The Trouble With Virtue: A Comfortable WifeA Lady by Day

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Confess,” Honoria said, leaning close and not the least bit fooled. “You find him attractive.”

  Josephine watched him through the crowd as he stood laughing with a group of men. He was quicker to smile than most, had a more infectious laugh. His teeth shone brilliant white. Mesmerizing lines cut deep around his mouth. As she watched, he slapped both hands together—the back of one inside the palm of the other—emphasizing a point that was impossible to hear from this distance.

  “Pauline has a tendresse for him,” she told Honoria.

  “Pauline. La, Josephine, that won’t do. It won’t do at all. Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Positively.”

  “What a terribly awkward position that puts you in.”

  “It isn’t an awkward position. It’s an unfortunate one.”

  “Well, yes, that, too.”

  “Because he isn’t an appropriate match for her,” Josephine said.

  “No, I daresay not. Not for her.”

  “She will end up with her heart broken when she learns that he doesn’t share her inclinations.” Which would come as an even more painful blow after today’s outing to the shipyard, where Sir Noah had regaled her the entire time with talk of his sailing adventures and colorful Mediterranean port cities and the countless antiquities to be seen.

  And all the while, every time his gaze collided with Josephine’s, she’d felt a small explosion of desire deep in her belly, and she’d been grateful—grateful—that Pauline was with them.

  She was the most irresponsible aunt in all of England.

  “You must tell her in no uncertain terms that Sir Noah is not for her,” Honoria said.

  “I’ve tried that.”

  “Then you have no choice but to tell her that you have feelings for him yourself. Better for her to hear it from you now than to find out some other way after her own feelings have deepened.”

  “I’m not going to tell her I have feelings for Sir Noah when I don’t.”

  “Nonsense. But you may tell yourself whatever you like, of course. Only, think of this... What is she going to do when she discovers that Sir Noah’s interest lies with you?”

  At that moment Pauline hurried into the dinner box, glancing over her shoulder. “Auntie Josephine, Mr. Crumley is suggesting a walk. Please say I can’t go.”

  “Mr. Thomas Crumley?” Honoria asked Pauline, though she knew precisely who they were talking about.

  “Yes—oh, here he comes. Auntie Josephine, please.”

  “Why, Mr. Crumley is the son of a dear friend,” Honoria declared. “A lovely young man—and handsome, too. Why would you not wish to walk with him?”

  Pauline looked utterly dismayed.

  “The young man is smitten with you, Pauline,” Honoria said. “At least do him the kindness of a short turn about the gardens.”

  “But, Aunt Josephine, look. Sir Noah is coming this way.”

  And so he was, heading directly for them with a small group of people. They converged on the dinner box at the exact same time as Mr. Crumley. There was a moment of chaos as a trio of women began talking to Honoria and a pair of men stood talking on the threshold and Pauline’s window of opportunity to decry Mr. Crumley slammed shut. Mr. Crumley led her unhappily away just as Sir Noah slid into the chair next to Josephine.

  “Enjoying the evening?” he asked, leaning closer than she might have preferred.

  “Very much,” she told him, even as butterflies in her stomach went all aflutter. “I always enjoy nights in the gardens.”

  “Mmm.” If it were possible, he leaned even closer. “It’s come to my attention that there is a rumor afoot,” he said. “And since you are so well acquainted with London society, perhaps you might help me figure out how to set it right.”

  She felt his nearness as though he had taken her in his arms. “Sir Noah, London is flooded with rumors. You must simply learn to ignore them. London requires a very thick skin.”

  “Mmm.” His eyes roamed over her face. Flicked to her breasts. “I daresay this one has to do with skin, in a matter of speaking. And in a rather delicate way.”

  “Do tell.”

  He lowered his voice, leaned close to her ear. “It concerns a vital part of my anatomy.”

  His breath against her ear sent a shock of sensation shooting down the side of her neck. Honoria’s group of ladies erupted into laughter, and the two men at the entrance seemed oblivious to everything but their own discussion.

