Across the ivory keyboard, in patient wait of her, was a single rose, crimson in color and barely unfurled. Its long stem extended more than a dozen keys, while its green leaves and lush petals clashed beautifully with the gleaming white ivory. She knew the language of roses. Dearing must as well. Tears stung her eyes, one sliding free to fall upon her gift. She touched the velvety petals, gently, as if they would disappear, a dream not yet realized if she did so much as whisper upon it. Lifting the flower to her nose, she inhaled the fragrance and set it atop the pianoforte.
Emotion swelled in her chest to restrict her next breath. She sat and stared for several minutes before setting her trembling fingers to the keys. The subtle thoughtfulness of the gesture overwhelmed her, and she channeled the impact into her music, all the while her heart beating rapidly in her chest. Her husband cared for her.
Deeply.
Elusive happiness remained within reach.
She completed the concerto and stepped away from the bench, flower in hand. The door to Dearing’s study remained closed so she knocked lightly, hoping whatever business he conducted on the other side could be disturbed, but no one answered. Perhaps he’d gone abovestairs to bathe and change clothes after his meeting. Prompted by the sentiment he’d expressed, she twisted the knob and discovered it unlocked. Without hesitation, she padded farther into the room. She’d never spent time within these walls, his study a personal domain from which she was excluded. But that being so, her curiosity seemed unusually impatient.
A mahogany desk dominated the interior, pristine and organized, whereas the secretary’s work area nearby overflowed with documents and sheaves of parchment. A polished spindle-legged table held stacks of vellum and linen, sealing wax and pots of ink. A tall porcelain umbrella stand contained leather tubes tied with string, while the walls were decorated with intricately drawn maps of every color. Her eyes could hardly take it all in, the wonder of the room as lively and vivid as her music, yet so like Dearing: traditional, compelling and orderly.
Heavy draperies, the color of fresh moss, hung on either side of recessed windows with evenly sectioned panes. The windows offered generous light that fractured against the Coromandel wood panels, straight as soldiers along the walls. A multishelved bookcase filled the space in between, its contents a mixture of leather-bound volumes and collected items of interest. She didn’t know where to devote her attention first.
This room bespoke her husband in every capacity. Even the air seemed changed, reserved especially for Dearing, a man who evoked intense emotion and respect. Yet he’d shown her a different side of late. A passionate, intriguing, thrilling side. Her heart applauded. She needed to find him and thank him for the hothouse bloom. An insistent flicker of desire accompanied the plan to spur her slippers into action.
* * *
Out of the house? Where exactly? Dearing contemplated the question thoroughly, assured if Charlotte were to visit her family, she would have taken the carriage and left word of her whereabouts. In the past weeks, they’d abandoned their habit of skulking about the house and avoiding each other. In fact, it seemed they sought each other out more often than not.
A sharp rap at the door redirected his attention.
“Jeremy?”
Ah, his wife had returned. With a wry grin, he gathered Cricket from the chair near the window and tucked the cat neatly into the crook of his elbow. Then he swung the door wide.
“Jeremy, I . . .”
He enjoyed her surprised stutter before she fought to regain her bearings. An impish smile graced her face. Did she expect to beguile her way out of an explanation? Then again, he didn’t mind Cricket at all. The feline was an excellent mouser. When his wife remained silent, he couldn’t resist the tease. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Rather, you’ve got my cat. You found Shadow.” Her voice was all humble gratitude now.
“I found Cricket.” He stepped backward, released the cat to the floorboards and invited his wife into his bedroom. A delicious decision.
“Are you angry? I know you once spoke of a dog, but we can’t very well get rid of her now.” Charlotte’s words tumbled out in brisk defense. “Most cats have only one name. She’ll be a misfit among her peers. Please don’t turn her out.”
It was a weak and ridiculous argument, but he enjoyed this side of Charlotte, with lowered guard and playful smile about her lips, no matter she had no hope of turning the subject.
