A Lady’s Code of Misconduct

by Meredith Duran

  She hesitated. “Are you—when you fell, I thought—I mean, I feared . . .”

  He closed his eyes. She noticed the shadows beneath them, the hollowness beneath his cheekbones.

  A droplet of water lingered on his philtrum. It slowly coasted downward, slipping over his full lips, then plummeting off his chin.

  Irritated with herself, she stepped hard on the insole of her foot. “Are you in pain?” she asked bluntly.

  His pause felt as thick as the steamy air. “Pain,” he said absently. “Curious how hard it is to speak of it. I remember nothing of my life—nothing of this room, this house. Nothing of my work.” His eyes opened, meeting hers in the mirror. “Or my wife. But pain—pain is what shames me.” His smile looked sharp, almost mocking. “Yes, that makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m a fine specimen, all right.”

  That seemed unfair, deeply unfair to him. His suffering was not of his own making. And how bizarre and impossible it must be, to find himself in such a position! Softly she said, “Any man in your shoes—”

  “I’m well enough, Jane.” He spoke gently. “I only wished to apologize. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  His dismissal could not be clearer. Flushing, she turned to leave—but then spied, from the corner of her eye, his grimace as he reached for the pitcher beside the tub.

  “I should ring for someone,” she blurted. “To help you.”

  His laugh was curt. “Good luck with that.”

  The staff required a severe scolding. She made a note to deliver one tomorrow. She felt angry on his behalf. It was not right that he should have nobody to help him.

  She could help him.

  Her pulse hitched. She spoke quickly, before better sense could change her mind. “I’ll do it.”

  “No,” he said, but she had already seized the pitcher. “Jane. I can make do on my—”

  “Lie back.” She spoke briskly, as any paid servant might do, impersonal and sexless, attending to duty without feeling or care.

  He twisted—wincing as he did so—to scowl at her. “I am well able—”

  “Lie back,” she said stridently. Too stridently. He visibly startled.

  But then a curious smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “Very well,” he said, and lay back again.

  She tested the water in the pitcher with her finger. It was lukewarm, not the source of the steam settling now around her. But it would serve. She poured it over his head, and it called forth suds that suggested he had already soaped his hair thoroughly. “Rinsing, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Very easy. She poured another stream, gently combing her fingers through his hair to clean it. His hair was thick, impossibly soft compared to hers. She kept her eyes firmly trained on it, although her position now, kneeling behind him, gave her a clear view to the parts of him that the tub had formerly concealed. But eyes could be disciplined. She would not look. She would focus only on—

  She gasped, and sloshed half the pitcher into his face.

  “I’m so sorry!” she cried, setting down the pitcher as he sputtered and wiped his face clean.

  But after a moment, his sputter resolved into laughter. “Quite all right,” he said.

  “I only . . .” She took a hard breath. “I didn’t know . . .”

  The thickness of his hair had concealed, until now, the shaven patch where some criminal’s weapon had landed. The wound had not entirely healed—the gash was deep, a depression in his skull.

  “Yes,” he said at length. “Someone tried to kill me.”

  “I hadn’t realized . . .” That the injury was so serious. She swallowed the words. Of course it had been serious. It had injured his very brain.

  “I take solace,” he said, “from the knowledge of how frustrated they must be. At least I’m not alone in my foul temper.”

  She sensed some discordant note buried in his levity. A hint that he was shaken, for all that he tried to conceal it.

  “A fine lesson for them,” she said softly. “Nobody defeats Crispin Burke.”

  The remark was not clever, but it made him relax again, his shoulders loosening visibly.

  What fascinating, almost leonine languor. She watched her hand settle on the stretch of muscle between the base of his neck and the cap of his shoulder. Hot, smooth skin. She could feel his muscle flex.

  Swallowing, she retrieved the pitcher and continued rinsing his hair. With his every minute movement, his taut skin revealed the workings of his body, of bulked, leashed power. Suds slipped down his throat, chased past his collarbone, and slipped over his chest. She aimed the pitcher to follow them. But it seemed cowardly, really, to keep herself at such a distance. She laid the pitcher aside and took up a sponge and a bar of soap from the far rim of the tub, using them to wipe his throat and chest.

