Lady of Shame

by Ann Lethbridge

  ‘Not yet,’ he said on a half-laugh, half-groan. ‘I haven’t finished with you.’

  But this was her night, her doing, and she wanted him badly. She had been too lonely for too long to be forced to wait.

  ‘André, please, now,’ she begged.

  She thrust upwards with her hips, guiding him home, seating him deep within her body, offering to bring them spinning into darkness together.

  On a shudder, he gave in to her demand and drove deep into her body, slamming into the cradle of her hips with a force that pushed her to the pinnacle of her need and far beyond.

  She shattered, light bursting behind her eyes, lava-hot blood racing from the centre of pleasure to melt every bone in her body, followed by bliss so sublime she could hardly bear it.

  Vaguely she felt him go rigid in her arms, then shudder. He groaned softly, pulled clear and spilled on her belly.

  She drifted languorously on a tide of darkness and heat, aware of the wonderful hot weight of him pressing her into the mattress.

  When she came to, she was curled against his body, wrapped within his arms. A most comfortable feeling. His lips grazed her ear, then her throat, then her shoulder.

  Farewell kisses. Her heart knew. ‘Must you go?’

  ‘Chérie, you know I must.’

  ‘Will you come again tomorrow?’ How weak she was to ask. Yet the words were out before she gave them thought, and it was too late to call them back.

  He let go a long breath. ‘I want to.’

  The unspoken but hung between them.

  She had asked, but she was a Montague and they did not beg. Or not very often, for it seemed she was not above it this night. ‘I hope you will.’

  He slipped from the bed and dressed with as much efficiency as he had undressed. No doubt he was used to such clandestine assignations, slipping in and out of ladies’ beds as the mood took him. For surely there wasn’t a woman alive who could resist his charm.

  It meant nothing, this night of pleasure. Not to him or to her. At the very best, it was comfort for two lonely people, and at the worst, the assuaging of carnal cravings.

  She turned on her side and watched him button his shirt and shrug into his coats. So strong. So lithe and handsome. But he was much more than that. He had a kind heart and a gentle soul. She had the feeling that while they had talked a great deal, there was much he had not told her of his past.

  Glancing at her, seeing her watching, he leaned over and kissed her lips, just a gentle pressure of his wonderful mouth. ‘Claire,’ he said softly, his voice full of regret. ‘You have given me a gift I shall never forget. Merci, chérie.’

  Then he snuffed the candles, slipped out into the hallway and closed the door with the softest click.

  And that was that. She rolled on her back. He was right, of course, though he had not said the words. This must not happen again. She was seeking a husband. Someone of whom her family would approve and who could keep Jane safe.

  But after tonight, after the most unbelievable journey of body and soul, how could she ever let one of the men on her list come anywhere near her? A shudder rolled down her back.

  * * *

  ‘You sent for me, Madame Holte.’

  Claire looked into his eyes and saw nothing but blank politeness as he stepped inside the door.

  Beyond the door, she heard the quiet footsteps of Lumsden moving away. One had to listen very carefully to hear the servants moving about.

  Inside she was shaking, trembling with gladness at seeing him, longing to kiss him good-morning, to touch his sleeve, to feel the magic of their physical connection. Two days and two nights she had lasted, but finally she had succumbed to her longings.

  She smiled politely. ‘Yes, thank you, Monsieur André. Please, do come in and close the door. I have some minor adjustments for the menu for tomorrow night.’ She gestured at the sheet of paper on her desk.

  He strode to the desk, leaving the door open behind him. Carefully avoiding coming close to her, she noticed.

  He picked up the paper and glanced down. The moment he read the words she’d spent the best part of the morning composing in her head, he folded the note in half.

  I missed you, it said. Such small words with so much import. She clasped her hands at her waist looking at him, the beauty of him, the wide shoulders, the sensual mouth she knew so intimately.

  But it wasn’t just that. She had enjoyed their conversation. Learning about him, his hopes and dreams, his history. There was so much more to know, if he would let her in.