“I’ve made no such plans.” He walked to the fireplace and propped one shoulder against the lintel. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and waited. “Were you looking for me?”
Again, her lovely smile appeared. “I found the rose.”
It seemed their conversation would be a variety of losts and founds. Lord knew he’d already lost his heart.
“I’m pleased you like it.”
“I do.” She meandered closer, an alluring gleam in her eye. Why hadn’t he noticed his wife could play the vixen? “I should thank you for finding Shadow.”
“Cricket,” he corrected. “And how would you do that?”
“A few ideas come to mind.”
Her voice composed equal measures temptation and caution, though her beautiful blue eyes were wide with curiosity. She stepped quicker.
“We could begin with a kiss.”
The provocative suggestion was threaded with challenge, and he waited no longer. With a lightning-fast maneuver, he captured her to him, her body flush against his. An indignant gasp forced its way from her enticing lips to remind her he hadn’t taken her breath away yet.
That would be remedied.
He found her mouth anxiously accommodating and slid his tongue into her hot wetness. She tasted as he knew she would, as he remembered, fresh and sweet, a flavor he craved since their last kiss. What began as wild ravishment soon became something else entirely. They stood heart to heart, his back to the wall, her soft breasts pressed to his hard chest. He shifted slightly, bringing one arm around to support the graceful slope of her spine while the other hand cradled her face. She pressed into his touch, though her eyes remained closed.
“You, my lovely wife, are a mysterious little minx, a secret I must discover.” His murmur against her lips had a velvety quality, the vibration appearing to please as the corner of her mouth turned upward.
“Kiss me again, Jeremy.”
“Ah, and bossy as well. I hadn’t originally thought you possessed that quality.” But he wasted no more time on words, crushing his mouth to hers, her lithe heat against his enough to mock the flames in the hearth.
He worked at her hairpins next, dropping them to the floorboards, though this gained him an objection.
“The cat.”
It was all she managed, though he paid her concerned warning no heed. “She has nine lives, doesn’t she?”
He threaded his fingers through the lengths, all the while kissing and caressing, unable to decide where he wished to touch and taste first. He lingered near her nape, frustrated with the layers of clothing and restrictive ties that kept her raveled up. One palm settled on the curve of her derrière, but the thickness of her skirts again thwarted his efforts. He remembered the delicious dimples waiting for his tongue and frustration mounted.
His wife clearly had other ideas.
Before he could comprehend her intention, she snaked her arm between them, her palm settling on his impatient erection. His heart slammed against his rib cage. What mischief did she mean?
With concentrated intent, she worked the buttons of his falls, each one until she pushed away the impeding fabric and encircled him with her fingers. Glory, it was all he could do not to rock against her, every smooth caress a test of his will, each firm slide a demanding claim. Just as he’d touched her and brought her to climax, his daring wife sought to do the same. He reclined against the wall, his shoulders braced as she worked him to a threatening hardness. His cock ached, though he resisted, enamored as he watched her from beneath lowered lids, his slip of a wife in
serious concentration, her full attention focused on his pleasure.
When the last threads of power frayed and tension snapped, he released a loud groan and sensation reverberated through him, flooding every cell as if a reckless storm, each strong peak and resounding echo aiming to overtake him.
At some point he’d closed his eyes, lost to feeling, and now as he opened them and viewed his wife, he cherished her smile of satisfaction. She was a pleaser, and she’d certainly found a way to please him.
* * *
Later, after Charlotte had played several pieces on the pianoforte to her one-person audience, Jeremy revealed he’d planned an outing for the morrow. She was thrilled, still effervescent from the bold and sensual assault she’d seen through to completion in her husband’s chambers. Amelia’s advice had proven true repeatedly. Charlotte had only to become more assertive, make known her wishes for their marriage to take a turn for the right. She remained in alt at her power as a female, when all along she’d perceived life granted such privilege to men alone.
