by Thea Devine
All the Secret Pleasures--Thea Devine (short story from the "I Love Rogues" Anthology"
Chapter One
London, 1820
This much was known about Lady Corinna Woodholme—that she was the daughter of an honorable, and that she had grown up in the Cotswolds in a rather unconventional household since her mother had died when she was very young. That her father had had an understanding with his neighbor, Baron Charlesworth, that their children would marry, and that latterly, Corinna decided that a baron's son was neither wealthy enough nor well born enough for her, and elected instead to marry an earl who was older, more moneyed, and much more worldly, and made few demands on his young and beautiful wife; in point of fact, he fully expected they would eventually have children, but he died unexpectedly when they were in Italy the second summer of their marriage, and the Lady Corinna became a widow at an unconscionably young age.
Nor did she return to England any time soon after that. Her father had died in the interim, and she had sold the family home through her husband's lawyers, for she wanted no reminders of the past intruding on her present, nor had she any need for it at that point.
And as was proper, only after the requisite period of mourning did she ease back into the public eye; soon enough, it seemed, there were sightings of Lady Corinna throughout Paris and its environs now and again, at the opera, the theater, the spas, and on the arm of one dashing young suitor or another.
Lady Corinna, it was whispered, was living the Continental life. It sounded impossibly exotic and romantic. And just a little risquι. Such a young widow, after all. So well-positioned. Money to spare and spend—the earl had well taken care of her, his having no other heirs, and of course what came from her father—and, well—things were just a little more lax over there anyway, as everyone knew.
Although she hadn't quite gone round the bend, she knew well enough to have a proper chaperone and she maintained a proper and elegant household wherever she was, and she was said to be kind and considerate in every way, on the whole.
She hadn't entirely lost her wits, although sometimes she wondered exactly what she was doing. Passing time, perhaps. Trying to eke out an existence of some interest since her husband's death.
The gossips said she was bored with life on the Continent. They said that though she was conversant in French and Italian, and moved in the best circles, she had run through and tossed aside every worthy paramour, and a dozen more fortune hunters, and just out of boredom, she felt compelled to return to England—but really, the gossips said, she had come to seek fresh blood.
They said… she did not wish to remarry, that she was solely looking for a man—whatever that meant…
"Oh, poof—they—" She dismissed them all as she always did, with the wave of one hand, to her ever-present chaperone. "What do they know, after all? They live to feast on the bones of everyone else's lives, because theirs were bleached dry years ago. Pale desiccated things. I never listen to them. I can and will do as I please, as I always have done since I was a girl."
The words resonated… since I was a girl… and she stopped for a moment to consider the phrase.
Since I was a girl.
She felt older than her years, suddenly. She hadn't been a girl in forever. She'd married too young, and had been widowed too soon, and she'd led the life of a worldly woman for far too long—she'd barely been out of leading strings when she'd married… or so it seemed.
There was nothing Woodholme did not provide for her in those two glorious years of marriage, including a deep abiding affectionate love, which, while she could not return it with the intensity that he felt, made her feel cherished and safe, feelings which she could and did return in kind.
When he died, she felt as if her whole world had fallen away and nothing would ever be the same. It took no little time after she came out of mourning for her to realize that, and that there were men who adored a woman of experience whom they would not be expected to marry, and that those men were solely seeking women who understood how to play.
And of course, there were also the men who associated with certain women merely to gain countenance in certain social circles.
Which was all to the good for her. She did not want to make any commitment to any man after Woodholme. It was too painful, she could never stand such a loss again; and then, after she'd gotten out and about and taken on some light flirtations with a battalion of eager young men, she decided she had just as soon have the sex and have done with idea of marriage altogether.
She loved sex. Dear Woodholme, with his patience, and the caring way in which he had initiated her into its mysteries—she had never met a man his equal since; she didn't want to. It was much easier to maintain control than fall wildly in love with someone who would ultimately disappoint her.
And they all did. It was one reason she finally did decide to return to England: the field of eligible bachelors had fairly dried up.
Shriveled up.
She'd taken them all on and found them wanting. Too much dash and flash. Too many compliments and not enough concupiscence. She was, at the end of her five year sojourn, tired of them all.
At which point, the idea of some fresh British blue blood began to seem very appealing.
"You are still a girl." This from Fanny Blakeney, her traveling companion and chaperone, who was twice her age, a widow of many years standing, who had been living cheaply on the Continent, and seeking a situation when Corinna found her and hired her to be her companion and her buffer. "And you mustn't think that all these years abroad have made you any the wiser. You are still a fool for love, my dear, and the trail of broken hearts you will have left here will be the stuff of legend for years after you are gone."
"Nonsense," Corinna said placidly, staring out the window of the carriage that was taking them from the inn where they had spent their first night off the boat train, into London. "I'm merely happy to be out of the way of fortune hunters and obnoxious toadies."
"As if there were no such animals in the whole of London," Fanny murmured.