  ‘Madame Holte.’ He shook his head, his mouth tight. ‘You risk too much.’

  A band tightened around her chest. Apparently he did not feel the same way. And yet she persevered. ‘If we are careful—’

  His eyes found hers. A gaze filled with regret, or pity. She could not be sure.

  ‘I cannot be that man.’ He shot a look towards the door and moved closer, lowering his voice. ‘I cannot be your dirty little secret, at your beck and call, while you court a husband.’

  The flatness of his voice when he spoke those words stung like a whip’s metal point. She had never thought about what they had done in those horrid terms. She’d been too busy living only in the moment, in the joy of it. She could see what others might make of it though. What he had made of it.

  His fists clenched. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. The hard line of his jaw said he had not come to his conclusion lightly. ‘Don’t make this any harder than it is, Claire,’ he murmured softly. ‘I cannot be what you want. I am sorry if I let you think otherwise.’

  She wanted to plead with him, but instead spun away, gazing out of the window, before he could see her disappointment, or the hot moisture welling in her eyes.

  He had clearly made up his mind. And he was right. Their lovemaking was risky. And if he saw it as little more than carnal satisfaction, something he could get on any street corner or tavern, it would be worth nothing. To either of them.

  Fear and relief had sent her into his arms the first time. Loneliness the second. How pathetic she must seem.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, keeping her voice calm. ‘I beg your pardon…’ Her voice cracked. ‘I did not mean to insult you.’

  ‘Claire,’ he said softly. ‘You know this is right.’

  She turned with a bright smile, patently false but a smile nonetheless. ‘The dowager marchioness has indicated that she will not attend our next dinner party so our company will be smaller than usual, but I think we should not change the dishes. Are you agreed?’

  ‘I agree. But—’

  ‘Then there is no more to be said, Monsieur André. I bid you good day. I assume there will be no more little dramas like last time.’

  His dark eyes held hers. Unreadable. His expression severe. ‘No, madame.’

  ‘Very good. You may go.’ She sounded every bit the duke’s daughter with those words and she held her head proudly in clear dismissal.

  ‘It is for the best,’ he said, clearly trying to soften the blow.

  ‘Close the door on your way out.’ She spoke coldly, refusing to acknowledge his power to cause her pain. She turned back to the window, looking out blindly, staring at an imperfection in the glass that made the outside ebb and flow in ripples of light and shadow.

  It had to be the glass, because she would not cry.

  ‘As you wish, madame.’

  The silent pause said he’d bowed. The whisper of sound and the click of the door echoed in her ears. She collapsed onto the sofa, the tears she’d held back hot on her cheeks.

  She dashed them away. Had she so little pride? No common sense, when it came to this man? This servant? Any hint of such a scandal would lead to utter ruin. For herself, she didn’t care about being an outcast. She’d been that for years, but Jane’s future hung in the balance. The sins of the parent would not be visited upon the child. She would not permit it.

  Oh, why was it so hard to be good? She’d never thought of herself as a bad person.
Was she really so starved of affection she could not resist the first kindly man to come along?

  What if he bragged of his conquest? Men were prone to talk of their prowess. Her blood turned icy. Should she talk to her brother about sending him away immediately? Or would it look suspicious?

  Oh, no, now she was being mean. Acting the woman scorned. He could not have been any more reasonable. And sensible. He must think her ridiculous. Unsophisticated. Foolish.

  She’d acted like an idiot. Given in to an impulse of the moment. It was over. Done.

  After all, everything hinged on her making a good marriage. Putting right all the old wrongs. She must pretend none of this had ever happened and pray he did not tell Giles.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘John Coachman has the carriage ready, Mrs Holte,’ Lumsden said. ‘He should be at the door at any moment.’ He helped her into her fur-lined cloak.

  She dug her hands deep in her swansdown muff and tried to look comfortable. After spending hours primping and preening before the glass, she still didn’t feel the slightest twinge of excitement about what was going to be her first assembly in years. She’d much rather curl up beside the fire with a book.