  “Sir Noah,” Josephine said, “if everyone listened to other people’s opinions of their intelligence, nobody would ever emerge from their apartments. People are forever calling others hare-brained, mutton-headed, feather-brained... You must simply learn to ignore it.”

  His lips curved.

  She shivered.

  “While I confess my brain is indeed a vital part of my anatomy,” he allowed, “these rumors concern what might be deemed an equally...serviceable organ.” He glanced around. Lowered his voice even further. “Forgive me if I shock you, but it’s being said I’ve been castrated.”

  “Shocking indeed.”

  “I thought perhaps if I prove to you that I am intact, your reputation being what it is, you could assist me by actively countering the rumor. I feel certain you would be believed.”

  “I rather think you’d have a more immediate result by exposing yourself publicly, would you not?”

  He laughed out loud, even as one of the men called to him. “No doubt it would.” And then, murmuring in her ear as he got up, “But somehow, my dear Joseph, I feel a need to demonstrate myself to you personally. Perhaps you will indulge me one day soon.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ONE THING WAS certain: There would be no indulging Sir Noah.

  Late at night after they’d returned from Vauxhall, the library was cold. Only the faintest glow of embers still burned in the fireplace, and Josephine’s skin prickled. Her candle flame flickered in the darkness as she searched through Elias’s papers for the correspondence he’d asked her to answer.

  It was past time to find Elias a real man of business. If she hired a replacement, she would be free to...to sew. Perhaps learn a new piece on the harpsichord. Attend a lecture.

  A lecture would be very edifying.

  An affair with Sir Noah would be more edifying.

  There was no ridding her mind of Sir Noah. It was as if he had taken up residence there. She set down her pen and rubbed her arms, but her skin was alive with the memory of him, sensitive to the whisper of her nightgown as though it was his touch.

  Upstairs, Lettie and Pauline lay trustingly in their beds knowing that Aunt Josephine would smooth their way into society. Miles away in Suffolk, poor Charlotte probably lay awake worrying that sending the girls into Josephine’s care was a mistake.

  All across London, people believed she was so sensible. How many times had she been told “Josephine, I only wish I had your composure in these situations” or “If only I had your restraint of temper, Josephine”? Oh, yes. Restraint indeed.

  Sir Noah would make a mockery of her restraint if he could, and it would be so easy to let him.

  Just then, Edgar appeared in the doorway in his nightclothes, wig askew, holding a candle. “Sir Noah Rutledge answering your summons, your ladyship.”

  Sir Noah? Now? “But I didn’t—”

  It was too late. Sir Noah walked into the library.

  “Will you require any refreshment, your ladyship?” Edgar asked.

  “No, thank you. You may return to bed.” She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, too conscious that she wore her own nightclothes. “What’s happened?” she asked Sir Noah. “Is Elias all right?”

  “As far as I know, though I didn’t follow him to Covent Garden to find out.” His eyes roamed ov
er her and dropped to the papers on the desk. “I admit to having wanted to see Elias’s paperwork for myself, but I didn’t expect to do so at this hour.”

  “And you shan’t,” she said, coming out from behind the desk. “What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Joseph. Your note was clear enough.”

  “I sent no note.”

  “‘I so enjoyed our day together,’ it said.” He came forward, closing in on her. His eyes drank her in as if she were his favorite liquor. “‘I only wish we could enjoy a private meeting.’”

  A private meeting? “Sir Noah, I didn’t—”

  “Is this private enough for you, Joseph?” He ran a finger along the neckline of her nightgown, and her mouth went dry. “I confess I didn’t expect you to indulge me this soon, but it would seem we’ve been of the same mind.”

  Yes. No. No, they hadn’t. “You misunderstand,” she said, but his touch left a trail of heat along her collarbone and made it very, very difficult to think.

  “Do I? Because finding you here in your nightclothes after sending that note, I feel I have a firm grasp on the situation. Or at least—” he slipped his hand behind her head and slid his other arm around her, pulling her against him “—I do now.”

