup to Julia. "Did you like the selections we found for you?"

  "I particularly like stories about revenge," Julia said, her voice seeming stronger because of either the tea or the idea of Wick prostrate before some superhuman fury of a woman who had finally bested him.

  "I'll keep that in mind next time," their mother said. "Jenise?"

  Jenise took the cup and sipped thoughtfully. She hadn't thought that Julia had such strong feelings about decimating Wick. "What if we could make the story real somehow?" she asked lightly, cautiously.

  "Jenise ..." Her mother's tone said, not here, not now. Don't tell her. Don't hurt her...

  Julia's gaze darted from one to the other and settled long and hard and speculatively on Jenise. "You? Would you—?"

  "I want to do something. I need to do something. But how can I not take your feelings and your experience into account? However, this is the one chance anyone has to bring him to his knees. And there is no one riding this bridal carousel who would wish to do so—except me. And yet—how can I, when we all know what it must entail?"

  Julia seemed to crumble.... the things he did ...

  "I cannot bear to think ..."

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  "I will say no more," Jenise said instantly. Brave talk, all of it. Julia's Amazon, her thirst for revenge.

  "But Mother's thinking that it could be you—"

  "It would be horrific, if I were to present myself and if he would even choose me. It couldn't be borne. How would you bear it?"

  "So much money," Julia whispered. "It could have been mine..."

  "Shhh—no more talk... I will never mention it again."

  "Wait..." Julia put out a limp hand. "Wait—do it..."

  "No. Your brain is addled. You're not thinking straight."

  "No, I am. Truly, I am. Do it. I want you to do it. Mother is right. Let him atone by marrying the right daughter, the strong and brave one. The best daughter. The best of all eligibles. Show them all, Jenise. Show the gossips. Show him ..."

  Her hand tightened forcefully around Jenise's wrist. "Show me. And above all... make Wick pay...."

  ******************

  Jenise fretted. "I've got such a late start. They are two weeks into the process already. His acolytes have taken no notice of me. I've no clothes to speak of. This can't be done."

  "Anything can be done," her mother said placidly, as she elbowed Jenise toward the most fashionable dressmaker on Bond Street. "It wants some ingenuity, certainly, but with three heads working and the right invitation, you certainly can put yourself in Mr. Ellingham's way. And that will be the start ofit."

  "Perhaps it's already the end of it."

  "Let's not think like that. In any event, the gossips would have had a field day if that were true. Come ... there's much work to be done."

  It was a whirlwind afternoon of winding, draping, pinning, and pulling gauzy and sophisticated materials into a half dozen figure-shaping gowns.

  "You can be sure Wick is up to the nines on feminine fashion," her mother said with her usual practicality. "It does not

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  hurt to cut a dash in one's evening wear." She flashed a look at Jenise. "To attract attention, of course. The right kind of attention, I mean."

  Jenise knew just what her mother meant. Her mother was eminently practical, and now that they had decided to go ahead with presenting Jenise, she was like an army commander, plotting every move, countermove, and possibility.

  Her mother was taking this seriously; Jenise was to be a serious candidate for consideration by Wick's friends, who, by some accounts, were culling the ranks to narrow down the choices.

  "After all, not everyone who styles herself an heiress or a gentlewoman of good breeding has the background or the attributes to make Wick a good wife," her mother pointed out. "A wealthy ninnyhammer would bore him to tears within a sennight. A beauty too full of herself would demand he pay more attention to her than he does himself. Not a good idea. A true young innocent—like Julia—would, and did, drive him to distraction. I truly do not hold him a
t fault for that disastrous connection. He thought there was more there than there was. Don't look at me like that, Jenise. Julia is a water sprite, as ethereal as the moon. And what he needs is just the combination of breeding, beauty, wit, practicality, and intellect as you possess, my dear girl. And if you approach this exercise on those terms, and leave off this odious idea of revenge, you will surely win his regard and, more importantly, his proposal."

