A Lady’s Code of Misconduct

by Meredith Duran

  Slowly, he turned his palm. Ran his finger, very lightly, over the ends of her hair.

  It was not soft, like Laura’s had been. Curls required stronger mettle. But as he stroked it, one of those curls wrapped around his thumb.

  It was an embrace as light as air. But it calmed him, somehow.

  He released his breath, slowly, slowly. A wave of fatigue washed over him. He should go back to his room, if he could find it.

  Her brow was relaxed now. She was smiling in her sleep.

  They were married. Surely she would have no objection if he were to lie here for just a few minutes, and breathe in the scent of her skin, and let himself rest.

  * * *

  She was not alone in the bed.

  The realization came slowly as Jane’s eyes opened. Weak light, the first hint of dawn, was filtering through the lace curtains. A warm arm wrapped around her waist. A head lay pillowed against her nape, someone’s breath brushing her skin.

  She went rigid.

  He thinks himself your husband. You cannot object.

  But her heart did not heed logic. It started to hammer.

  She swallowed, forcing herself to remain motionless. His embrace was not . . . unpleasant. Indeed, she felt better rested than she had in weeks.

  In years, in fact.

  For the first time in memory, she could remember no nightmares.

  Her nose was tickling. Breath held, she eased her hand from beneath the pillow to rub away the itch.

  The man beside her did not waken, but adjusted his posture, rolling onto his back.

  She inched away, meaning to sneak out of bed. The fire had gone out in the night. The staff, what remained of it, had not listened to her instructions.

  As she sat up, the mattress shifted, and Crispin’s lashes flickered.

  She froze, waiting to see if he’d waken.

  A strange thing, to discover a man in one’s bed. Strange to see him stripped of the masculine defenses. In the night, his beard had come in, his hard jaw shadowed now with stubble. The whiskers drew attention to the shape of his mouth, the sensitive bow of his upper lip, the fullness of the lower. A vertical seam divided his lower lip in half. A lover would use her fingertip to trace that seam, Jane felt sure.

  What a thought! And yet . . . here was how his lovers must know him: tousled, his black hair in glossy, rumpled waves around his face. In her imagination, his face was always so cold, beautiful in the way of a marble statue, bloodless and sneering. But in sleep, he looked younger, warmer, his black lashes fanning over his high cheekbones, extravagantly long, like a child’s.

  His nightshirt was of fine lawn, almost transparent. His shoulders were broad, well muscled. His chest . . . she had not known men had nipples! The statues never included them. But they were flat and small, set well apart, and beneath them his belly made a flat, chiseled plane, segmented into bands of muscle that moved as he stretched.

  Stretched! She glanced up and found him watching her.

  She recoiled from the bed so quickly that she tripped and fell.

  Husky laughter preceded his appearance over the edge of the bed. He leaned on his elbows, grinning down at her. “Are you all right?”

  She scrambled to her feet, feeling like an utter idiot. A wife would not leap away from her husband! “I didn’t expect— You startled me.”

  “I crept in during the night.” There was no apology in his voice, but he pulled a face, as though to commiserate with her about the oddness of his choice. “You looked so peaceful. I hoped it might be catching.”

  She could not think of any objection a wife would have to that, either. “Oh.”

  He sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair, which had the effect of pulling the shirt more tightly against his body. The muscles in his upper arm bunched. His waist was narrow and lean, and with his posture so contorted, the edge of his shirt lifted to reveal his navel, and a narrow line of dark hair that led downward . . .

  He dropped his hand, and she swallowed.

  Some new light entered his narrow gaze. A look of speculative interest. The corners of his mouth curved, lending it a flavor of good humor.

  She felt flushed. “Water?” she croaked, and turned toward the dresser, retrieving the pitcher with hands that only shook a little.

  “Please,” he said from behind her. “I woke past midnight, parched as a desert. But the servants had neglected to spare me a drop.”

