Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't sue me.

Chapter 4. The Language of Fans

The ball was over, and the carriages were called for the guests; but some, like the British officers in residence at Cedar Hill, did not even rise from their whist tables. Money changed hands rapidly, and there were cries and exclamations and discreet curses. One of the games had been particularly exciting, and had collected a group of onlookers. It was now, however, at an end.

Tavington threw his hand down in disgust, while Bordon grinned triumphantly, raking in his winnings.

"I'm a very great fool to play cards with you."

"Not so very great a fool. I do let you win occasionally."

There was general laughter at the table, in which Tavington joined. Losing gracefully was the mark of a gentleman. He kept the smile on his face, as he rose and declared himself cleaned out for the night. It was a relief that the hour was so late. The lavish supper, the generous supply of wine, the long hours of dancing and flirting and playing cards had all combined to make him a little light-headed. The British officers resident at the house might still be enjoying their cards, but most of the guests had departed. Rutledge and the fair Selina were seeing the last of them off.

Rutledge looked very ill. Tavington wondered what was keeping him on his feet. Possibly the vision of the luscious Selina beside him. Now there was a filly with staying power. Tavington chuckled slightly to himself as he made his way through the shambles of the ballroom toward the broad staircase. He caught her eye as he passed, and gave her a slight bow. She saw him, and very casually flicked open her painted fan, in the secret code known to all who ever trod a ballroom.

In the language of fans, a fan fully opened meant, Wait for me. Selina briefly glanced up to the floor above. Understanding her perfectly. Tavington smiled to himself, and went upstairs.

The servants had been to his room, and had left it tidy: lit by a candle, and supplied with a pitcher of fresh water. The window was shut, and Tavington threw the sash wide, letting the night breeze refresh him. He then gratefully stripped off his cravat, his jacket, even his shirt, and rejoiced in a cooling wash. The rest of his uniform followed, and he fell back on the comfortable bed, glad to lie down.

Mustn't fall asleep, though, he reminded himself. Mustn't disappoint my charming hostess. He had enjoyed his stay here at Cedar Hill. Unequalled hospitality. He would be gone in a few days—probably by Sunday, if he understood Sir Henry correctly. A soldier's life was full of meetings and partings.

Then, reluctantly, he made himself think about his encounter with Jane Rutledge. What had that been all about? The girl plainly knew of his amour with her stepmother, and instead of screaming the house down, had brazenly proposed marriage to him! What could she be thinking?

He turned the puzzle over in his mind. Perhaps she wanted a sort of revenge. Marrying him would be a finger in the eye of the disliked stepmother, and possibly the girl thought it would prevent further intrigue. Little innocent.

Anywhere but here, she had said. Perhaps Miss Rutledge truly wanted to get away: to escape her father's house, to see the world, to leave Charlestown behind. But why him?

I really did not think the girl fancied me so, but evidently she does. He smirked complacently. She would not be the first clever young woman to lose her wits over him.

She had really looked rather—nice—tonight. If he were looking for a night's pleasure, she would not be his choice, but still, given the occasion—she had looked nice enough. Bordon was very astute: well groomed, well coiffed, and elegantly gowned, Miss Rutledge looked perfectly the lady. She made a very good appearance, and had danced gracefully. Her father had every reason to be satisfied with her demeanour and accomplishments.

Except he seemed quite oblivious. There was some trouble there, he divined. The father was indifferent and distant: the stepmother spiteful and—he must admit—a woman of dubious honor. The poor girl must have a sad life between them. All right then, he could better understand her desire to leave.

But why him? Bordon would approve, no doubt. He would assume that very satisfied look he always had when manipulating Tavington successfully—for his own good. Blast!

If only the girl were a little more attractive! A ladylike appearance was all very well, and essential in a woman who would bear one's name—but that was not all Tavington hoped for in a marriage. A pretty girl, at least—one who could stir him, could please his eye, could satisfy his taste in their intimate moments—that kind of girl would grant him the domestic life that would be worth the having.

Now, Selina's exquisite body stuffed full of Miss Jane's accomplishments and principles—now that would be an agreeable thing!

Ah, but then there was the money. Everything, ultimately, always came down to the money. Miss Jane was the mistress of twenty thousand pounds. Depending on the way it was invested, it probably yielded her a yearly income of between eight hundred to a thousand pounds. A good round sum. Its very roundness, in fact, made up somewhat for poor Miss Jane's distinct lack of that quality. The girl appeared to have no bosom at all—however artfully disguised under the magnificent lace at her décolletage tonight. Probably not much of a bottom either—not like Selina's plump, ripe—

Where was Selina, anyway? He rolled onto one arm, listening. No, that was Bordon, next door, settling down for the night. The blackguard had twenty pounds of his money. But Selina still had not come upstairs. He must not think about her too particularly, or he would merely make himself uncomfortable waiting. Back to the money—that is—back to Miss Jane Rutledge and her extraordinary proposition.

