by Lavinia Kent
Few things in life had ever been so right.
So why not?
Why not give in? Why not accept his offer? A few meetings was better than nothing, was better than never experiencing his arms again. Even if they remained masked, kept their secrets, surely that was better than nothing?
Why not tell Madame that she could arrange another meeting?
Why not explore further the secrets of the dark?
There was a good reason why not.
It had been one night. It could not be more.
“I am afraid that is not possible. I do not seek a lover. I seek a new husband.” Even as she said the words she glanced at the sliding doors, wishing they would open, wishing Charles would be there, wishing he would make her every dream come true. But the doors remained closed, and she continued, “I did what I did for my husband, out of my love for him. But I also did it for myself. I want a husband, children. Perhaps some women could seek a husband while indulging their bodies with a lover. I could not. I want a lifetime, not a night or a dozen nights. I want a husband, a child,” she repeated—and waited.
The doors still did not open.
Her dreams were of what could never be.
“I am sorry,” Madame said after a moment, understanding burning in her eyes. “I had hoped things could be different.”
“Sometimes life is not what we want.”
“You speak the truth.” Madame opened a drawer in the table beside her and held a package out to Louisa. “He wished you to have this.”
It was a small box wrapped in silk. Louisa took it and held it in her lap. Part of her wanted to wait, to open it in privacy, but she had no secrets here.
With trembling fingers she unwrapped the silk, slipped open the box.
A mirror. He had given her a mirror.
The most beautiful hand mirror she had ever seen. It was enameled in the deepest blue, a night sky spread across a silver frame, jasmine entwined about the handle and up the edge, a single flower closed in waiting bud at the top.
A single folded note remained in the box. Lifting it, she read his few words.
Remember your promise.
Her promise? And then she remembered. She’d promised to examine herself with a mirror. Surely he didn’t really expect … only he did. The mirror was proof of that. She was supposed to look at herself and think of him, of his command, of his watching her.
She glanced up at Madame, but the other woman’s face remained passive. She had no understanding of the gift, no understanding of Louisa’s thoughts.
Louisa picked up the mirror, looked at the top piece of jasmine, distracting herself from more erotic thoughts. It sprang open at her touch, revealing a small, sleeping, black-and-white kitten, some strange mechanism causing its tail to flick.
Mittens had been brown, not black and white, but it did not matter. She understood Charles’s message all too well.
That night had been about passion, but about so much more.
She had gained more than she could ever have imagined, but she had also left a piece behind, a piece of her soul that would never be recovered.
A tear formed in her eye and she let it slide down her cheek.
Some things were not meant to be.
With great care she picked up the mirror and replaced it in the box, tucking the note along the side.
She would take his gifts and learn to live. She would find a husband and be happy.
It might not seem possible at the moment, but tomorrow would come, and then the next day.
“Thank you,” Louisa said as she stood. “I doubt we will meet again, but I will be forever grateful for all you have done.”
“One never knows what will happen, but I accept your thanks. I am glad I could help. You deserve happiness. I hope you find it.”
She would not cry. She would not. Holding the box tight in her hands, Louisa turned and left the room, left the house, a thin figure wrapped in black veiling.
She did not turn back. She refused to turn back, even as she felt the eyes that followed her, knew that if she turned she would see him, would see the silhouette of the man who had changed her forever.
She walked forward into her new life.
Part Two
The Masquerade
Chapter Eleven
Geoffrey John Andrew Charles Alexander Danser, Marquess of Swanston, stared down at the papers before him. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell. There was no choice left.
He was going to have to marry. And soon.
Bloody, bloody hell.
He was going to have to marry—and to a rather wealthy woman.
Bloody hell.
How could his father, the duke, have managed to create such a mess? He’d never thought the old man had the brains or the interest for something of this magnitude. He’d allowed himself to feel safe because all the properties were entailed. The duke could muck things up and mismanage the estates, but he wouldn’t be able to sell or dispose of anything. Swanston had been sure of that, sure that he’d managed to tie enough knots into his father’s finances that only so much damage could be done.
He’d been a fool. He’d allowed control to slip from his hands.
But who could have foreseen this?
With a single sweep of his arm, the documents flew about his study.
It didn’t help.
Kicking back his chair, he began to pace. His father had rented out the ducal manor to an American. And not just any rental agreement—no, the blasted Duke of Mirth, his one and only father, had signed a ninety-nine-year lease.
He turned and slammed his fist into the plaster, not feeling anything even as dust flew from the cracks in the wall.
It didn’t help. But then it never helped. Anger and fury accomplished nothing. Only control, absolute control, brought answers.
What sort of man rented out his home, his family’s home, while he was still living there?
It was not to be borne. Swanston would not allow it.
Only he had no choice. The duke’s word might as well be law.
He who’d kept order in every detail of his life, of his family’s lives, had no choice in this matter.