  “You may have to hire replacements.” She carried a glass to him, then poured herself one as well. This was safer ground, the brisk work of household management, a wifely duty that required no . . . bed sharing. “Your butler—Cusworth, was it? Or Custer?”

  He made an amused noise. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  She smiled despite herself. “I think it was Cusworth. At any rate, he said that several of them had taken advantage of your absence to go on holiday, visit their families in the country. Some of them may not return.”

  “You have a free hand to do the hiring,” he said. “And in everything else as well, of course.”

  Everything! That was generous. Which reminded her . . . “Of course, finding good help on short notice will not be easy. A handsome salary would help a great deal.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a sip of cold water as she formulated her next words. “Perhaps you might summon your family’s solicitor. He will need your signature for the trust to be released.”

  “A fine idea.” His tone was distracted. He was watching her hand around the cup—or no, she realized, his attention was fixed at a point somewhat higher . . .

  She looked down at herself and realized her gown had come untied. The tops of her breasts were visible.

  She slapped a hand to her chest and sloshed water into her lap in the process.

  He laughed again, but his laugh was soft, husky, no malice or mockery in it. “Jane,” he said, and his hand came onto her knee, giving her a start. She stared at his knuckles, square and dark, and her heart tripped.

  She cleared her throat, made herself look at him. His expression was . . . warm, rueful, amused.

  “You needn’t be nervous,” he said. “I won’t . . . jump on you. That wasn’t my intention in sleeping here.”

  Some knot inside her relaxed. Perhaps it relaxed too far. As his hand smoothed over her knee, she felt a peculiar melting sensation in the pit of her stomach. “It . . . wasn’t? Of course it wasn’t,” she said quickly, lest he mistake her tone for disappointment.

  “No. Although the temptation is . . .” Once again, his gaze dipped to her neckline, roving with unguarded admiration over her bosom before lifting again. He held her gaze frankly then—unapologetic, unashamed. She felt dizzy.

  He desired her. He was showing her so plainly. But there was nothing . . . cold in it, or unkind.

  And so, to her amazement, it was impossible to take offense. Or even to bridle.

  “I would like nothing better,” he murmured, “than to take up where we left off. Before I was injured, I mean.”

  “Oh.” She battled a hysterical laugh. “No, I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “I agree,” he said solemnly. “It would not be fair to you, when you must see me as . . . so altered. Though . . .” He offered her a quick, crooked grin. “I understand quite well how I looked at you.”

  How wrong he was. She could not offer more than a helpless smile.

  “You are beautiful,” he said earnestly, sitting up a little, drawing closer. “Surely I told you this a thousand times. But your hair, in the light . . .” To her amazement, he threaded his hand through the tangled nest of curls at her temple, stroking it as though he took no notice of the snarls. Her braid must be half demolished; it never survived the night intact.

  “It’s glorious,” he said. “Wild and violent, with a life of its own.”

  “Violent?” She cleared her throat. Nobody had ever praised her hair; curls might be fashionable, but only the well-behaved kind created with heating tongs. Neverthele
ss, she might have hoped for a better attempt than that. “Well. I suppose ‘violent’ might be one word for it—”

  “A force of nature,” he cut in, smiling. “A powerful force.” He smoothed lightly down the length of her braid. “And to think you tame it every day.” As he toyed with the end of her braid, he tugged ever so slightly, and a startling shiver of pleasure rippled through her. “What a pity that is,” he said. “It would make a fine crown. A halo, announcing your inner mettle.”

  Nonsense. What was she doing, letting herself be seduced by this babble? She drew back a little, and he, noticing, took his hands back into his lap.

  That small consideration struck her by force.

  This was not the man who had forced kisses on her.

  She did not know who this man was.

  “You don’t know my inner mettle.” Her words were clipped. He did not know her. His honeyed words were empty; she would not be cozened by them. “You don’t know me at all.”

  His hand came over hers. Touching her again, stroking the back of her hand lightly, persuasively, as one might soothe a nervous animal. “True,” he said. “Perhaps . . . I’m the luckiest of men. To be allowed to discover my bride twice; to have the chance to fall in love all over again.”