  "His pounds sterling, you mean," Jenise said contrarily. She was not going to go starry-eyed over the idea of Wick. It would be naive to do so. His casting for a bride did not make him any less objectionable, when his obscene behavior was so well known. There was nothing to say he wouldn't test a bride-to-be rigorously on that level.

  Oh dear God. She hadn't really ever considered that. What if he did? What would it entail? Was she even willing to go that far? Even for revenge?

  Did a man's money gloss over every humiliation?

  Her father's money certainly bought the most elegant and beautiful of ball gowns, she thought the next night as she sur-

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  veyed herself in a dress of clinging jonquil-yellow silk. The neckline was square and low, and the construction of the bodice plumped her breasts to an obvious swell above the dainty ruched edging.

  There were slippers to match, and a frill of ribbon to wind through her hair. She looked innocent and bold both, exactly the tack her mother had determined her to take.

  It was a strange sensation to be outfitted in such a gown; it was just on the edge of improper. In a certain light, her body was completely outlined. If she leaned forward, she was in danger of exposing a bare breast. The hem was just a little shorter than was respectable, so that she flashed a beribboned ankle every time she moved. And then, her hair was so tightly upswept that the nape of her bared neck could have been deemed too tempting for a man to resist.

  This was what it took to attract a man like Wick. And those were just the superficial things: the pleasing feminine shape, the artfully displayed breast, the ankle crisscrossed and bound with ribbons, the nakedness of what was allowed to be revealed: the arm, the nape of the neck, the ear.

  There was a subtlety here that was not taught in finishing school. Rather it was the school of experience, things some women knew and most did not. And those with the awareness and the knowledge were locked into a sisterhood of silence, letting innocence fall where it would.

  That knowledge conferred power. It was the first lesson that Jenise perceived the next night as she stepped into the ballroom of the Cavendish House on Regent Street.

  The sisterhood was there, staring at her, wondering who now had come to throw her expectations into the ring.

  They didn't want competition from any other one. This stamping ground was theirs; they had claimed it, they owned it, they congregated on it nightly, hoping and waiting for Ellingham to decide.

  And that was the second lesson Jenise learned this night: that unknowns and usurpers like herself had better be prepared to be devoured alive.

  Chapter Three

  "And who is that tasty morsel?" Ellingham murmured, lifting his quizzing glass as he gently elbowed his way into Cavendish House two hours later. "Do look, Max, my dear boy—such a crowd, such a succulence of sirens, all waiting on our Wick. It's too delicious for words. Would that he were here to see it. But all that fawning would bore him to tears, whereas it lifts our spit and spine to hitherto unparalleled heights."

  They were deep in the crush now, enough to know there was music playing, there were knots of lovely women trying hard not to look as if their every dream of happiness hung on their being noticed by Ellingham, and there were the jaded ones, who tried hard to pretend they didn't care.

  And then there was the morsel, a column of sunlight in the soft glow of the candles. The bare neck. The curving breasts. The clinging dress. The simplicity. The gleam.

  Oh the gleam—that was the key.The intelligence was there, Ellingham could see it in her eyes. And the body, the style, the dash. Not too forward. Not too innocent. Ladylike, and yet— just a little brazen, and completely aware of the way her breasts spilled over that tantalizing frill around her bodice; and the temptation of the naked line of the back of her neck, all unadorned for every man to admire—no, covet—from afar.

  She knew what she was about, the morsel. No jewelry to

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  distract a man's concentration on her form. No artifice—even here, where everything artificial was the norm.

  What manner of Venus was this? One of the innocents, or one of the coquettes?

  He would have to test her, to be sure, but he found much enjoyment in watching her move through the crowd, greeting friends and acquaintances, and in ascertaining that she was someone who was known to this crθme de la cite assemblage, above all.

  Then why had he never seen her before?

  Or was she that clever that she had waited until he sampled all the insipidity in London, before she put herself forward?

  Oh, what a sly, cunning morsel she was. She piqued his interest, especially because she didn't seem to be making any attempt to cross his path or make herself known to him. And yet surely she knew who he was and why he was there.