  Don’t look. But her gaze escaped her. It jumped down his belly—remembered decorum long enough to skip his pelvis—and landed on his sculptured thighs. Good heavens. His legs were long, his knees square, his calves elegantly muscled.

  Her fingertips, distracted, brushed the skin above his navel, and his belly flinched. The sensation plucked a weird echo from her own belly.

  Why was her hand there? She yanked the sponge back up his chest. She was finished; his hair was clean.

  But when her mouth opened, what came out was: “Your back?”

  Water shifted as he obligingly sat forward.

  The breath went from her. Was this how men were shaped beneath their clothes? A great wingspan, thick and powerful shoulders whittling into a lean, hard waist.

  No, no, no. Some inward alarm announced the imminent collapse of her brain, her restraint, her modesty, her virtue. Her hands felt possessed by the devil, twitching with curiosity as she smoothed them across his shoulder blades. Stop. Stop at once.

  She cast down the sponge with a wet slap. “That will do.” She sounded wheezy.

  He lay back again, tipping his chin so he was looking up into her face, so close above his own. The angle was so novel that it caught her, held her in place for a brief moment’s study. His cheekbones were broad and wide. His lips full and plush. His jaw was adamantine, chiseled. His eyes were slumberous and heavy lidded yet somehow intent, focused and fully aware.

  In that long, breathless moment, their gazes did not hold so much as mingle, communicating some message that her brain could not decipher but that caused her body to grow heavy, her lips to part, her breath to shorten.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, barely making sound.

  Her grip convulsively tightened around the soap. Soap! She was still holding the soap. “The soap,” she muttered. She handed it to him.

  His hand closed over hers. He drew her wrist to his mouth and pressed his lips against it.

  A squeak came from her. She had made that noise.

  His lips felt hot. He spoke against her skin. “Your hair,” he said, “is a glory. Promise me you will never pin it up again.”

  The brush of his mouth sent static sparks along her skin. She felt flushed, shivering, light-headed. “I don’t . . . It would be a scandal.”

  He turned her wrist ever so slightly, finding her pulse with his tongue. Her breath caught. She heard him breathe in deeply. “Then unpin it just for me,” he whispered.

  For a sweet wild second, she saw it—a vision so vivid it seemed like memory: this man, this Crispin, treasuring her . . . admiring, protecting, cherishing her just as she was. Running his hands over her hair and kissing his way down her throat, every morning and night, forever.

  She snatched her hand free. “Your—the soap is gone from your hair,” she said stupidly. “I—good luck.”

  Good luck? What an idiot she was!

  Face burning, she walked out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Everything seems to be in order,” Mr. Gaultier said. He picked through the papers once more, mumbling unintelligibly beneath his breath. He was the perfect age for a solicitor—somewhere around sixty, with a bald head, glinting spectacles, and a ne
at, dapper appearance that spoke of modest but discerning self-regard.

  Nevertheless, Jane held her breath until she caught him muttering the words marriage certificate. Only then did she relax. The archbishop’s forgery continued to fool everybody.

  Indeed, was it a forgery? The thought struck her with a jolt. If a prince of the Church declared one married, and the government’s official records agreed, then by what technicality could the marriage be called false?

  The groom’s objection might do it. But if the groom did not know to object, and the archbishop continued to hold his tongue . . .

  As though God had heard her secret thoughts and decided to punish her for sacrilege, the solicitor rifled back to the certificate and picked it up to hold to the light. “Remarkable,” he said, squinting.

  Some noise escaped her. She sensed Crispin’s curious look. “How so?” he asked.

  “Oh, to have been married by an archbishop is remarkable enough—a great honor,” Mr. Gaultier said with an unctuous smile. “But for his grace, there must have been a sweet poetry to it, to revisit the humbler and more joyful offices of the clergy, so soon before his passing.”

  “His passing?” Jane croaked.