Despite all the restrictions he’d managed to lay down concerning his father, there was no getting past this. Risusgate was rented for the next hundred years—or close enough that it made no difference.
The duke had rendered himself homeless.
Well, perhaps that was overstating the matter; the duke controlled six more estates and had a total of seventeen homes, including the London town house that Swanston had made his own. One could hardly call that being homeless.
But Risusgate? Risusgate had been home to the Mirths for over three centuries. A man did not give away such a heritage—or rent it out!
He began to pace again. Blast and bloody blast!
He was going to have to work on his cursing if this continued.
Risusgate was rented out—not only for his father’s lifetime, but probably for his and his son’s as well. And Swanston didn’t even have a son yet. Didn’t even have a wife, nor want one.
At least not now. He’d planned to start looking in three years. Thirty-five seemed like an appropriate time to take a wife. He’d written it into his plans, into his schedule.
Swanston believed in plans, in organization, in control. Life worked as he wanted it to. There were no exceptions.
Except when his father, or some other member of his family, interfered.
Ninety-nine years.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was this what hysteria felt like?
Such emotion had never before dared to encroach upon him.
Ninety-nine years or thirty thousand pounds.
The lease could be broken, but only at double the rental obligation.
And despite all his careful planning, all his investments, Swanston did not have thirty thousand pounds in ready capital. Given time he might be able to arrange for it—or, heaven forbid, borrow it. But that would take time, more tim
e than he had before the American took possession of his home, of his heritage.
Ice unfurled in his belly, crystal by crystal, dampening the fires that had been building. With great care he picked up each piece of paper and settled them in order, placing them exactly in the center of his desk. With equal precision he centered the high-backed chair behind the desk. There was nothing he could do about the plaster, except trust that a few words with Beadles, his porter, would ensure that by the time he returned all would be as it had always been.
Picking his crop off the shelf where he always laid it, Swanston strode to the door, each step equal and measured.
Married.
He swung the crop hard against his thigh, embracing the sting.
A wife.
Another swat.
He needed to release the tension that rippled through him, the tension that had not let up since he’d received the rental agreements from his father’s man of business. But hell, he’d been tense before that, tense for the last month. He’d not pulled in a free breath since … Damn. He’d always been successful at locking away those things that were not to be thought of, and he would not allow her to change that.
He pulled in a deep breath and released.
Swung the crop once more, but only once.
He would go to Ruby’s, to Madame Rouge’s. There was not another place in all of London that could relieve him as well as a few hours with one of Ruby’s special guests.
Against his will a single image, a single woman, filled his mind: those wild curls spread across a white pillow, the black silk blindfold hiding her face from him, and her body—that delicious body spread-eagled across the sheets. He hadn’t bound her, but oh how he’d wanted to. But, no. That was the past.
He’d avoided Ruby’s for the last month because of memories, but he would wait no longer.
It was time for some relief.
She was not with child. It should have been the best of news, but Louisa found herself holding back tears, sadness filling her, sadness and—and emptiness. Knowing she was not carrying left her feeling a distinct lack—of what she was not sure, but the emotion ran deep. With John dead these last two years a baby would have been a disaster, forced her hand in ways she did not even want to contemplate, but still a small piece of her had longed to know that life was quickening within her.
What would she have done if she had been with child? Would she have asked Madame for help? Contacted him—contacted Charles?
She couldn’t even think about it, but still her hand drifted down to her belly, settled there.
A baby. How she longed to hold one in her arms, to feel that soft fluff of hair beneath her chin.
It was at the heart of why she’d done everything, why she’d allowed herself that one forbidden night.
Charles had made what might have seemed like a chore into the most wondrous night of her life, but that had to be stashed away—forever—put away as she’d put away his gift, the mirror she had never used. She’d known that when she left him in the early morning light. She’d known it when she turned away his offer of a continued relationship that day. And she’d certainly known it when she’d cried herself to sleep that night—but only that night.
She’d never even seen his face, seen his eyes. It should have been easy to push away thoughts of a man she didn’t know.
Only sometimes she felt that she’d known him better than she’d ever known any other man—even John; even her husband.
A small mew called at her from under the bed. Dropping to her knees, she peered beneath the lilac blue coverlet. “What are you doing down there, you silly thing? I thought you were safe in your basket, your belly full of milk.”
The kitten, of course, said nothing, just stared at her with its pale blue gaze.
“I am not coming under there after you, Charlie. I don’t care if you stay there forever.” With a smile on her lips, she sat on the edge of the bed, letting her feet hang to the floor, letting her skirts sway.
“One. Two. Three,” she counted to herself. Before she’d even finished the last word she felt the bat of small, soft paws. Ignoring the motion, she let her feet swing back and forth, moving them slightly farther from the bed with each movement. Another bat, and then another. She let Charlie play, drawing him farther from safety with each round of their game, until with a single graceful movement she swooped down, grabbed the ball of black-and-white fluff, and pulled him tight into her arms.
