by Darcy Burke
A footman removed their dishes, and another replaced them with the next course, sole and green beans. Sabrina gathered her knife and fork. Now. Mention the invitation now.
The butterflies grew darker and moved more quickly, with a sickening effect. She forced a smile. “How was your racing club meeting?”
She was such a coward. And why? Telling him this was nothing compared to asking him if he preferred to sleep with men. He was also not her parents who typically found a way to make anything Sabrina found good into something bad. Aldington wouldn’t do that. He hadn’t ever.
“Quite the usual. We won’t begin the actual racing season until the end of the month, but we do like to plan our excursions. Our season always begins with the jaunt to the Pickled Goose.”
Sabrina recalled that was a tavern in Richmond. “Are wives ever allowed as guests?”
His fork, with a green bean speared upon it, was halfway to his mouth when his arm arrested. “We’ve never discussed it. Likely because half our members are unwed.” As if that explained why it hadn’t come up.
“I should be intrigued to join you some time, if it were allowed.” Sabrina set her utensils down. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—avoid the subject any longer. She’d made it into something far bigger than it was. “Earlier today, I received an invitation to join the Phoenix Club.”
He set his knife and fork down and reached for his wineglass. “I see.” The words were flat, his gaze fixed on his wine before he took a long drink. “And do you plan to accept it?”
“I do. In fact, I’m going to attend the assembly on Friday with Mrs. Renshaw.” She clasped her hands in her lap, wringing them as her insides cartwheeled with unease. “Are you angry?”
“Why should I be?” His entire demeanor had cooled. They’d been sharing a pleasant meal until now. “I am surprised.”
“Because you haven’t received an invitation?”
Now he looked surprised—and slightly irritated. “You know that?”
“I, er, assumed,” she lied, not wanting him to know she’d discussed his membership, or lack thereof, with Evie. “But maybe you did receive one and declined. That wouldn’t surprise me, since you seem to disdain the club.”
“I haven’t ever been invited, nor do I expect to be. How…nice for you to be a member.” He’d held onto his wineglass throughout this conversation and now finished the contents.
“I would prefer that you were a member too. Perhaps Lucien could see that you are invited.”
“No.” The clipped response landed hard, like a stone. “It’s his club. He would have invited me by now if he wanted to.” He set his empty glass down, and the footman moved to refill it.
Plucking up his utensils, he pushed his food around his plate. She could see he wasn’t eating and hated that she’d caused him distress.
“How was your meeting with the duke?” she asked softly. As much as she wanted to know how it had gone, she was more concerned with filling the uncomfortable air.
Aldington’s lip curled slightly, and she instantly thought the interview had gone poorly. “He is considering our request for you to replace Aunt Christina as Cassandra’s sponsor.”
Our request. Sabrina liked the sound of that, even if she didn’t feel like they were an “our” or an “us.” “That’s better than an outright refusal.”
“To be honest, denial was his initial response, but I told him that you were up to the challenge and would do a much better job than Aunt Christina.”
Sabrina lifted her gaze to his, glad for his advocacy, though an old feeling of dread wriggled between her ribs. “I am up to the challenge.”
Aldington instructed the footmen to leave them alone. The dismissal surprised Sabrina. He’d never done anything like that. When they were gone, he continued, “The person I saw last night at the rout and somewhat again earlier today—charming, outgoing, flirtatious even. Is that really who you are?”
“It’s who I want to be,” she answered softly, trying to convince herself as much as him.
“But it’s not who you were. You’ve been different since you arrived. However, I still glimpse the cautious woman underneath. Are you certain you can be the woman you want to be? Are you, in fact, certain that’s what you really want?”
“Yes, it is what I want. Just as I want a child.”
“So I gathered,” he said coolly. “And you shall have your child.”
“Do you plan to visit my chamber again tonight?” She held her breath, wondering if he would, even as tomorrow night’s “lesson” loomed.
He hesitated and, for a scant moment, the anticipation simmering inside her roiled.
“I have a meeting at White’s and will likely be late.” He stood quickly, making the chair wobble. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I purchased some books on horticulture for you and procured the latest issue of Transactions.”
She blinked at him. “From the Horticultural Society?” The organization was little more than a decade old and produced a wonderful periodical with color plates of all manner of plants. “How exceedingly thoughtful of you.”
Indeed, he’d never done anything of the sort. Not in two years. He’d gifted her something on her birthday and at Christmas—handkerchiefs or jewelry. Books about gardening, about which she was passionate, were far more personal.
“Please excuse me. I’ll instruct the footmen to return so you may finish your dinner.”
“I hope I didn’t upset you. Thank you for the books and the periodical. I am very much looking forward to reading them.”
“You didn’t upset me. Have a pleasant evening.” His gaze lingered on her a moment before he departed the room.
After finishing her dinner, she went to the library. There she found the latest issue of Transactions as well as three books. One stood out for its red Moroccan leather cover. It couldn’t be… But it was. A design book by Humphry Repton himself emblazoned with “Repton’s Plans for Hampton Lodge” in gold on the cover.