  I sent no note, Sir Noah. You must leave. Now. That was what she needed to say. Instead, she stood perfectly still as he dipped his head, slanted a little and touched his mouth to hers. Her blood raced, and every nerve came alive. She forced herself to breathe. His scent inflamed her senses.

  “I’ve been wondering whether you take your hair down at night,” he murmured against her lips. She felt his hands in her hair, working the simple tie that held it back from her face after Mary had brushed it out. “It’s a good thing I didn’t lay any wagers on the question. Ah, God— You have no idea how I’ve wanted to touch you like this, Joseph.”

  His lips moved on hers—calculated, controlled, while she fought for sanity. She fisted her hands to keep from touching him.

  He meant nothing to her. It was only a kiss and not even a very—

  God in heaven. He traced her lower lip with his tongue, and secret places ignited that had long lain dormant and cool. He urged her to open to him, and she did. He was poison, but she couldn’t say no. He felt too good.

  She met his tongue, and the careful control of his kiss began to slip.

  His lips were fire. Demanding. Pure, carnal danger, and they tasted divine. She drank him in, aware she was returning his kisses and hating herself for it. Her tongue met his, and her body turned to pure fire. His grip on her tightened. She clutched his lapels, splayed her hands against his chest.

  Knew it was imperative to back away, but couldn’t quite make herself do it. Teetering on the edge of control. Wanting to touch him. To tear his shirt from his breeches and push her hands beneath the linen to touch bare skin.

  Push him away.

  Her fingers curled into his shirt.

  Break the kiss.

  She met his tongue more deeply.

  His hands came around her waist and he lifted her onto the desk. Skimmed her nightgown up her legs. Urged her thighs into a vee. He stood between them, and she clung to him while he played his hands over her skin higher, higher—

  She gasped when he found her. Melted when he stroked her. Moaned into his mouth when he pushed a finger inside her—Noah Rutledge, inside her—and sought her breasts with his other hand. He found a nipple easily through the fabric and closed his fingers around it.

  Exquisite pleasure ripped through her. She was pure need in his hands, tumbling toward fulfillment. Somewhere through the fog of desire, an image: Sir Noah with a secret smile in his eyes, knowing he had made her climax.

  Climax.

  God in heaven. No—

  But he rolled her nipple into a tight, aching slave to his touch. Pushed his fingers rhythmically in, out, in. Out. Stroked the slick point of her pleasure, skillfully circling before plunging deep again.

  She couldn’t let it happen.

  But her thighs had become his servants, and they strained apart while he stood fully clothed, making no move even to unbutton his breeches. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck, nipping her flesh while his breath labored heavy in her ear.

  This was costing him.

  And then it was too late to stop. A great wave rose inside her, pushing, throbbing, tossing her into climax. His mouth crushed down on hers and she gasped into it while her body pulsed and pulsed around his fingers, slaking itself on him, squeezing every last shudder of fulfillment while she clung to him, helpless in the aftermath.

  “I think we should finish this in your bed,” he said, kissing her deeply, madly, leaving no doubt of exactly what he meant.

  No. No, they shouldn’t. But he slipped his fingers out, and raw, empty need keened through her, and all she wanted was to feel him inside her again. All of him. “The girls...”

  “Will never be the wiser.” Pulling down her nightgown, he lifted her into his arms, turning away from the desk, kissing her again.

  There was a creak and a small cry, and Josephine’s attention snapped to the doorway.

  Pauline!

  Noah stopped.

  “Aunt Josephine, I—I—Oh!” On that ragged cry, Pauline turned and fled.

  “Pauline, it isn’t—” But it was, even as Noah quickly set Josephine onto legs still shaky from the intensity of release. “Pauline, wait.” But it was too late.

  Josephine started after her, but Noah held her back. “Don’t go. You can only make it worse.”

  Worse? This was the worst moment she’d lived in nearly ten years. And then, on a sudden realization, “Pauline wrote that note.”