He gave her one reproachful look and then settled, a soft purr beginning. She buried her face in his fur and sighed.
It had been silly to name him Charlie when she’d wanted to forget. But if she was being honest, she knew she didn’t want to forget. She just wished it were an old savored memory instead of a fresh one, wished she did not think of him ten times a day—or twenty.
No, she should not have named the cat Charlie, but from the moment she’d seen his black-and-white face in a box at the side of the road she’d known his name. Placing a light kiss between the tufted ears, she placed him on her pillow and watched him snuggle into sated kitten sleep. He had his own bed and didn’t belong in hers, but she couldn’t resist him—any more than she’d been able to resist his namesake.
“Enough,” she said with some vehemence.
It was time to move on. Time to find a husband, a good steady man who could provide for her and the children they would have. She’d had love with her husband. She’d had passion with Charles. Now it was time for marriage.
She’d put off the thought for this last month. She could not seek a husband until she knew for a certainty there’d been no repercussions from that night. Now she knew. Her hand began to slip into its position over her womb, but she held it back.
Today she would start her new life.
Walking to her desk, she pulled out a single piece of crested stationery. It was time to write to Lady Perse, time to seek her mate without waiting another instant.
“Now that is a face filled with storm clouds if ever I’ve seen one.” Ruby walked forward to take his coat, her hips swaying beneath her slim yellow skirt, her red curls dancing about her face.
“I am getting married,” Swanston answered without care.
Ruby paused, her lips pursed. “To whom?”
“I don’t know yet.” Lifting a decanter of brandy from the table, he filled the waiting glass and swallowed fast.
“Not exactly the normal answer.” Ruby turned away and moved farther into her great parlor. They were alone this night—although not for long, if he had anything to do with it.
Reaching the high hearth, she turned back to him, the firelight turning her crimson curls to bright cherry. He’d never known why she wore the wig; in every other way she could have been any lady of his acquaintance dressed for an evening out. Her dress was tight and low, but not unseemly. Only the wig marked her for what she was.
“There is nothing normal about my situation,” he stated flatly.
“They all say that,” Ruby said, taking his glass, refilling it, and then taking a swig herself.
“Marriage.” He didn’t say more than that single word, but just saying it made him feel as tired as if he’d been talking for hours. He took the glass from Ruby and downed it. Normally he was careful with his drinking, but tonight—tonight he wanted to numb it all away.
He started to fill the glass again, but Ruby took it from him and set it aside. “Come sit and tell Ruby all about it. And then we can send you upstairs to relieve yourself in other ways.”
That was what he had come here for, but suddenly the bottle held more attraction than the upstairs room. “Why do women always think talking helps?”
“Because it does more often than it doesn’t, something men would know if they ever actually listened to what was being said.”
He picked up the empty glass from the table where she’d placed it and contemplated the crystal before setting it back down. Ruby was right—not about the talking, but about the fact that drinking was not the
answer.
He wanted to put his fist through the wall, but he’d already tried that and it hadn’t helped at all. No, he would head upstairs and find a willing woman to master. The control necessary in such situations always restored him.
“Sit.” Ruby’s voice pulled him back from his dark thoughts.
“You know I don’t take commands well.”
“Would you please sit for a moment? You don’t visit for a month and then you come to me like this. What has happened to the Geoffrey that I know so well?”
With some reluctance, he moved to the chair she gestured to. “I told you, I am getting married. Does a man need more excuse than that to feel the noose tightening about his neck?”
“Some men perhaps no, but you? Yes, Geoffrey, you need more reason. I worry that this mood of yours is because of the favor I asked. A favor I have yet to repay. I thought you would enjoy the lady and the adventure of the night, but …”
“No. It is not about her. She was one more woman in a long line of women.” Yet even as he said the words he knew they were not true. There had been nothing about her that was like any other woman he had known. But she had refused a further relationship, and so it was over. He would not beg Ruby for more information. A child cried for toys he could not have; a man found something else to desire, to work for, to strive for. “It is my father. He is playing his games and leaving me to tidy up as always. I am weary of it.”
“I am glad that I play no part in your discontent. I did intend that night to bring nothing but pleasure—for both of you.” Ruby came and sat across from him. “Now, tell me about this planned marriage. Perhaps I can help. I do know your tastes.”
He pushed back to his feet. “That is not what I want in a wife. A wife is very different than a …” He struggled for the appropriate word.
“Than a mistress, than a lover—than a whore? Is that what you really mean? You can say it, Geoffrey. I take no offense. I know well what I am, what my girls are, what we were all born to be.”
“No, that’s not what I mean, and you know that, Ruby. I simply mean a wife is different. I want something different for the mother of my children than I want in my bed. Is that so odd?”