Sabrina sucked in a breath as she carefully opened the book and drank in the gorgeous watercolor before and after paintings. When he’d said he’d purchased books, she’d never imagined this. Repton was a renowned landscape designer—this was far more than a book.
When had Aldington commissioned this? Did he mean to fund such a sweeping revision to the landscape? Repton had included a narrow lake with a bridge as well as a folly nestled amongst a crescent of trees.
She was overwhelmed by Aldington’s thoughtfulness, as well as his support of the thing that brought her the most joy. And he’d done it well before she’d come to town. Perhaps he was different too, and the change hadn’t been provoked by her arrival.
Closing the book, she stared into nothing, her mind turning back to the dinner they’d just shared. He’d been reserved but not dispassionate, which was how she’d thought of him before arriving in London not even a week ago. It was progress, wasn’t it?
Slow, incremental progress. Yes, he’d been upset about the invitation—whether he wanted to admit it or not—and had left abruptly. He was also championing her to his father, and he’d consented to meet with a courtesan in order to improve the sexual state of their marriage.
Another twinge of guilt stole over her, and she reminded herself that this was a benevolent betrayal, if there could be such a thing. It would be for their common good, and the deception wouldn’t last forever.
This would bring them closer together, as well as give them the child they needed and wanted. That he was willing to go to such lengths told her he wanted things to change. As did the gifts he’d just given her. These were not the actions of a man who didn’t care.
The bedchamber at the Phoenix Club was smaller, more intimate, than the one Constantine had seen before. This one held just a bed with tables on either side and a chair near the hearth. The single candle burning on the mantel produced scant illumination, but that was the point. In darkness there was mystery and anonymity. Constantine found it oddly soothing. As much as anything coul
d be in this moment.
His mind warred with itself, caught between the beneficial outcome he was seeking from this desperate assignation and the guilt that he was doing this behind his wife’s back. She’d invited him to her bed—nay, demanded he visit her there. Shouldn’t he be in her chamber instead?
He’d tried that a few nights ago and while it had been better, it had still been awkward. Tonight, he would hopefully find the audacity to improve their bedsport. Hell, he just needed to find a way to make it bedsport instead of cold duty.
“The lady will arrive shortly,” Lucien said. “You should probably prepare yourself.”
Constantine had already removed his cloak, mask, hat, and gloves and placed them on a narrow bench at the end of the bed. “What else is there to do?” Besides overcome the doubt in his head.
“Er, you might want to doff your coat? Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
“Not being here would make me most comfortable.” And having a wife who wanted him, not just the child he could give her.
Lucien exhaled. “I suppose it’s not too late to change your mind, but only if you can answer the following question in the affirmative.”
“What’s that?”
“Can you go home and shag your wife?”
Constantine clenched his jaw. He could, but he didn’t want a repeat of the other night. He wanted his wife to desire him. Unfortunately, the stark truth of it all was that whatever he learned tonight might not change that. “Just send her in before I do change my mind.”
“A few rules,” Lucien said crisply, pulling a dark strip of cloth from his coat. “You’ll wear a blindfold so she can’t be identified.”
“What about her identifying me?”
“Your blindfold will obscure the upper portion of your face. She has agreed to direct her attention to education only. Don’t worry that she’ll spend time trying to determine who you are. Her goal is to help you—nothing more.” Lucien stepped behind Constantine.
“Wait.” Constantine removed his coat and draped it over the back of the chair. Then he sat and took off his boots, leaving his stockings on. Standing, he turned his back to Lucien. “I’m ready.” The hell he was. His insides were in knots, and he was a breath away from calling the whole bloody thing off.
The moment the blindfold plunged him into obsidian night, uncertainty gripped him hard. He told himself to relax, that plenty of men took mistresses, not that he was even doing that. He was seeking advice of an intimate nature, nothing more.
“I’m trusting you, Lucien,” he said, as though it were necessary that he say it out loud.
“I don’t take that lightly.” Lucien clasped his shoulder. “There is a bell on the bedside table. If at any moment, you want to end this, ring it. She will do the same. She won’t touch you unless you ask her to, and you won’t touch her unless she gives you permission. Those are the rest of the rules.”
A blindfold, a bell, and consent. It all sounded very civilized and orderly. With a hint of carnality.
No, they would only talk. There would be no touching.
Lucien’s hand left his shoulder. “I’m going now.”
Constantine nodded and was glad he’d taken that long drink of his brother’s smuggled whisky on the way upstairs. The snick of the door latching sounded like a pistol shot. While he couldn’t see anything, his other senses had become more, greater. He smelled the wax of the candle burning, and the gentle heat of the low fire in the hearth warmed him.
What in the hell was he doing? Did he really need this? What he needed was for this woman—or someone else—to sit down with his wife and talk to her about what happened in bed and how she ought to respond. Presuming she liked what was happening. Perhaps she didn’t. Which meant he needed the damn tutor.
Swearing softly in frustration, he lifted his hands to the buttons of his waistcoat. The latch clicked, and he froze. His breath caught and held as he pivoted toward the door. It was a silly movement since he couldn’t see anything.
