by Diane Gaston
She did. With an impassioned cry she convulsed around him. He drove into her again and spilled his pleasure…and all his hopes…inside her.
Emily woke, tangled in bed linens and a masculine arm and leg. The clocked had chimed. What time?
She glanced at the room’s window. It still appeared dark outside. Her husband was very soundly asleep next to her, his face as peaceful and untroubled as a young boy. As handsome as an Adonis.
What had she done? Somewhere in the last hands of the card game, things had gone awry. The more skin her husband exposed, the more her fury at him seemed to slip through her fingers, like so much water from a crystal pond. She had plunged in to their lovemaking as hungrily as a starving man would attack a long awaited meal.
No matter what, she could never regret making love to him, could never forget the glorious experience of being joined with him as one. Now she felt all at sea, no compass to guide her. What was she to do next? How could she return to being just Emily?
She slowly and carefully disentangled herself, wiggling out from under the arm and leg wrapped around her, freeing herself from the linens. She slipped out of the bed, the floor cool beneath her bare feet.
By the light of the dying colza lamp, she gathered her clothes and dressed hurriedly, buttoning what buttons she could reach, knowing she’d missed some. She stuffed her dishevelled hair beneath her cap. If she were lucky, no one would see her leave.
If she were lucky, her husband would not wake and profess his love for Lady Widow. She fingered the mask, still securely in place. This was the last night she would wear it. Lady Widow would disappear and somehow, someday, so would Emily.
Emily had already disappeared, however, and she, like Lady Widow, would never return. Who would appear in their place?
She smoothed her dress as best she could and tiptoed to the door. When she reached for the knob, she hesitated. Holding her breath, she glanced back at her sleeping husband, savouring one last look, saying a silent goodbye for what could never be.
She peeked into the hallway, glad to see no one there. She reached the stairs and hurried down the two flights, reaching the hall without encountering the night’s clientele.
Cummings was at his post by the door. She begged him to quickly fetch her cloak.
He stared at her with a strange expression. ‘Yes, m’lady,’ he said and went off to do her bidding.
A moment more and she would be free of Madame Bisou’s forever.
Cummings returned with her cloak. If he noticed her undone buttons while he assisted her into it, he gave no indication. She started for the door.
‘Lady Widow!’ a voice behind her called.
Reluctantly, she turned. It was Sir Reginald, looking painfully distressed. ‘I beg a moment, ma’am.’
She did not wish to tarry, not even for a second, but she felt caught.
He rushed up to her and said, ‘Let me escort you to your carriage.’
‘Very well,’ she agreed.
Once outside into the near freezing air, he fell to one knee, grasping her hands so tightly she could not pull away.
‘Lady Widow, I know that Lord Keating has won the wager, but I beg of you—’
Her blood turned to ice. ‘Wager? What wager?’
He gave her a look of chagrin. ‘The wager of who would bed you first, but I beg you will—’
She jerked her hands away. ‘You wagered about me?’ Her voice escaped as cold as the night.
Guy and Sloane and Sir Reginald and the others took bets on who would get her into bed first? Guy did this?
He struggled back to his feet. ‘A friendly wager, nothing to signify.’
‘How…how…?’ Words escaped her. She wanted to run. She wanted to know. Her voice dropped to no more than a rasp. ‘Was it all about a wager?’
All the admiration, the flattery, allowing her to win at cards—that was all flummery? All aimed at getting her into bed, so one gentleman would win money?
Her husband’s admiration of Lady Widow—was that, too, nothing more than…than…gambling?
‘Don’t quite get your meaning,’ Sir Reginald said, dusting off his breeches. ‘The odds favoured Sloane, to tell the truth, but, I must say, I retained my hopes. Would have won a bundle.’
He grabbed her hand again, but she quickly snatched it back and started for her carriage.
‘Wait,’ he called, hurrying to catch up. ‘Want to tell you I have plenty of blunt to lay on you. Want to offer you carte blanche. A gentleman like me would be dashed more attentive than those younger fellows.’
She halted and spun towards him. He gave her a very hopeful smile. She swung her hand and slapped him across his cheek, the sharp smack resounding down the street.
Without another word, she ran to where Hester’s brother waited for her with his hack.
Chapter Sixteen
Cyprian Sloane sat slumped in his chair in Madame Bisou’s supper room, a whisky in his hand and three bottles on the table. He’d been there most of the night. He’d barely got in the door at Madame Bisou’s when Sir Reginald accosted him and informed him he’d lost the wager. Keating at that moment was still occupied in a private room with Lady Widow.
That Greeking bounder.
T’think he, Cyprian Sloane, had taken the pains to invite Keating into that card game. Made the man’s fortune, he had. Keating ought to have kissed his feet. Everyone knew the Viscount was nearly done up. Sloane had rescued him, plucked him out of Dun territory. This was his thanks?
Sloane downed another whisky. That bastard. That son of a whore.
Sloane laughed, the loud bark jolting the few other people in the room to look up at him. ‘Son of a whore’ best described himself, not Keating. No scandal attached itself to that paragon’s birth, but everyone knew Sloane’s father had not sired him. Nice gentleman, his father, saddling him with the name Cyprian lest anyone forget he was the product of cuckoldry.