Twenty bloody thousand pounds. An heiress willing to leave all behind. None of the embarrassment that had met him in similar applications back home in England to confront him here. He was the nephew of the Earl of Colchester. He imagined that would suffice in South Carolina. These colonials would know nothing of the scandalous career of Sir John Tavington—the title would be enough to have them groveling. He could only hope the father did not press him too closely about his own finances, which were, regrettably, fairly meager.

Very meager. His pay, a few family heirlooms, and no more. His elder brother, now Sir John in his turn, had inherited Wargrave Hall, their dilapidated family estate, but seemed to realize little income from it. His inheritance too, had been spent before their father died: gone to the card tables, gone to the whores, gone to the horses—gone forever

Mamma had the small remnants of her own fortune and the house in Mortimer Square. His sisters had their money, still safely held in trust, and that money was in fact what kept the house running, paid the servants, and put food on the table. Tavington had no land, no estate, no house of his own. He had no expectations from his uncle, whose fortune was moderate—for an Earl—and would go entirely to his own children.

Tavington grimaced, thinking of his weed of a cousin, Lord Sattersby. Nasty little sod. One of the great consolations of his wretched years at Eton was the periodic opportunity to beat the spoiled brat bloody on the playing field. Those were the days.

Twenty bloody thousand pounds. It was such a lot of money. The crown had given land grants at the end of the last war, but he did not want to be shunted off to some backwater. He wanted to go home to England and see his family. He wanted to savor the pleasures of civilization once more. It had been such a long war, and the rewards were always so far in the future. He could live well, very well, on the income from twenty thousand pounds.

Briefly and unpleasantly, it occurred to him that his mother might not be at all impressed by a colonial bride, but—

Wait! There she is. Tavington rolled onto his back, smiling up at the bed canopy of scarlet damask. The Rutledges, man and wife, were coming down the hall. Tavington listened, wondering if Rutledge would go directly to his dressing room, where Selina said he slept most of the time. They would have to be quiet. The daughter was only separated by Bordon's room, and the governess was across from her.

The waiting lengthened, as did the manifestation of his impatience. What the devil was the woman at? At least a quarter of an hour passed, before a door shut softly down the hall. Barely audible footsteps padded to his door, which opened slowly.

She was there, smiling at him. Her greedy gaze swept over him, and slowly she slid out of her delicate white shift. Shoulders, arms, breasts, belly—ah yes. Lovely legs, too. The candlelight caressed her with flickering tongues of shadow.

Tavington refused to be the supplicant. He lay back, arms behind his head, and grunted, "You kept me waiting long enough, Madam."

Selina giggled, and leaned forward to tease him with the brush of a fingertip in his most sensitive spot. "Yes, quite long enough." She licked her lips, and climbed onto the bed, kneeling astride his legs. Her fingertips traced up, and then down, and explored freely. A fingernail scratched a nipple lightly, and she bent to soothe it with a flick of her tongue. Another touch found a crystal drop of moisture trembling at the tip of hardened flesh, and spread it delicately, in lazy little spirals.

"You little wanton," Tavington growled. "Who could imagine a lady knowing such tricks?" A good line, he reflected, even though quite untrue. In his experience frustrated wives were more adventurous and eager than paid harlots. The idea of wickedness excited them, as it had excited this lovely young woman, who had begun to rub herself on him, readying herself before she would mount him directly. To punish her, he kept his arms folded impassively, demanding her services.

A wriggle forward, and the tantalizing first contact as she positioned herself. He bit back a groan. The girl was more than ready, it seemed: flowing like the Thames in spate, and there was a slight, characteristic scent--- "It seems, my sweet, that I am not the first to enjoy your favors tonight."

She tossed her head defiantly. It made the rest of her quiver quite enticingly. "Yes. Ashbury wanted his rights. But he was on, and in, and done in moments." She began to settle onto him, agonizingly slowly, inch by inch. "And there I was, primed for pleasure, and there he lay snoring. And I thought—" she caught her breath and slid lower still, "that tonight I shall have a beautiful man, and have my fill—" she thrust down, impaling herself completely. "—of him."

Tavington hissed gratefully, and shut his eyes in rapture as she began to buck against him.

-----

The candle was guttering in the breeze from the open window. Tavington stared at it in fascination, utterly relaxed and comfortable. Selina cuddled against his side, tickling him with her long curls.

"Stop it," he smiled sleepily, batting at her hand. His watch was on the table by the bed, but Selina was in the way. It must be nearly four in the morning. He had been up and about for nearly twenty-four hours: an inspection, a meeting with Sir Henry, Selina, confronting Debenham over his debt of honor, the girl at the public house, the ball, dancing, flirting, a marriage proposal, losing at cards, Selina. God. He was going to have to get up soon and continue his efforts to prepare the regiment for its imminent mission into the countryside. For that, he needed at least a few hours sleep.

Selina, however, was in the mood to chat. "I shouldn't have come," she giggled. "It would have served you right for not dancing with me. Why were you late?"

"Duty, my fair one." His eyes began to close.

"And why did you dance with Jane?"

His eyes opened, reluctantly.

Selina giggled again, but to Tavington's weary ears it sounded more like a cruel little cackle. "I thought I would burst with laughter when I saw her—painted and curled and decked out like a lapdog! I thought she had more pride. I know I'd be ashamed to be seen looking so ridiculous."