The air in the chamber shifted, thickening and beguiling him with the scent of an exotic flower his father grew in the hothouse at Woodbreak.
“Good evening.” He sounded foreign, as if there was a gravel-voiced stranger within him.
“Good evening.” Her voice was soft and melodic, a vaguely southern Welsh accent, if he had to guess. Yes, his other senses were working very hard to compensate for his lack of sight.
He still didn’t breathe, nor could he move, his body rooted in disbelief over what was happening. Or about to happen. “Why are you here?” He blurted the question despite Lucien telling him she only wanted to help. Why would she?
“I went to Lord Lucien in search of a discreet lover,” she said simply and without hesitation. “He has a reputation for helping people.”
Constantine finally exhaled. “Did you hope to become his mistress?”
“No, why?”
Because most women would. “He also has a reputation for, ah, libertine behavior.”
“What about you?” She’d moved closer, the air moving again, as her tropical scent enveloped him. “You look to be a very attractive gentleman.”
“I am not like Lord Lucien.” There was just something about Lucien that attracted the fairer sex. Even when they’d been boys, the maids had doted upon him. Not that they’d ignored Constantine, but it was different. Lucien always smiled and charmed. For him, it was as easy as breathing—and Constantine was even having trouble with that at the moment.
“I can see that.” She was behind him now, circling him, taking stock.
His muscles stretched taut, as if he were being pulled in multiple directions, drawn and about to be quartered. “This was a mistake.” He reached up for the blindfold, intending to leave.
“You can’t do that,” she said quickly, the pitch of her voice rising. “The blindfold stays on. That’s one of the rules.”
“I can’t leave if I can’t see.”
“Then I suppose you can’t leave.” She stood in front of him now, close enough that he could feel her heat. “Do you want me to go?”
Yes. But the word lodged somewhere on the way from his brain to his mouth, stuck in a battle now being waged between his mind and body—what he believed he should do and what he wanted to do.
“I am conflicted. You are not my wife, and that…distresses me.”
“But you are here for your wife, are you not?”
“Yes.” It was more than wanting her to desire him. He wanted to give her pleasure, to show her how passionate things could be between them. But he supposed he needed to believe that for himself. Until she’d arrived and done things like masturbate, he never would have imagined passion and pleasure between them was possible.
“She would understand, I think.”
Would she? Perhaps one day he would tell her the drastic measures he’d resorted to in order to give them what he thought—or hoped—they both wanted. Or not. He didn’t want her to feel bad, not when she was already so apprehensive about nearly everything.
“You were a courtesan?” he asked, taking a half step back to try to cool the air between them. He was too aware of her proximity.
“I was, but not for a few years now. I prefer my independence. I enjoy the ability to do some of the things that men do.”
“Such as take a lover.”
“Yes.”
She wanted to have sex for the purpose of having sex. Not to have a child and not out of some sense of duty. And she was no longer a courtesan, so there was no financial incentive.
She’d moved closer again because he felt the whisper of her breath against his jaw. A shiver of need tripped up his spine, awakening his body. “Tell me about your wife. What do you think she would like?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t even know if she wants me. She wants a child, but that can be accomplished without, ah, fanfare.”
“Fanfare? What an interesting way to describe it—pleasure, I think you mean?” She didn’t wait for hi
m to respond before continuing. “You could keep things simple and straightforward, lackluster, if you will, but if you were content to do that, you wouldn’t be here. Have you spoken to her about what she wants now? Lord Lucien indicated you aren’t newlyweds.”
“Our relationship is a bit, er, strained.”
“I gather that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m here because apparently I’ve got the completely wrong idea of how to behave with my wife. In my defense, she is incredibly reserved and apprehensive. At least she used to be.”
“She’s not anymore?”
“She’s trying not to be, but when it comes to the bedchamber, I have no idea. We, ah, shared a bed the other night and I think she orgasmed, but I can’t be sure.”
“Why not ask her?”
“She seemed alternately horrified and…responsive during the act. Honestly, it was incredibly confusing.”
“Perhaps she simply didn’t know what to do,” she said softly. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t only possible, it was probable. He couldn’t expect that her mother had discussed the matter with her. Who else would teach her then, but him? “I’m going to have to talk to her to make seduction work, aren’t I?”
“I think you must, yes. Would that be so bad? Talking can be somewhat…arousing, can’t it?”
“I hadn’t considered it, actually. But I will, if it will help my wife relax.”
“Oh my.” She laughed softly. “If you wish your wife to relax, perhaps you should offer her a glass of sherry or port. And if a modicum of pleasure is all you desire, we can be finished in short order. I would assert, however, that you try for something more than a modicum. Why not aim for a satisfactory amount? Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, you might even set your goal at, say, an excess.” She hissed the last word, and another frisson of need danced across his flesh.
Constantine wanted an excess of pleasure. So much.
Her fingers grazed his hand, and she abruptly withdrew. “My apologies. May I take your hand?”
He wanted to say no, to deny the burgeoning desire igniting inside him. He did not. “Yes.”