"They will have better manners about it," Corinna said cynically. "Appearance is everything, is it not? A subtle approach would be refreshing, for a change."
And scary, the more she thought about it. It had been many years since she'd last been in London, and now she was opening Woodholme's townhouse in Regent's Park and she hadn't the slightest idea what to expect.
What she wanted, on one level, was to immure herself there, and to walk in anonymity on the streets of London and reacquaint herself with all its delights and diversions.
But that would hardly be possible. She knew the intricacies of the ton. There wasn't a matron in Town who wouldn't know that she had returned, and who didn't consider her a formidable foe and competition for every sweet young thing on the marriage mart this coming season.
She ought to have just gone up into the country to hibernate, until early next winter when Town would be empty and she could have everything to herself.
No. It would make no difference in the end: it would be the same circus, no matter when she took up residence in London.
She was used to it: Woodholme's widow must always be the subject of gossip and innuendo. It wouldn't matter what she did, or where she might choose to hide. They would find her out and talk about her anyway, even if she did nothing.
So she might as well do something. Or at least, that was how her thinking had gone when she'd made the decision to return to England.
But as the carriage came closer and closer to the outskirts of London, she felt an incipient panic. She hadn't been among these people in years. They played different
games by different rules that were more lenient, formal, and, conversely, more stringent. Her behavior had to be exemplary because it was Woodholme's name she would be flaunting, and that meant something in England, if it did not in France.
And her own family's name as well.
No. She couldn't allow herself to think like that. It was perfectly permissible to do as one chose as long as one was careful and circumspect.
And well-chaperoned.
And besides, all anyone knew was that political circumstances had forced her return, hers among a hundred others seeking asylum from the threat of war.
There was nothing to worry about. Her life would go on as it always had, smooth and unmarred by any financial concern, and filled with the excitement of her one and only amusement for the past three years: the hunt to find the perfect lover.
What would life have been like without servants? As silent as elves, they opened houses, stoked the heat, changed the sheets, prepared a repast for a tired traveler, did everything they could think of to ensure her comfort, and kept everything running in an entirely unobtrusive way so that she had nothing to think about but the welcoming warmth of the house on Regent's Park as she entered its doors for the first time in five years.
This, however, was Fanny's first visit to London altogether in many years, and Corinna was captivated all over again seeing the city and Woodholme's townhouse through Fanny's eyes.
Her mouth rounded, and she stood stock-still in the entryway, while she turned in a perfect circle taking in the details: the high ceiling with a subtle frieze picked out in gold; the rich wine color of the foyer walls; the elegant walnut tables; the polished marble floor; the staircase that seemed to wind its way to heaven; the glimmer of candles in glass sconces up and down the walls; and the butler standing by deferentially, waiting for Corinna's command.
"Oh, dear lord," Fanny breathed. "I had no idea…"
"This is hardly extravagant," Corinna murmured, but she knew that by Fanny's lights it was even more so than their luxurious apartments in Paris, or the sweet cottage she had leased in the Italian countryside. "Come, take off your coat. Chittenden tells me there's a fire in the library, and tea will be forthcoming in a moment."
And of course the library seemed even more grand to Fanny as she seated herself gingerly on one of the two brocade-covered sofas that fronted the fireplace, and looked around in awe at the floor-to-ceiling windows shrouded in matching fabric, and the marble fireplace with its gold-leaf mantel-to-ceiling mirror framed in classical motifs.
"This is too much," she whispered. "I didn't know…"
"Here is the tea," Corinna said. She had some sympathy for Fanny's dismay; had she not felt it herself when she had first come as a bride to this townhouse? It had been way more opulent than anything she had ever known, even growing up in the well-to-do confines of her home in the Cotswolds.
Of course, she understood perfectly how Fanny felt. It was grand beyond grand, but she was so accustomed to it now that she had to remind herself how it must look to a visitor. To someone who had made do with so much less.
To her, it was home.
Home…
The thought hit her right in the heart. Home.
Had France ever felt like home? No, Paris had been a playground to distract her from her loss, nothing more, nothing less.
This was home. Where she belonged. She felt the full shimmering sense of it settle into her bones, into her mind and her heart as she lifted the teapot to pour.
Home.
Alone. In this big house. Not to mention Woodholme's country house—oh! The pain of her loss threatened to swamp her.
No! She held it back forcibly. Don't think about that. Think about the possibilities. New life. New blood. New love…
Yes, new love. Nothing permanent, just the thrill of the chase, and the capitulation to the pulse-pounding moment of inevitable surrender… yes… fertile new ground to plow—
… new secrets, new life, new sex—and a new chance to bloom, to flower, to sow…
The invitations had come to Regent's Park thick and fast, even before her return. It was the end of December, after all, and the Little Season was almost about to begin, and Town was thin of company and so whoever of the crŠme de la crŠme was available was automatically issued an invitation.