“Shall we ready ourselves for dinner?”
Jeremy’s question brought another smile. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
Hudson appeared at the door of the music room, his silver salver in one hand. “A message has arrived.”
“You may enter.” Jeremy stood at the ready to accept the note, but Hudson turned in her direction instead.
“It’s for Lady Dearing, milord.”
She forced a short laugh, the worry that the message came from Louisa and the situation had worsened alive in her brain. “Perhaps it’s from my family,” she suggested, with no other idea at the moment.
Jeremy approached and then, as if he changed his mind or wished to offer privacy, he turned to the firebox instead. Charlotte thanked Hudson and watched him leave before she broke the seal and scanned the message. Her pulse skipped triple time; the missive was from Lord Gordon. He wished to see Louisa and, if possible, to meet with them the following afternoon. The note didn’t elaborate on the circumstances, instead listing a location, a time and little else. Again, worry intruded. Had Lord Gordon shared their discussion with Lord Mallory? The two men had appeared to be on their way somewhere when she interrupted. The possibility they may have discussed her visit presented another layer of difficulty.
She quickly folded the page and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt in hope Jeremy had paid no heed. Yet when she met his gaze, she found the reverse to be true.
The crackle and hiss in the hearth pronounced the silence. She needed to supply some semblance of explanation.
“Nothing more than a note from Amelia.” Her palms began to sweat in response to her lie, and a lump of emotion forced its way up from her stomach. She’d chosen her friend and not her sister, too afraid some implication might send Jeremy to her parents’ home if things knotted further. If Louisa strove to keep her problem a secret and only confided in Charlotte, a sisters’ code bound her to protect that trust.
“Does she wish to see you?” His eyes assessed her intently. Or was it her imagination, already guilt-ridden and conflicted?
“Yes. She wishes to meet tomorrow afternoon.” She knew he’d arranged their outing for the morning. With any luck, she would be returned before noon and able to take a carriage to her parents’ home, collect Louisa, and they would be on their way to meet Gordon at the time indicated. Another palpitation of dread collected behind the first and she turned her eyes away and back again.
“Here in London, Charlotte?”
His tone acquired a sharp edge indicative of a swift change of mood. Did he doubt she meant to see Amelia? Excuses had been limited. Charlotte couldn’t very well explain the note came from her sister and risk the chance he’d accompany her. Yet why would he reject her answer? He knew Amelia to be her dearest friend.
“Yes, of course.” She forced a smile and her jaw quivered, aware her attempt was brittle at best. “She’d like to see me one more time before she returns to the Scarsdale country seat.”
Refusing to blink, she watched her husband, his eyes dark, their expression blank. Then he turned to the fireplace, lifted the poker and stabbed at the logs. Sparks spiraled into the chimney, fast and furious, as if they anticipated confrontation and chose to flee with haste. When he finished, there was a deadly calm in his voice she’d never heard before.
“If that’s what you desire, Charlotte, you should by all means pursue your pleasure.”
Chapter Sixteen
Dearing glanced in the cheval mirror above his armoire and straightened his cravat. The sun shone too brightly through his bedchamber windows, and he listed a string of expletives in response. He’d promised a morning outing and esteemed a fair amount of pride in locating the ideal diversion to please Charlotte. Now no amount of sunshine or smiles could blot out the fact that she’d lied to him, openly and without pause.
Since early last evening, when he’d excused himself and come abovestairs, he’d pondered whether he’d misunderstood and Amelia, Duchess of Scarsdale, remained in London, but logic would not allow his anxious excuses. He knew for a fact the duke and duchess had left the city already, the information easily obtained with a few inquiries.
And too, there was Charlotte’s blanched complexion and timid response once the note was received and the words read. She’d transformed from bold lover to shrinking violet, and he was certain the contents of the message had provoked the change.
But why? And who had sent the missive?