  Stop saying such things. You don’t mean them.

  But when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

  The Crispin Burke she had known would not have meant such things. But the way this man was gazing on her . . .

  Perhaps he did mean them. Or he was a man who could mean such things; who could say them without embarrassment, and hope them to be true.

  Oh, God.

  He leaned closer to her. Why, his eyes were not black after all. They were the darkest blue, the shade of a moonless night sky. “May I kiss you, Jane?”

  No. That would be a very bad idea. Her gaze fell to his lips, that secret seam that she had never before noticed. His breath felt warm against her mouth. “I don’t think . . .”

  His lips touched hers. The slightest brush. A whisper. His fingertips landed lightly on her face, bracketing her cheek, his thumb beneath her jaw nudging her face ever so slightly upward, so their mouths came together squarely. Soft touches. A soft kiss. A request, tentative, hopeful.

  Here was a kiss. That other one, at Marylebigh—that had only been a facsimile. Here was the lesson worth learning.

  No. The other man was still in there somewhere. She opened her mouth to him, daring that other man to appear. To show his true and forceful nature.

  But he ignored the invitation. He broke free of her lips to kiss his way across her cheek. His fingertips, gentle, warm, guided her once more, tilting her face to an angle that offered him her throat. She shuddered as his mouth found her pulse. He lingered there, his lips making a study of her heartbeat.

  His hand passed like a ghost over her braid, her shoulder, her upper arm. His palm cupped her elbow as though it were precious, a breakable thing.

  He inhaled, long and deep. “The smell of you,” he murmured. “My God, Jane. I swear . . . I remember it.”

  Everything in her contracted. Everything warm, melting—it froze.

  He eased back. “What is it? What did I say?”

  “You remember?” she said roughly.

  His expression darkened. “Ah. No. I’m sorry,” he said gently. “It was . . . I’m sorry, Jane; it was a stupid thing to say.”

  Her pulse began to slow. “No,” she said, relief making her generous. “It was . . . lovely.”

  He offered her a hesitant smile—one that sought forgiveness. She reached for his hand without thinking and squeezed it. His smile widened; suddenly they were beaming at each other.

  What on earth was she doing?

  The door banged open. They sprang apart like guilty schoolchildren as a mobcapped maid bustled inside, firewood in her arms.

  “Oh!” The maid turned red as she dropped a curtsey. “Begging your pardon!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Crispin had walked through the house nine times this morning. Nine times, he’d passed through every room. With his eyes closed, he could now envision its layout. He sat in the drawing room, whose sash windows overlooked the street. The pocket doors to the right opened into the dining room. The door to the left led to the hallway, his study, and the stairs. Up those stairs to the immediate right lay his bedroom; the door next to it was his wife’s apartment.

  How in hell, then, had he got lost again half an hour ago?

  “Burke? Are you . . . quite well?”

  No. He was not well. His brain felt . . . gelded. Why in God’s name could he not remember? How much longer would this intolerable state endure?

  He opened his eyes. Samuel Noyes was the fifth of his friends whom he had received today. Perhaps his last. He knew that it would behoove him to familiarize himself with as many allies as possible before he returned to Westminster, but his patience was wearing thin.

  It was peculiar how many of these “friends” of his were known to him from his school days. They were the same lads whom he’d avoided on the playing field for their tendency to cheat. Crispin supposed the decent ones would be hesitating to impose themselves so soon after his recovery—to say nothing of his nuptials. A newlywed deserved privacy.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Noyes nodded. He was not one of the younger set; he had been a politician when Crispin was still learning to read, and spoke with casual authority. “The second reading will finish quickly,” he said. “The Cabinet hasn’t got much fight left. Assuming it passes committee, we must think ahead to the Lords. Auburn and Chad mean to work against it, of course, but if you still feel certain of Farnsworth’s support . . .” He paused, his cocked white brow making a question of it.