Especially one whose reputation preceded her. They all wanted a look at Woodholme's widow, they all wanted to be the first to relay the telling tidbit: was she beautiful, bran-faced, accomplished or shy? Did she dress well, was she shabby, was she intelligent or sly?
There were a list of details to consider: her youth, her countenance, were her clothes custom-made, was she plump or slender, elegant or countrified, and how did she speak, and in what manner did she dress her hair?
And if Corinna didn't care about any of that, Fanny certainly did.
"And indeed, this is precisely why you chose me as your companion—and guide," she scolded gently, as she went through the accumulated invitations over tea in the days following their arrival. "This is no easy thing, walking back into these elevated social circles, and expecting that not a quizzing glass would be turned upon you. My dear, you will provide enough line-space for a week's worth of Tattlers and more. It is of prime importance to pick where you will make your entree, and how you will dress, always remembering the limits of what is proscribed for a widow five years out of mourning."
"Already I am bored," Corinna said. "And tired."
"It will get worse," Fanny predicted. "You are the on-dit of the moment, my dear. There's no help for it. You are too young, too tragic and too beautiful; every rake from here to Gretna will be in pursuit before you can snap your fingers."
"My widow's portion notwithstanding," Corinna murmured with a touch of irony. "It is safer to keep them all at arm's length, because how can one ever know?" But she knew the answer to that; she could never know unless she were to attract a man of equal wealth and station, and then everything she had would become his.
And how could she even consider such a thing after five years of glorious independence and freedom? No, her way was the best. Dally and discard, and never become so attached to a man that you gave away your heart.
Or your fortune.
And at that, she wasn't even certain she was ready to begin the game all over again.
"This is what we do know," Fanny interpolated gently. "The Appersons are giving a dinner in a week's time to which they request the pleasure of your company. Now, they were great friends of Woodholme, were they not? What could be more appropriate? A small dinner, good conversation with old friends… it is perfect: let them disperse the particulars who have always had Woodholme's best interests at heart… this will do nicely, Corinna, this is perfect—do say yes."
"It's all of a piece," Corinna said, feeling a streaming irritation. "One or the other event—there is no difference to me."
Wasn't there? She was not, in truth, so indifferent as she tried to appear. She had to make her grand entrance somewhere. The Apperson's dinner was as good a place as any. The company would be small, select, discreet. There would be music, cards perhaps. Nothing socially strenuous. Old friends, catching up, easing the way for another old friend to reenter their world.
It was the perfect venue. Fanny's instincts were, as always, spot on. So she couldn't understand why she felt so restless and out of sorts. It was too soon, perhaps? Did she really need more time to become acclimated?
No. She could handle anything. She always had.
She poured Fanny another cup of tea. The fire burned bright, and its warmth suffused the room, radiated through her body.
She never wanted to leave here. She was home. At lastωhome.
"Tell them yes," she murmured. "Tell them I can't wait to take my pleasure with them… no, tell them that of course I accept their kind invitation. That I'll be absolutely delighted to come."
Chapter Two
It was said he was like snow, substantial when you looked at him, and melting a
way at a touch. That Simon Charlesworth wanted no attachments, commitments, or emotional ties. His sole entertainment was to flirt and fly, settling on no one flower, but leaving no petal unfurled.
He was a great favorite of the ton, sought-after, personable, and wealthy. Not to the point of ostentatious display, but certainly with enough money to command all the niceties of life.
These past two or three seasons had shown him that a perfectly eligible man, be he peer or landowner, was a treasure beyond price, and that a personable man would be competed over on every level, in every realm.
It was rather fun, actually, after years of penury and prudence, to take his place among those the most sought after, season after season. He reveled in it and had garnered a reputation as the elusive one.
Ah, Simon Charlesworth, they whispered, so charming, so handsome, so courteous, so not there.
Or they said, elusive is here, picking his way through the innocent flowers, flitting here and there like a bee, sipping the nectar and buzzing away.
And they said, once he mated, he would die.
It amused him, as he stalked through the ever-bending field of sweet innocence, the virginal best that society had to offer, because one could die of boredom as surely as expiring from the exigencies of marriage.
There had been hardly an interesting one among them season to season: there were the artless ones, the bold ones, the self-assured ones, the brassy ones. The ones who allowed liberties, and the ones who were too coy.
And never, in these two last elevating years, had he found a one he would even remotely consider calling his wife.
There was always something to deter him, something that turned him off and away at the very moment it looked as he might pursue the object of his attentions that further step.
It never happened. Thus, he was ever "elusive," and the ton waited with baited breath to see what the next installment in his romantic life would bring.
Even he didn't know, as he prepared for the journey into London that wintry December day shortly after he heard the news that Corinna Woodholme was returning to London.
This bit of gossip, delivered by a friend and confidante who promptly spread the word, had the opposite effect on him than the ton had imagined it would, and they were watching oh-so-closely.