He’d find no pleasure in their visit to the British Museum, but he would discern the answers. Determined to discover the reason for his wife’s odd absences and the contents of the note she’d received, he took the stairs and waited in the foyer while a footman readied the carriage.
“I’m here.” Charlotte entered the hall from the direction of the music room, and he turned at the sound of her voice.
“As am I. Let’s be off.” Short on patience and less on understanding, he escorted her to the steps and up into the carriage. He settled on the banquette on the opposite side with the intention of questioning her, unwilling to accept evasive answers. What he hadn’t counted on was the pervasive fragrance of her perfume in the confined interior or the lovely beauty of her profile limned in the early morning light.
“I’m looking forward to the exhibit. How did you hear of its early arrival?”
Like last night, her voice now lacked genuine emotion. Instead, he heard a struggle for pleasantry, a false attempt to persuade him everything was normal.
“It was mentioned at one of my clubs.” That wasn’t exactly true. He’d enlisted the help of two footmen, sent them about London with specific instructions and promised them additional pay if they returned from their scavenger hunt with advantageous news. Luckily, one of them had succeeded. An exhibit of musical instruments, most especially Italian violins, was being prepared for public display. No one knew of its arrival at the museum, but the curator would allow Charlotte to peruse the collection to her delight in return for a generous donation. Dearing happily paid the sum and anticipated the joyful outing, at the time anxious to please his wife. How quickly things had reversed.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He watched her closely, angry a falsehood had passed her perfectly formed lips. The same lips he’d kissed passionately only yesterday. The same lips she’d used to kiss his—
“I’ll be going out this afternoon.”
As would he.
“We shouldn’t be home too late.” He turned toward the window and broke off the conversation, not wishing to continue their dishonest banter. Yet somehow, he couldn’t help himself. Mayhap he wished she’d say something to convince him it was all a colossal mistake. He’d willingly admit the error of fault, so he offered with careful hesitancy, “Please extend my kind regards to Amelia.”
“Yes.” She nodded in the affirmative with the well-chosen word.
At least she didn’t smile.
&
nbsp; An endless pause enveloped the interior, yet the fraught silence was full of intimate sounds on the periphery of his awareness. Her faint huff of breath when the wheel hit a rut, the slide of her reticule across the silk of her day gown, the restless scuffle of her slippers. It was as though he could hear her blink, the beat of her pulse and rush of life as it swam through her veins, and all the while his chest squeezed tighter. Gone was the ease of conversation and comfortability.
Why, when they’d found contentedness, discovered the decadent emotion of each other’s company and begun to build a strong intimate affinity, would she choose to defile that newborn love with dishonesty? A harrowing voice reminded him that he himself was a master of deceit. How dare he judge her? Was this the beginning of the end? When all his past transgressions would cause their complete ruin?
He examined her profile while she avoided his attention. Coruscated light bathed her lashes in amber and gold, the blue of her irises so bright he wondered if they weren’t a figment of his imagination. He swallowed and averted his gaze. Better he allow the sounds of life to distract him, an angry barking dog or chiming church bell; much safer ordinary occurrences.
Eventually, he’d stopped thinking altogether, consumed by conflicted emotion, simply waited until the carriage rolled to a stop. He exited and assisted his wife, escorting her to the museum door where, as prearranged, a curator permitted them entry. Public visiting hours weren’t until much later in the day. The dim corridor, which led to the private exhibit room, fit his mood, dank and bleak. And then they were alone again, at least in the human sense.
Musical instruments crowded the room from wall to wall, whether shiny brass or high polished wood. Charlotte’s face lit with appreciation. He watched as she circled the exhibit, daring a touch to the graceful slope of a harp, its neck carved in relief, gilded gold and hand-painted. She smiled her reflection into the body of a Maplewood violoncello and tapped her fingertip across the silver keys of a polished clarinet. But when she approached the gem of the collection, an original Bartolomeo Cristofori pianoforte from Florence, he noted her sincere awe.
London's Best Kept Secret Page 14