"I thought she looked nice enough." Sleep, yes, sleep…

Selina sat up, indignant and naked, and punched his arm. "What do you mean—nice?"

Ouch.

"I mean she looked nice. She's no beauty, I grant you, but tonight she looked quite ladylike."

Let me sleep, woman, for God's sake.

Selina narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Then, satisfied that he was no admirer of her stepdaughter, she began a carping recital.

"Ladylike? Stiff as a cornhusk doll, you mean! She shouldn't even bother with balls at all. Spinsters just bring down the tone of a party. And she'll never get another man, now that Ralph Manigault is dead."

Tavington gave a tired groan, which Selina considered to be encouragement.

Selina propped herself up on her elbows, willing to gossip. "Oh yes—Ashbury arranged it. Ralph was a cousin of ours, and he looked just like Jane—imagine!" Another cackle, which echoed through Tavington's skull like the rasp of a sharpening wheel. "Both of them as scrawny and plain as a pair of wild rabbits. They liked each other well enough, I suppose: they were always reading improving books together, and Ralph would turn her pages when she played the spinet."

She was staring at him, and would not leave him alone until he responded. "She was engaged?" he managed to mumble.

"Oh!" cried Selina, full of glee at recounting such a thrilling tale. "It was just before the war, when Jane was eighteen. He was coming back from England—he'd been studying at Oxford. They were going to married as soon as he returned. Jane has stacks of letters he sent her, all tied with little pink ribbons as faded as she is! The dullest things in the world. I had a look at them one day, when Jane was out." She giggled again, and then prepared him for the climax of the story. "And his ship sank and everyone was lost, and his body was never found, and Jane was heartbroken." She tossed her head, and repeated, "And she'll never get another man. With the war, half the eligible men are hiding out with the rebels, and the rest are fighting for the King. And Ashbury doesn't have time to arrange another match for her. She's very useful around the house, at least."

Bone-weary, and already sated with her, Tavington began to feel a curdling dislike for the talkative female in his bed. She was not letting him sleep, and she was exposing with every word her shallow, spiteful nature. If he had been less tired, he might still have wanted to enjoy her favors, but disgust seized him. The gross indelicacy of leaving her husband's bed to enjoy a lover became clearer as she continued to lie beside him, annoying him with her idle chatter. He might have rolled over and gone to sleep, but he was faintly interested in hearing more about the wealthy and willing Miss Jane.

He considered what she had said. "Yes, useful about the house. I noticed that she carries the keys. Does that offend you?"

Selina put her hand over her mouth to smother a laugh. "What a joke! When I first came here, I got the keys of course. It was my right. But once I had them, people were always expecting me to do things, and get things, and it was such a bother I gave them back to Jane. She has nothing better to do. And she is very good natured with my little boy." That last was tacked on with an air of generosity.

Tavington was slightly surprised.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rutledge. I did not realize that you were a mother." The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than he realized they were untrue. Bordon has said there was a young son. Of course Selina was the mother. A son that had caused Jane Rutledge to be disinherited. If she was good-natured with the boy, she was good-natured indeed.

"Oh, yes. Ashbury has his heir. He always wanted a boy. Men don't feel they've really had children until they've had a son." She began tickling him again, obviously hoping for another tumble. Tavington, slightly sick with fatigue, decided to put a stop to this nonsense at once. He rolled to his side and reached over Selina to find his watch.

"Good God, look at the time! My dear, you must be getting back to your bed or you shall be discovered." Bitterly aggrieved at the necessity, he got out of bed, and gave her a hand to help her up. Pouting, she rose, and bent to retrieve her shift. She slipped it back on, and gave him a naughty smile. Tavington might have found it alluring had he been less irritated with her for keeping him awake.

When she seemed inclined to linger, he observed, "The slaves will be stirring soon."

Selina smirked. "They know better than to spy on me. If they did, I'd have the hide whipped off their backs." She leaned in for a soft, moist kiss.

Tavington was a soldier and no stranger to flogging, but that was men's business; and somehow, hearing a lady speak so casually of torturing her servants made him queasy. He forced a smile, and when she tried for another kiss, he touched a finger to her lips, saying, "But if you did, my dear, people would want to know why."

She shrugged. Tavington peered out the door to see if the hall was empty. It was. He gave her a nod, and she slipped from the room, gliding along the walls to her own. He shut the door noiselessly, and stumbled to the bed, blowing out the candle as if it had personally offended him. He crawled under the covers, grateful for the solitary comfort, seeking the relief of slumber. A brief picture of Jane Rutledge, adorned for the ball, flashed through his mind's eye. She did indeed look very ladylike. A similar image of Selina, naked and reeking of another man followed. What a harlot. Perhaps looks aren't everything.

With stern determination, he put such thoughts from his mind. Sleep first. I'll deal with all these women in the morning.

Note: Mortimer Square in London is fictional, and based on Berkeley Square in the Mayfair section of town.

Next---Chapter 5: A Proposal in Form