  Mr. Gaultier lowered the paper, looking startled. “Oh dear. Had you not heard? Yes, I’m afraid so. Ten days ago. Apoplexy, I believe.”

  Crispin, turning toward her, lifted a brow in silent inquiry. No doubt she wore a very curious expression. With the archbishop gone, and the certificate filed . . .

  Until now, she had been afraid of discovery, and so fixated on the pressing issue of how to get her hands on the money, that it had never struck her to wonder whether she would require a divorce.

  “May his soul rest in peace,” she whispered.

  “Amen,” Crispin said. “So that settles it, Mr. Gaultier, am I right?”

  “Quite right,” the solicitor said briskly. “By the terms of the will, half of the stocks and funds will be transferred into both your names, with the remainder held in a trust exclusively for your wife, in case of . . .” He cleared his throat. “Unforeseen circumstances.”

  “In case I prove a blackguard,” Crispin said amiably.

  “Those specific terms were not employed.” But after a beat, Gaultier offered a dry smile. “Nevertheless, the late Mr. Mason clearly had a care for all eventualities.” He slipped the papers into his leather case. “I’ll make arrangements with your family’s man at the Bank of England, who will see to the other paperwork.”

  “How long will it take?” Jane blurted. For she was losing her mind. Even sitting beside Crispin seemed peculiarly provocative. Every time she glanced at him, she remembered the look of his bare broad shoulders . . . the feel of his lips against her wrist.

  “Oh, no more than a day or two. The only formality remaining is to procure the signature of the executor.”

  Jane’s nails cut into the upholstery of her seat.

  “The executor?” Crispin spoke pleasantly, blessedly ignorant of the death knell that had just sounded for her hopes.

  “Yes, of the estate. Just a formality, of course. I believe he would be . . .” Gaultier pulled out the papers again, flicking over the topmost page. “Ah. Your wife’s uncle.” He offered Jane a perfunctory smile of acknowledgment as he slotted the stack back into his case.

  She felt sick. “And if he refuses to sign?”

  “Refuses?” Mr. Gautier, caught rising, settled back into his seat with a frown. “Why, that would be highly irregular. I cannot imagine why he should do so.”

  Crispin spoke. “Our marriage took him by surprise. He may feel some dudgeon over that.”

  Some dudgeon. Jane shot Crispin a look. A more masterful understatement she’d never heard.

  “I see.” Mr. Gaultier rolled his lips together, looking thoughtful. “Well, the terms of the inheritance were quite clear. Her guardian’s consent was not required for her marriage.” He nodded to Jane. “It seems your father had a high opinion of your judgment, madam.”

  “He did,” she said softly. Would that he’d had a lower opinion of his brother! But Papa could never have foreseen how Uncle Philip would comport himself after acquiring a taste of power and wealth.

  She’d long since abandoned trying to square her uncle with the man she’d known as a child. So what if he’d dandled her on his knee and chucked her chin? In retrospect, such memories were not even charming. No matter how old she’d grown, he’d never stopped treating her like a witless doll.

  “Well, if he refuses to sign, I will pay a call to explain how little he stands to gain from such shenanigans,” Mr. Gaultier said. “Once he understands so, I expect he’ll do his duty.”

  “In the meantime,” she said, “he cannot access the accounts, I hope.”

  “He was never able to touch them,” Mr. Gaultier assured her. “The interest, yes, but only for your maintenance. The principal was never available to him.”

  “You may want to make certain of that.”

  Again, the solicitor worked to hide his surprise. “I see. Well, I will go directly to the bank, Mrs. Burke. Rest assured I will review all the particulars.”

  “Thank you,” Crispin said. He stood, walking toward the pocket doors and opening them into the dining room for some reason Jane could not guess. When he turned back, he swayed.

  Realization dawned. I have a new talent for losing myself, he’d told her.

  She rose, eager to make a distraction for him. “Mr. Gaultier, you’ve been too kind. May I walk you out?”

  The solicitor, looking only mildly puzzled by this unorthodox offer from a lady, allowed her to lead him into the entry hall.

  But there, by the front door, his manner suddenly changed. When she offered a polite handshake, he held on to her fingers, gripping with startling force.

