The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4)

by Barbara Monajem

  The maid helped her into her nightdress and tucked her up in bed. She drew the curtains around the bed, blew out the candle, and closed the door softly as she left.

  ~ ~ ~

  From his hiding place behind the window curtain of Gloriana’s bedchamber, Philippe pondered what he’d heard. She’d loved him? He had thought so at the time, but when she’d tried to force him into marriage, he’d concluded otherwise.

  Maybe he’d misunderstood her—both at the lake and afterwards.

  How could he help but do so? She’d tried to lure him into marriage, and later, she had behaved in a manner calculated to prove that she was a hypocrite, through and through. Had she done so as a response to his behavior?

  Again—maybe.

  Fine, but if she loved him still, her way of showing it left much to be desired. She was so volatile, so easily enraged, that they couldn’t have a rational conversation. She’d flung one of her old, familiar insults at him this evening. How was he supposed to know when she meant what she said and when she didn’t?

  He didn’t trust her. He couldn’t.

  He also adored her. He always had, and he always would. Her passionate nature had ensnared him right from the start, and even though she had turned it against him for years, he couldn’t resist. He was a fool.

  Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe he owed Gloriana an explanation of his flight so many years ago. What harm could it do except to his pride? Perhaps if he got it over with, he could forget the past, forget Gloriana, and be on his way.

  Or perhaps not—but he had to do it regardless.

  He was about to come out from behind the curtain when she began to weep—softly at first, then great, racking sobs of misery that twisted and tore at his heart.

  He tried to steel himself against her. Anyone, trustworthy or not, might give in to exhaustion and despair.

  But what if she, when not in the grasp of hurt or anger, was as trustworthy as he? What if she too suffered from a bruised and battered heart?

  He stood silently, longing to take her into his arms, to hold and comfort her—but she would see his presence as an intolerable intrusion, and she would be right.

  What if she was crying her heart out . . . over him?

  He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and waited, agonized, as the sobs gradually subsided. At last she blew her nose and hiccupped a few times. Soft footsteps and the trickle of water told him she was bathing her face. “Well,” she said, “so much for that.” The ropes creaked as she climbed back into bed. After a minute, she began to murmur softly, and he realized that she was praying—in Latin, so doubtless it was a passage from the Book of Hours. How strange that he, who had more or less dispensed with religion, had fallen in love with such a devout woman—and found himself greatly moved.

  She finished her prayer and all was silent. Still he waited, until her even breathing told him she slept. He let himself out the window and walked away into the cold, drizzly night. What the devil was he to do now?

  Chapter 14

  Sophie’s lover walked his fingers up her naked torso and down again, hovering over and tickling her nether curls.

  She shivered under his touch. Passion was what had made life tolerable with both Jean-Esprit and Yves—and what had made it unbearable in the end. It would be different with Eric. His confidence in the bedchamber ensured that. But she could not marry him. She had to let him go.

  She whimpered.

  His fingers ceased their subtle movement. He lifted his hand and gazed down at her. “What is it, sweetheart? That wasn’t a moan of pleasure. What’s wrong?”

  She sat up and pulled the coverlet over her nakedness. She should heed her own advice, which she’d given Philippe, and get it over with. “I have to explain to you why . . . why I cannot marry you.”

  “Good.” He sat up as well, fluffing the pillows against the headboard. He lit a candle, and she wished he had not. She did not want to see the sadness on his face when she told him they must part. Before he drew the sheet over himself as well, she noted sadly that his erection had subsided. It would subside even more while she spoke to him, and she would never have the pleasure of joining with him again.

  “What do you mean, good?” She flicked a hand. “No, do not answer that. You will argue and try to convince me, but it is no use, mon cher.”

  “Maybe I won’t,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go meekly on my way.”

  She choked on a laugh, which almost became a sob. If only it were so easy to rid oneself of a man. If only she didn’t want so badly to keep this one.

  He took her hand in his. “Tell me.” When she said nothing—for she could not decide where to begin—he added, “I want to know about your husband. And your other lovers too.”

  “You never wanted to know before,” she said. “You said you didn’t care.”

  “I don’t, but something about them has made you unwilling to marry.”

  “Yes, and no. You are not like them.” He waited, and at last she said, “I did not marry Jean-Esprit for love. I was seventeen years old, and my parents arranged it all.” She shrugged. “I had no choice, and it could have been worse. He was a comte, he was thirty years older, but he was not ugly, and he was desperate to have me. I am a passionate woman, and marriage made passion permissible.”

  “Was he unkind?” Gently, he stroked the back of her hand.

  “Not at first.” She removed her hand from his, the better to express herself—or perhaps because she feared succumbing to his touch again. “All was well for a while, but soon he became jealous. He accused me of luring other men into my bedchamber. I am the sort of woman men notice. They cannot help themselves, it seems. I do not understand it. I am not a coquette.”

  “You exude sensuality,” he said. “It’s delightful.”

  A little shiver of awareness assailed her, but she willed it away. “It is dangerous, too. The Revolution came, and we went to Austria for safety, but there he became so jealous that he beat me and locked me up.”