  She could escape into a book. Forget the conversation with André by immersing herself in someone else’s life and troubles. But Sir Nathan was expecting her. He had even offered a cousin to serve as female companion for the evening, in the absence of Lady Wilhelmina who, along with Phaedra, was not expected back at Castonbury for at least a week.

  No matter her own personal feelings about Sir Nathan, she could not let the opportunity slide. Sir Nathan would be as good as any of the others on her list. Perhaps better, given his forceful personality.

  ‘Here is John Coachman now,’ Lumsden said, turning away from the sidelight in the door. ‘He’s not more than a step or two from the door and the snow is cleared away.’

  ‘Thank you, Lumsden.’

  He opened the door and Claire stepped out into the night. Cold air hit her cheeks and filled her nostrils with a scent like no other. The smell of clean crisp country air on a snowy night. Snowflakes stung her face for a moment, then stopped. She glanced up to see clouds scudding across a moonlit sky. Only a flurry. Not enough for concern.

  John Coachman, aided by one of the grooms who would accompany them, helped her into the ducal travelling carriage they’d decided to use this evening. Covered in blankets up to her chin and a warming brick at her feet, she would be perfectly comfortable.

  The groom climbed up behind and the carriage moved off.

  Six months ago, she would not have believed she would ever return to this life. To have been given a second chance was far more than she deserved. She would not let Crispin down again. Clearly she had almost made another fatal mistake with André, once more letting her heart rule her head. And her heart made terrible choices.

  It had chosen George, and clearly it wanted to choose André. Thank goodness he had enough sense and the strength to cut the connection.

  She hunched deeper within her furs and tried to imagine her upcoming conversations with Sir Nathan. If only his face wouldn’t keep melting and reforming into André’s.

  The journey took little over an hour and she was relieved when the coach finally reached the Great Hotel on the Crescent in the centre of town. The pavement outside the Assembly Rooms bustled with people, carriages and the occasional sled formed a line to let their passengers off. Finally it was Claire’s turn. She smiled at John as he handed her down, then turned to greet Sir Nathan, who was waiting beneath the arches. ‘My cousin is already inside, Mrs Holte.’

  ‘A good thing too,’ she said with a smile. ‘It is far too cold out here.’

  ‘But at least it is not snowing.’

  ‘Very true.’ The weather. Was there never anything more exciting to discuss than the weather? Would it be like this for the rest of her life?

  Sir Nathan led her up the steps and inside where a bevy of maidservants were waiting to take cloaks and boots and help the ladies into their dancing slippers before they went up the stairs to the second floor ballroom. Supported on Sir Nathan’s arm, Claire entered the long room, its high magnificently painted ceiling supported by a row of marble columns at one end, its length lit with glittering crystal chandeliers and wall sconces.

  The room was already full to bursting and a country dance in full swing on the dance floor. The air reeked of hot bodies and perfume and melded into a kaleidoscope of swirling colour. They edged their way around the dancing and through the crowds congregating along the walls.

  ‘Everyone in the county must be present,’ she said.

  ‘With the season in London not yet under way and Christmas all but forgotten, I think people are ready for something to brighten up the long winter nights. And here is my cousin, Jennifer Samuelson.’ He made the introductions to a rather severe-looking woman of about fifty. Claire felt as if she was being put under a lens. She smiled bravely. ‘I believe we have met before.’

  ‘Years ago.’ The woman visibly softened. ‘In London. During your come-out. I am surprised you remember.’

  She no doubt remembered Claire’s scandalous marriage, but thankfully was polite enough not to mention it. It was water under the bridge. She had been accepted back into the family.

  The woman waved her fan in the direction of a lady and a gentleman standing a few feet away watching the dancing. ‘Do you remember Majorie? She came out the same year as you. She married Mipton, you know.’

  Claire would not have recognised the plump harassed-looking woman as Majorie Goodworth, who had been the reigning beauty, or her portly husband as the dashing Lord Mipton of her youth. It was extraordinary what eight years did to a person.