  “I knew your father somewhat,” he said. He glanced furtively beyond her. “For his sake, I wish you to know you may always count me as a friend.”

  Bewildered, she pulled her hand free. “I . . . thank you, Mr. Gaultier. I had no idea you knew my father.”

  “I admired him, I should say. I went twice to watch him speak when he was campaigning for his seat. You were there, I believe. And your mother.”

  A smile overtook her. “Yes, we were always there.” Her parents had raised her to believe that politics were as much a woman’s concern as a man’s, for neither sex was spared their effect.

  “He was a very fine speaker, ma’am. A great thinker, a natural leader of men. Though his greatness lifted him high, he never once forgot nor tried to conceal his origins. He understood the people, their true needs, and wished only to serve them.”

  Jane felt flushed with pleasure now. “Yes, that was him exactly!” Earnest, idealistic, committed. “He was a man of very strong principles.”

  “And morals,” Mr. Gaultier muttered, with another cautious glance behind her, as though fearful of being overheard. “He would have gone high, I feel certain of it. But I fear that Westminster no longer rewards such honesty. It is cunning, rather than moral fiber, which makes a man’s career nowadays.”

  Realization prickled through her. He was warning her in some way. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I am a man of integrity myself. I would never speak ill of any client. But I have served two generations of Burkes.” His look now was adamant, speaking volumes more than his words. “And I am honored to serve you, ma’am. I will make sure that your uncle cannot touch your accounts—and that no one may interfere with that trust that was vouchsafed to you, and you alone.”

  He was warning her against Crispin.

  “I see.” If she had been as naïve as Mr. Gaultier imagined—and if Crispin had not taken a knock to the head—this warning would have proved more than useful. Why, it might have saved a gullible bride from ruin.

  Why, then, did she feel a flicker of resentment on Crispin’s behalf?

  “You are very kind, Mr. Gaultier.” Of course he was. “I am most grateful to you.”

&
nbsp; * * *

  When Jane retraced her steps to the drawing room, she found Crispin sitting again, bent over the documents that the solicitor had left for him. His color looked healthy, and he no longer seemed disoriented.

  “We are wealthy,” he said.

  She leaned against the doorjamb, loosing a small breath. Every time she left him, she half expected him to revert to his old self while her back was turned.

  Curiously, every time she came back and discovered him unchanged, her relief seemed stronger. Why? Her fear had not diminished. If anything, the more time that passed, the greater the likelihood that his mind would finish healing—and the greater cause he’d have for wrath. She was well in it now, sleeping in a bed with him, nodding to his callers in the hallway when they addressed her as Mrs. Burke.

  I like him. Dear heaven, that did not even capture it. More than liking him, she felt . . . intrigued by him. Drawn to know more, to discover what had wrought such a terrible change in him during the time he could not remember.

  For an hour or more last night, she had lain awake in her bedroom, riveted by the silence coming from his, wondering if he thought of her, too. Stupid, stupid.

  “Very wealthy,” he said insistently. He held up the documents.

  “I know.” She felt restless, cross with herself. He was not her mystery to solve. This marriage was a sham. With the paperwork finalized, she should be canvassing the newspapers for shipping schedules, plotting the last leg of her great escape.

  But what if he never remembered? What cause to hurry away then? She could linger, satisfy her curiosity about him . . .

  Dolt! Curiosity killed the cat.

  A curio cabinet stood in one corner, its mahogany shutters left open to display treasures. Jane walked over to it. Arguing with herself was pointless. She had no money until her uncle signed the paperwork, so there was no choice but to remain here a little while longer.

  The curio collection was peculiarly curated. A rusted fishhook filled one cupboard, a chunk of amber in the next. She picked up the stone, holding it to the light. A fly was caught in the golden, bubbled depths. “Before he went into politics,” she said, “my father was a great businessman and investor. A magnate, really.” As a result, she was very wealthy—and so, too, would be her husband. “But he intended to spend most of that fortune in his lifetime. He’d plotted out a whole host of programs, social improvements for the poor, which he never had the chance to implement.”