  “That cur!”

  “Yes, but luckily, Philippe helped some others to escape to Austria, and when he found out how Jean-Esprit mistreated me, he stole me and little Charles away at dead of night. He took us back into France, which was madness, but who would suspect an aristocrat of returning to certain death? He gave me to Yves Brun, a peddler who was his friend. I pretended to be his wife.” She blushed.

  He smiled. “More than pretended, I think.”

  “I owed it to him,” she said. “He saved my life. He conceived a passion for me, for what could be more natural? He is the father of my lovely little Elise. I do not tell her that I was not married to him, for what purpose would that serve? I have kept his name, too, for I prefer to be a woman of the people.”

  Her lover took her hand again, kissed it, and let it go.

  “But like Jean-Esprit, he too became jealous. He feared he was too lowly for a woman like me. Whenever a handsomer, richer man noticed me, he sulked like a big, stupid bear. Then, one day, he denounced an innocent man as a traitor to the Republic, when all he had done was try to flirt with me.” She choked up. “That unfortunate man went to the guillotine because of me.”

  “Good God,” Eric said.

  “Philippe came to fetch me, but Yves wanted me to stay. I feared he would denounce Philippe too, but suddenly he disappeared. Maybe Philippe killed him. I do not know. We came to England. And that is all.”

  “And since then?”

  “I have had no other lovers. I could not take the risk—for myself, for Philippe, who had troubles of his own, and for the safety of my children. I wore mourning clothes for years to discourage my admirers.” Her voice trembled. “Until I met you, mon cher—and then I could not help myself. I wish I could marry you—but I cannot.”

  He sat up straight. “Because of th
ese jealous husbands of yours?”

  She couldn’t bring herself to use this as an excuse. “No, you are not like them. You are a confident man, and I love you so much.”

  “Then what the devil is preventing you from marrying me?”

  “That I do not know if Jean-Esprit is dead. My brother has written to France many times, trying to find out, and now this correspondence causes him great difficulties with the Home Office. I have told him to stop trying.”

  "But he won't?"

  “No, but perhaps if he knows you are no longer my lover, he will cease. And then I will no longer be risking your reputation, either.”

  “To the devil with my reputation!”

  “You must find someone else, someone who is free.”

  “I don’t want someone else. I love you, Sophie. I want to live with you, eat and talk and laugh with you for the rest of my life. The solution is simple, my love. We will go elsewhere for a week, and when we return, we shall say we are married.”

  “We can’t do that!” But it was exactly what Philippe had suggested.

  “Why not? You did it with that fellow Yves.”

  “All was chaos in France. I was fleeing for my life.”

  “Why should anyone suspect? When you hear that someone has married, do you rush to check the register in a church fifty miles away?”

  She shook her head.

  “Neither will anyone else. Ask your brother. He will agree.”

  “He has already suggested the same,” she grumped. “But I do not wish to break the law. And what if Jean-Esprit is alive? What if he comes to England and finds me? That is my greatest fear, Eric. I am his wife, and Charles is his son. If he finds us, he will take Charles, and he will kill me when he learns about you, and about Yves and my little Elise.”

  “I’ll kill him first,” Eric said, and she knew he meant it.

  “You cannot,” she said. “Murder is wrong!”

  “If I don’t kill him, Philippe will,” Eric said, and this was also true. “We both love you far too much to let him harm you. But he is thirty years older than you, so most likely he is already dead.”

  “He wasn’t a few years ago.” She shuddered at the thought.

  “We will cross that bridge if we ever come to it.” His large, warm hand cupped her breast. Something about the way he touched her, played with her, and held her made her feel safe.

  She had told him her secret, and he hadn’t spurned her. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she should do as he said.

  He was erect again, prodding gently at her from behind, and she gave up on worrying for now.

  ~ ~ ~

  Philippe walked all the way home, arriving cold, sodden, and irritable just as Mr. Alexander came down the service stairs, yawning.

  “Leaving? Come have a brandy with me.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Alexander said, “as long as you don’t mean to play the indignant brother.”

  “I’m not indignant. I’m bloody tired. Women!” He shook himself like a wet dog and led the way into the drawing room. He shed his coat and stoked up the banked fire. “The brandy is on the sideboard.”

  Mr. Alexander poured for both of them. He passed a goblet to Philippe. “Another contretemps with Miss Glow?”

  “Yes.” But he had another matter to discuss with this fellow. “I’m glad to find you alone, Mr. Alexander, because I must—”

  “Call me Eric.”

  “Fine, Eric.” If the schoolmaster was willing to dispense with formality, so was he. “Has my sister agreed to marry you yet?”

  “Almost.” A smile flickered across his face. “Since she started by saying she could not, I take that as encouragement.”

  Philippe turned from contemplating the flames. “She told you about her husband and Yves?”

  Eric nodded. “And that she doesn’t know whether her husband is dead. I told her we shall pretend to marry. No one will know the difference. If her husband is alive and finds her, he will suffer an unfortunate accident, like Yves.”