  Did it irk him, just a little?

  "She carries herself like a duchess," Max Bowen observed.

  "Oh, she's a fatuous piece of fruit like the rest of them," Ellingham snapped, just a little peeved with her now. "And will prove to be just as humdrum and tiresome as they are."

  "It is indeed hard to find a toothsome virgin for the corruption. There hasn't been a likely candidate yet."

  "I never thought it would be so tedious, vetting the virgins," Ellingham said petulantly. "I thought they all would fall into our laps."

  "Would that have been the case, I would have burst my britches three weeks ago. And there's not much time left to initiate this experiment. Wick is getting impatient. We will go forward with two of them, if necessary, and if you can find one more who meets the criteria—as your morsel would seem to— then we shall have our three. All that remains is to test her and I'm already up for that."

  Ellingham eyed his friend balefully. "Then stand down, my dear Max. I am now officially intrigued." He sought her golden figure deep in the crush, and eyed her speculatively.

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  "There might be some sport there, after all. I'll take the morsel on. She's got a look in her eye and reticence in her manner that, despite the way she's dressed, could be exactly the template we're seeking for Wick."

  ******************

  Jenise felt Ellingham's gaze on her incessantly throughout the evening. It was like the slam of a fist, that first assessing glance; it made her feel too out of her depth, too uncertain of her course, too gauche, and yet, at the same time, his interest cemented her resolve.

  And that being so, it also necessitated that she quickly arm herself with some information as to how to proceed.

  The artless ones, she discovered, the ones well protected by the mamas who had gauged and dismissed their chances, they were eager to tell what they'd heard, as she quickly found out. And they were not at all unwilling to share, almost as if dispensing that information gave them entree into some forbidden world.

  "Oh, you are so right in your assessment," they said. "Ellingham's the one—he's gone gleaning, we call it, when he starts to cull the women. He'll come up and talk to you, rain lavish compliments upon you, touch your arm perhaps, and then, suggest a stroll around the room that will inevitably lead into a more private space where he may try to take further liberties."

  "And that is the whole of it? Compliments and liberties in the retiring room?"

  "Is that not enough? If he is able to steal a kiss from a well-

  bred virgin, is it not a triumph? Is she not then worthy of

  Wick's notice?"

  "That is the test?" She couldn't believe it. It was a game, a perversion. "This is how Wick will choose his
life's companion?"

  "Oh no. It is said these little auditions are but the first gauntlet to be run to even be considered in matrimonial contention. It is said he will not even consider a shrinking vine, as fruitful or wealthy or well-favored as she might be. That he

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  wants only the most beautiful, the most refined, the most elegant, educated, well-spoken, and pure virgin for his wife."

  "And has anyone yet passed the test?"

  "It is said there are only two so far, of different styles, temperaments, and desires. And that they seek a third to present to Wick, and there it will end, at least insofar as the public portion of his search is concerned. All else, they say, will rest on Wick's desire and inclination, and any other standards and measures will be applied by him in private, at his whim, and nothing further will be revealed, they say, until the banns are called."

  "Oh." It was a stunningly masculine plan, with Wick wholly in control once the brides-designates were chosen. Jenise felt her insides curdle. How did one combat such a satyric plan? What mother, comprehending those circumstances, would give her daughter's innocence to the Golden Bull by way of Ellingham's golden tongue?

  Apparently many. They were all watching him with hawkish eyes, waiting for the moment to attract his notice.

  And if she were to do so, which she would not have the slightest trouble in accomplishing given Ellingham's covert interest, she had better have some stone-hard design in mind for Wick's payback, and the determination to follow it through, brick by brick.

  Could she? Now she had been noticed, now that she was on the precipice of being tested, she saw that it would require much more of her than the fury of exacting vengeance on the rutting bull.

  For the first, it would necessitate responding to Ellingham without giving in to him, inviting his interest and rebuffing his touch, promising everything, and giving nothing.

  She could not be the same as the others, and she could not he that much different. She had to stand out, and be reserved. She had to be both willing and coy.