  Farnsworth? The Duke of Farnsworth, Laura’s husband?

  The feeling of the dream came over him again, slick and cold and dark. “Did I tell you I had his support?”

  Noyes mistook the question as rhetorical and smirked. “Well, there you have it, then. And once it passes—why, the sky’s our limit. Your limit, to be precise. Particularly now that you find yourself so handsomely equipped.” His white brows waggled. “Ha! You might have shared that plan, old boy. Proper mess you’ve made! Mason’s lost his wits, all but foaming at the mouth. What inspired you to steal off with the girl? May I ask?”

  Each of his callers this morning had expressed similar astonishment about Crispin’s marriage, and asked to know the cause. Crispin had told the first that love knew no logic—a remark that the other man had taken for a hilarious joke. “You, in love?”

  So he contented himself now with a shrug.

  Silence and honesty made surprisingly effective masks for ignorance. None of his visitors seemed to have noticed his infirmity. His blunders, they took for jokes; his taciturn replies, for some subtle strategy of intimidation. When he’d bluntly told the Earl of Elborough that he did not remember their last meeting, Elborough had gone quite pale, as though Crispin’s remark were intended as an insult. More curiously yet, Elborough had then apologized for presuming the meeting was memorable.

  As the silence extended now, Noyes, too, looked discomfited. “Don’t mistake me,” he said in a subdued voice. “We’ll handle Mason. Trying to bullyrag you—the cheek!”

  And now an elder statesman was placating him. Crispin’s growing headache was counterbalanced by amazement. It was true: he was powerful.

  But the renewed wonder brought anxiety along with it, sharp as a spur. If he did not remember soon, he would lose everything he’d gained. Remember, damn it!

  “I’ll speak to him today,” Noyes went on. “And if he continues to yap, we’ll muzzle him.”

  He could not let that remark pass unchallenged. “Have a care. That’s my wife’s uncle you’re discussing.”

  Noyes’s eyes rounded in astonishment—an unfortunate effect. With his tuft of white hair, his sloping brow, and his recessed chin, he already had the bulge-eyed look of a pug. “Why—er, quite s
o. My apologies.” With a flustered air, he patted his jacket, then carefully extracted two cigars. He fitted one to his lips before holding out the other.

  Crispin shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”

  “What’s that? Since when?”

  Another point noted. Apparently he’d taken up tobacco. “Full of surprises, I am.”

  Truer words were never spoken. Each of the associates he’d received this morning had offered a peculiar glimpse into the man he’d been. Evidently he’d altered legislation at his wealthiest voters’ instructions. He’d gambled for high stakes and demanded prompt payment; Elborough had begged him for an extension on his vowels. He also appeared to be the natural choice when pressure was wanted. A fellow MP had visited to request he “teach” a green backbencher to “fall in line.”

  Once he remembered, he would no doubt understand the cause for all of this. But the tidings had left Crispin nauseated. The doctors warned him to expect this—along with dizziness, headache, and confusion. These were the inevitable companions to convalescence from a head injury.

  Losing one’s way in familiar places—the doctors had not warned him of that. That was a secret best kept from everyone.

  Noyes was tucking away his cigars with the doting care of a father for his infants. “Well,” he said. “No matter. It’s a relief to see you back in the game. And Mason will see reason eventually. Victory has a way of sweetening a man’s temper.”

  Crispin glanced toward the clock on the mantel. “Was that all to discuss, then?” The room was swimming oddly at the corners of his vision.

  “Oh. Quite.” Stiffly, Noyes rose. “Yes, I suppose you’ll have a dozen other appointments. Say, when can we expect you back on the floor?”

  There lay the rub. The nausea and headaches, he could manage. But with no memory of the issues at hand, no recognition of his friends and allies, how on earth would he manage it? Perhaps charm and luck could carry him through . . . But then there was the matter of this damnable disorientation. In memory, Crispin had not set foot in Westminster since his childhood, when he’d gone with his family to watch his father take his seat.