  Philippe smiled. “A man after my own heart. I told her you owed her an explanation.” He blew out a breath of frustration. “It’s precisely the advice she has given me—to talk to Gloriana. But I have been doing my best to avoid her, and after tonight . . .” He gave a bitter laugh. “Together, we caused a scene—a very public one at a ball. I do not care a snap of my fingers for the gossips, but she makes it worse and worse for herself. I treated her harshly, and she took refuge with Hythwick. Ah, mon Dieu!”

  “With Hythwick?” Eric shook his head in disbelief. “Did she hope to make you jealous?”

  “No, she was trying to help . . . It is a long story, and some of it is not mine to reveal. But now she is in even more danger from that devil, and I cannot easily protect her.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That I pour my heart out to a man I scarcely know is a measure of my dismay.”

  “Consider me your brother,” Eric said. “Soon I shall be.”

  Philippe threw himself into a chair. “I climbed up the drainpipe to her bedchamber tonight, meaning to confront her, but she was distraught and weeping, so I remained hidden. I do not know if she will ever speak to me again.”

  “You were in her bedchamber, and you didn’t take her in your arms?”

  “Did I not say exactly that?”

  “What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you seduce her?”

  “A woman does not welcome a lover when her nose is running and her eyes are red.”

  Eric snorted. “True.”

  “Maybe she will consent to speak to me through you or through Sophie.”

  “No, seduction is the only way,” Eric said. “Then talk to her.”

  Philippe huffed. “I have considered it often, believe me. But if I seduce her—which seems unlikely if she will never speak to me—I shall have to marry her.”

  “You don’t want to marry her?” Eric poured another brandy and passed it to him. “You’re not making much sense, brother-to-be. Sophie says you’re in love with her.”

  “I was, long ago. Perhaps I still am. But even if I do want to marry her, I don’t want to be obliged to do so.”

  Eric rolled his eyes. “You’re as complicated as a woman. Must be something to do with being French. No Englishman would come up with such a hair-splitting excuse as that.”

  A valid point. He had let the past rule him for far too long.

  “If you want her, go get her. Shouldn’t be difficult—by what I’ve heard, half the ladies in the ton lust after you.”

  “Because of my pretty face,” Philippe said. “It is the bane of my existence.” But in her case, it should be the opposite—if she still cared for him.

  Eric stood. “I’d best be on my way. My pupils wake early.” He tossed back the rest of his brandy.

  Philippe stood as well, as full of hope as could be expected from a tired man facing a daunting task. He put out a hand. “Eric, I look forward to welcoming you as a brother.”

  His sister’s lover shook it firmly. “Likewise, Philippe,” he said, and left.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Miss Glow, wake up!” The curtain rings rattled, and sunlight poured onto the bed.

  Gloriana opened one bleary eye. How late had she slept?

  “Both eyes,” Elspeth said. “It’s time to get up.”

  The events of the previous night rolled over Gloriana. She shut her eye again and groaned. “Why?”

  “Because you are besieged by suitors this morning. A huge vase of roses from Lord Hythwick—”

  “He’s no suitor,” Gloriana muttered. “Roses at this season, as if I care about such pretentiousness. Have Gregory take them to the church.”

  “And a pretty bouquet of jonquils from Mr. Bridge. The card that came with them swea
rs eternal friendship.”

  “He is always so very constant and kind.”

  “That’s what friendship is,” Elspeth said. “Last of all, a lovely posy of heart’s-ease from a certain French nobleman.”

  Something tickled her nose. She opened both her eyes this time. Yellow and violet blossoms with tiny, vivid faces smiled at her. Philippe had sent her flowers?

  “Along with a sealed note, which I haven’t read, not that I wasn’t tempted, miss. But if a flower ever sent a message, it’s this one.” Ruthlessly, Elspeth pulled the covers down. “Sit up. He must want to apologize!”

  Gloriana rubbed her sore eyes. She pushed herself into a sitting position, and Elspeth plumped the pillows behind her and handed her the bouquet.

  “I’ve brought your morning chocolate.” She set the tray across Gloriana’s knees. A note addressed to her lay beside the chocolate pot. “I’ll be right back with your wash water.”

  The instant the door closed behind the maid, Gloriana snatched up the note. She tore it open with trembling fingers.

  Ma belle—

  Forgive me, I beseech you. Please drive out with me today.

  Ever yours,

  Philippe

  She clutched the letter to her breast. He hadn’t called her ma belle since that horrid night five years ago. What did he mean by addressing her thus now? As for signing himself ever yours . . .

  She got out of bed and looked at herself in the mirror. Red, puffy eyes peered back at her—the consequence of crying herself to sleep. She couldn’t possibly go anywhere today.

  ~ ~ ~

  Never before, when planning to drive with a pretty woman, had Philippe been afflicted with sweaty hands. And sweat under his cravat as well, despite the cool morning. He pulled up his curricle in front of Gloriana’s house, stripped off his driving gloves, and wiped his hands on his breeches. The groom from the livery stables where his chestnuts were kept hopped down and went to the horses’ heads.