  “That’s impossible. Why would she possibly—” Except even as he spoke, she could see him answering his own question. “Good God. I had no idea she’d...”

  And still she was standing here with his hands on her, as if they were...

  Lovers.

  She pulled away and went to the desk, even as her skin still tingled madly where he’d touched her. “Young girls are capable of all kinds of fanciful notions.” She snatched up her shawl from where she’d let it fall from her shoulders only minutes ago, when she and Sir Noah had— “I really must go up and speak with Pauline. I hope you won’t find it an affront to let yourself out.”

  “Not at all,” he said, watching her through eyes that had seen far, far more of her than she ever should have allowed. A moment ago she’d been about to go upstairs with him. To her bed.

  “I shall have some papers delivered tomorrow for your review,” she said without looking at him. She pulled the shawl around her. Tight. “Good evening, Sir Noah.”

  * * *

  UPSTAIRS, JOSEPHINE LEANED against the wall outside Pauline’s door, breathing deep to cleanse away the effects of Sir Noah’s touch, but they gripped her too deeply to be banished so easily. Her knees still trembled, and her most intimate flesh still pulsed and tingled. Sir Noah’s taste still lingered on her lips.

  She could hear Lettie’s muffled voice inside the room, talking to Pauline.

  Disaster. That’s what this was. It was inevitable that Charlotte would hear of it. And Charlotte would be shocked, but not surprised.

  What on earth could she tell Pauline? That she’d made a mistake?

  Yes. That was exactly what she would tell her, because that was exactly what happened. A mistake, and all because of a misunderstanding thanks to Pauline’s foolish note.

  Was it a misunderstanding when you were going to let him carry you to your bed?

  The very idea made her breath catch, and she struggled to steer her thoughts away. She could not let her passions get the best of her now, when her nieces’ futures depended on her being everything that was proper and reliable and laudable. She knew h
ow to keep her passions under control. How to identify folly and stamp it out before making the mistake of acting on it. It was a skill she’d worked very hard to acquire.

  For heaven’s sake, she hadn’t run off to Gibraltar, had she? No. Because she’d known exactly how that would set tongues wagging. How it might reflect on Charlotte and the girls to have an aunt who was known for indulging eccentric whims.

  Josephine’s passions had very nearly ruined Charlotte’s hopes once before. They would not do so now.

  She made herself knock on the door. It cracked open a moment later, and Lettie’s angry face glared out at her. “She doesn’t wish to talk right now, Aunt Josephine.”

  “I’m afraid we must. Pauline?” she called. “I need to speak with you. Open the door, Lettie.”

  Inside, she found Pauline madly scratching away at a letter, dashing tears from her face with Bentley sitting worriedly at her feet.

  “You’ve been telling her she shouldn’t fancy Sir Noah,” Lettie accused, “and now we know why.”

  “Do not speak where you are not informed, Lettie,” Josephine said sternly.

  Pauline did not look up from her letter.

  “Now Pauline is going home, and Mother is going to be beside herself because Pauline was supposed—” she looked meaningfully at the back of Pauline’s head “—to meet an appropriate young man and form an attachment.”

  “Nothing about this situation warrants going home.” Josephine moved to the side of the writing desk so Pauline could not ignore her. Pauline’s face was damp and blotchy, her handwriting shaky. “Pauline,” Josephine said gently, “it was you that sent Sir Noah the note, wasn’t it?”

  “You sent the note?” Lettie exclaimed. “Pauline— Aunt Jo, I told her not to send it.”

  Pauline’s cheeks turned hot red. “You send notes to Captain Ryson,” she said, scratching angrily with her pen.

  “Not to meet me in the middle of the night! What would Mother think?”

  “Your mother isn’t going to think anything, because there’s no reason to tell her,” Josephine said firmly. “Pauline, you have my deepest, most painful apologies. I know you fancy Sir Noah, and I would never, ever betray your heart on purpose. I think both of you are old enough to understand that men and women sometimes do things they didn’t set out to do.”