Christa scrambled to her feet, so outraged she had trouble finding the correct English words. “Do you think I wanted that . . . thatpig! thatbeast. . . to lay his loathsome hands on me?”
From his position on the floor, Sir Horace moaned, “The doxy led me on. Wanted me to set her up with her own house.”
Lady Pomfret’s outrage reached awe-inspiring new heights. She scarcely cared how many trollops her husband lay with, but deeply resented his spending money on them, money that could have gone into her own jewel case. “Why, you little hussy! After all my generosity to you . . . the purple silk gown, the ribbons and plumes I gave you! Now you want to steal the bread from my mouth!”
Her temper well and truly lost, Christa spat back, “It would be better for you if I did! Then perhaps you would not be shaped like a breeding cow and your husband and lovers would keep their hands off me! And I would not be caught in mycoffinin your castoff clothes . . . I have never seen a woman with worse taste!”
At these insults Lady Pomfret came perilously close to expiring of apoplexy. She howled, “Why, you little . . . you little . . .” Insults failed her; waving her arm at the gawping James, she shrieked, “Throw her out! Throw her out of the house this minute!”
“My pleasure, your ladyship,” he said with wicked anticipation. The Frenchy had hit him in the knee when he was just being friendly and treated him like dirt ever since. Revenge would be sweet. Grabbing Christa’s upper arm with cruel tightness, James pulled her through the door into the passage and down the stairs.
Lady Pomfret watched the footman drag her down the steps with satisfaction. She had known the wench was too cooperative and good-natured to be true. Impossible to get good servants, utterly impossible! Then she scowled and returned to her bedchamber to deal with her husband.
James twisted Christa’s arm so that she could not maintain her balance. “For heaven’s sake, James, let go of me,” she said with exasperation. “I will get my things from the attic and leave most gladly.”
The footman stopped in front of the massive front door and smiled unpleasantly. “You heard what Lady Pomfret said—you’re to go ‘this minute.’ There’s time for only one last thing.”
Tightening his grip on her arm, James grabbed Christa’s hair with his other hand and pulled her head back, forcing a vicious kiss on her. There was nothing of passion in it, only the desire to humiliate the uppity wench. Releasing her hair, the footman grabbed Christa’s buttock and squeezed it with insulting deliberation while he pulled her body against his. “Thought you were too good for the likes of me, did you?”
Christa had not blamed James for removing her from Lady Pomfret’s presence since it was his job. But she was no more willing to be mauled by the man than the master. She butted her head up into his jaw and heard the distinct sound of breaking teeth.
“You are as bad as your employers,” she gasped. “If a household is rotten at the top, there will be rot clear through!”
Bellowing with the pain of his cracked jaw, James dragged open the heavy front door. As Christa darted outside, he placed his hand between her shoulder blades and, with vicious strength, shoved her down the high stone stairs.
Chapter 6
Alex had decided to dismiss his carriage; the pleasant May morning was best enjoyed on foot. He had been in London for only a week and still reveled in the fact that he could walk more than a hundred paces in any direction. So far he hadn’t missed the navy at all, though he had not yet become accustomed to being “Lord Kingsley” rather than “Captain Kingsley.”
He was admiring the houses in Portman Square when he heard a woman cry out, looking up just in time to avoid being bowled over by a falling female. Shifting his weight with the quickness of a man who has climbed a ship’s rigging in a hurricane, Alex was able to catch her in his arms while maintaining his own balance.
Christa was not given to strong hysterics but the events of the last quarter-hour had swept her up in a turmoil of anger and fear. She had been mauled by two men and had just escaped a possibly lethal fall. When her tear-filled eyes registered that a tall blond man had saved her, reason and memory disappeared in a flood of chaotic emotion. She cried “Charles!” and wrapped her arms around the strong male body that held her as she succumbed to shuddering sobs.
Alex blinked in confusion. As a seaman he had always been known for his quick grasp of a situation, but having a delightfully soft female in his arms played havoc with his judgment. She had called him “Charles” with a wild, questioning note in her voice, then buried her head against his waistcoat. The girl’s sobs started to abate, but a torrent of French words poured from her.
Alex found himself envying the absent Charles who should have been holding this delicious armful. He listened for a few moments, then said, “Sorry, but I’m not Charles. You’ll have to slow down—I understand some French, but not at this speed.”
She froze in his arms, then raised her head to look at him. He gave a gasp of pure shock. Later—much, much later—Alex would realize that she wasn’t really beautiful, but now the impact of the enchanting face hit him like a nine-pound cannonball. Wondrous gray eyes had the clarity of smoky quartz, with dark flecks that flashed silver when her gaze shifted. The longest, blackest lashes he had ever seen set off a flawless complexion and an irresistible pixie face that seemed to be laughing even through her tears.
When she abruptly released him and stepped back, Alex calculated that the top of her head would just fit under his chin. Her agitation vanished and she said with quiet dignity, “Forgive me,monsieur. Of course, you are not he. Charles is dead. I did not mean to cast my distress on you. Thank you for your most timely intervention.”
Alex thought the girl had an indefinable air of quality to her, and a quiet elegance of dress that marked her as a Frenchwoman even had he not heard her speech. With a start, he realized that she was inspecting him as carefully as he was studying her. Did they raise bolder women on the other side of the Channel? He revised his thought; her gaze was not so much bold as disarmingly frank. A smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Do I pass inspection?”
Christa suppressed a familiar stab of grief as she looked at her rescuer. Of course he was not her brother. Now that her eyes were not blurred by tears, she could see that the blond hair had a more golden cast and an irreverent curl, could hear that the voice was deeper and slower. His dress proclaimed him a gentleman, and he was taller even than Charles had been, with a relaxed, loose-limbed figure. If his long, tanned face was not classically handsome, the laugh lines around the corners of the clear amber-brown eyes made it enormously appealing.
She smiled wryly. “Oui,monsieur. I believe you will not attack me, which is my principal requirement of the moment.”
“If you are wishing to be attacked, I should be happy to oblige, miss,” Alex said helpfully.
Had he not been so disarmingly open, the remark would have sent her fleeing down the street. But it was impossible to feel threatened by this stranger. He seemed the sort who always found humor around him, and she had found that the ability to laugh was a civilizing influence. In her experience, the most unpleasant people were those who took themselves too seriously. So Christa smiled and said, “No, I have been attacked quite enough today. Do I passyourinspection?”
“I see no obvious reason why you should be thrown headfirst down those steps,” he said seriously. “I realize it’s not my business, but might I inquire as to the reason why?”
Christa bit her lip as she remembered the difficulties of her position. “I am—or rather, Iwas—abigail to Lady Pomfret here.” She waved her hand up at the blank-windowed house. “Her repellent husband decided that my duties included serving him in a manner I much disagreed with. Her ladyship came on us when I was in the process of rather forcibly extricating myself from Sir Horace. She is a woman of limited understanding, and we”—she paused dramatically—“had words.”
Wryly she continued, “As I’m sure you appreciate, arguments between two people of unequal station may not be resolved on merit.” She gave a purely Gallic shrug. “And so you see me.”
“You are certainly right about arguments between those of unequal station,” Alex said feelingly. “I’ve spent fifteen years in the navy, and the desire to be on the higher side of the power equation is a great incentive to promotion.”