  ‘She’s had six children,’ Miss Samuelson said softly. ‘All of them girls and none of them lived more than a week.’

  ‘Poor thing.’ Claire thought of Jane and felt extraordinarily lucky.

  The other woman lowered her voice. ‘I hear she’s in that condition again. Mipton is determined to get his heir because he can’t abide the idea of a cousin inheriting. It is a good thing we know you can bring a child to term.’

  Claire tried not to shudder at the thought of how the getting of Sir Nathan’s heir would need to be accomplished. She gave herself a shake. It was a small price to pay for Jane’s future. Really, it was.

  The set ended and the dance floor cleared and then filled again as new sets formed.

  ‘Care to dance, Mrs Holte?’ Sir Nathan boomed, holding out his arm, indicating his question was of the rhetorical sort.

  She dipped a curtsey and pasted a smile on her face as he led her onto the floor. The mayor’s wife, acting as first lady tonight, proclaimed a Scottish reel and people formed themselves accordingly.

  Across from her, Sir Nathan bowed and she curtseyed. Then the music began. It was such a lively dance there was little opportunity for talking except when a pair was standing out their turn because of uneven numbers.

  ‘I don’t suppose His Grace said anything regarding that bottom land I mentioned at dinner,’ Sir Nathan said during one of these moments.

  ‘Not to me. I haven’t seen much of my brother these past few days. He hasn’t been feeling quite the thing.’

  ‘Got the megrims again, has he?’ Sir Nathan asked. ‘Hard on Lord Giles, that. The boy is doing his best.’

  ‘Lord Giles is still away.’ Claire smiled noncommittally. After all, Sir Nathan wasn’t family yet. The more she got to know him the more she thought perhaps she’d do well to wait until she met Mr Carstairs.

  But her heart wasn’t really in it. If only André wasn’t so unsuitable. If only she hadn’t made that promise to Crispin.

  She smiled up at Sir Nathan and he visibly preened.

  She just wished she could like him.

  * * *

  The Rothermere Arms seemed unusually dull to André staring at his bumper of brandy. Perhaps he should have gone to Buxton, after all, and pounded the punchin
g bag for an hour or two. Or better yet gone a few rounds with the owner of the salon, the toughest bruiser in the county. In the past, the anger burning in his gut had sustained him, now it seemed to have flickered and died. Two glasses of brandy had done nothing to fill the emptiness.

  Life was so damned unfair. Just when he thought he’d got it all planned out, when he thought everything was in order, something unexpected came at one with a left hook.

  Not that he should be surprised. Life had dealt him many blows. But this one, this vague sense that if he had remained a member of the aristocracy things might be different with Claire, had knocked him to the ground. He knew the ancien régime, what it had done to the people of France, and he had turned his back on it. He had sworn never to claim his title.

  He sipped at his brandy.

  Edie waggled her bottom as she walked by. A perfectly lush round bottom offering a promise that turned his stomach.

  He should never have let himself be tempted by Claire. Never have forgotten his purpose in coming to Castonbury. Everything he had ever wanted was within his grasp. He would not let a woman divert him. Particularly not a woman of nobility who wanted to use him for a bit of fun.

  Yet there had been hurt in her eyes when he had told her the hard truth. Somehow her disappointment had been the most painful thing he’d ever experienced. Ever? He smiled wryly at himself. Now he was being dramatic.

  And he’d be a fool to believe it. Women like her, women like his mother, were very good at pretending what they did not feel.

  Edie plonked down beside him. ‘Finally cheering up, love? For the past half hour you’ve been looking like you lost a crown and found a penny.’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘I know how to put a bigger smile on your face if you wants to wait ’til I’m done here.’

  Damnation. She must have thought his smile was for her. ‘Milles pardons, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘I must return to Castonbury.’

  She pouted. ‘Don’t be like that. There’s an assembly tonight in Buxton. We could sneak in at the end. I love a trip round the dance floor, I do.’