Never mind that. Water over the dam. Water over the damned-if-he-cared. He laughed again, soundlessly this time, and placed his heels on the table. He folded his arms across his chest.
He’d told Keating how much this wager meant to him. Lady Widow was a tempting piece and the contest to win her had given him a vast amount of amusement. Until this night.
He cared nothing for losing the money. He had plenty of money, especially after that card game—the one into which he’d invited Keating. He was plenty rich, that was not to the point. He’d wanted to win, by damn, and Keating cut him out.
In his grandfather’s time, he could have challenged Keating to a swordfight. He swished his sword arm through the air. A good fight would lift his spirits about now, especially if he could win it.
He crossed his arms again, staring dejectedly at the empty bottles on the table. No sense thinking of duelling. Only a fool risked his life for a bit o’ muslin like Lady Widow. The way his luck was going, even if he won the duel, the scandal would run him out of England like that damned lame poet.
Curse the man! Keating, that is. Not the poet. At this moment Keating was fornicating with the prize when he, Sloane, was drinking bad whisky. He ought to have played his trump card. Not that he had any idea if the damned information was worth a farthing to Keating.
Discovering a drab of alcohol in one of the bottles, he poured it into his glass and downed it in one gulp. No sense staying in this damned place. He rose unsteadily to his feet. In his own rooms he could drink himself into oblivion with much better whisky.
Listing to one side, he made his way out of the room. As he entered the hallway, that devil Keating descended the stairs. ‘Keating!’ Sloane shouted. ‘I’ll have a word with you now!’
Keating scowled at him. In fact, the man looked dashed unhappy. How could any man not be happy after winning and bedding the mysterious widow?
Who the devil was she anyway? That was one piece of information he’d not yet discovered. Liked the mystery, frankly. Intended to peel that mask off her in a bedroom. Is that what Kea
ting had done? Did Keating now know who she was? That would be another low blow.
‘Well, what is it, Sloane?’ Keating said.
That’s right. He had something to say to Keating, if he had a moment to recall. Sloane wrapped his arm around Keating’s shoulders and walked him over to a secluded corner.
Pointing his finger in the vicinity of Keating’s nose, he said, ‘The devil to you, man. You bedded her and you knew I had the first claim.’
‘Do not speak to me of that wager of yours, Sloane. I will hear no more of it.’ Keating shoved him aside.
Sloane grabbed the back of his collar. ‘No, a moment, please. I have a plan.’ He leaned into Keating’s face, making the man wince. ‘You…you tell them all it was a hoax. Just a card game, nothing more, and that the bet is still on. No one will be the wiser.’
‘It is over.’ Keating’s voice rose. ‘No more bets about the lady. I beg you would all forget her existence.’
‘So you can have her?’ Sloane gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Mayhap I’ll make a wager to be the man who takes her from you.’ He raised a triumphant arm. ‘Ha!’
‘You are foxed.’ Keating pushed him aside and headed towards the stairs.
‘Tarry just a bit.’ Sloane followed him down the stairs, grasping the banister to keep his balance. When Keating called to Cummings for his topcoat and hat, Sloane bade the man collect his as well.
‘I’m going home,’ Keating said.
‘You will want to hear me out,’ Sloane said, though he was not at all certain that would be true. In any event, sometimes you just had to throw a card on to the table and hope for the best. He trailed Keating out on to the street and kept pace, somewhat unsteadily, beside him.
‘Speak up, Sloane, and allow me on my way.’ Keating walked quickly. How could that be? He was half a foot shorter at least.
‘Well, speak up,’ Keating repeated.
‘Give me a moment.’ Damned soldiers always rushing to the charge.
They turned the corner before Sloane spoke.
‘Your wife is acquainted with a lady, I believe,’ he began. ‘Sis…sis…sister-in-law to Heronvale.’
‘What does that signify?’ Keating slowed a bit.
‘Patience, man. I’ll tell you,’ Sloane said, but paused, until Keating shook his head and resumed his pace.
‘I met Lady Devlin some years ago,’ Sloane finally said.
‘I fail to see—’ interjected Keating.
‘Attend to me.’ Sloane recomposed his thoughts into some semblance of coherency. ‘I met Lady Devlin in a gaming hell run by Lord Farley. Remember him? Died earlier this year. Attacked by footpads, they say.’
‘That means nothing—’ Keating began.
‘Nothing? She was Farley’s prime piece, sir. She was the prize men won and plenty of ’em won her.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Not me, you understand. Farley gulled his patrons. I didn’t fancy being cheated.’
The information must be hitting a nerve. Keating had stopped walking. Luckily there was a lightpost to lean upon.
‘Why are you telling me this, Sloane?’
Capital question. Why was he? Oh, yes… ‘Well, I had the notion your wife’s reputation might suffer if it became known they were so closely attached; that is, if the tale of Lady Devlin—the Mysterious Miss M, they called her—became the latest on dit.’
Keating stood his ground. ‘And?’
‘And this scandalous on dit might fail to reach the gossips’ ears if…if you told the fellows at Madame Bisou’s the bet is still on.’
As trump cards went, this one sounded more like a two-spotter, even to his ears. How much whisky had he consumed to induce him to think Keating would go for this lame nonsense?
Keating glared at him, illuminated by the gaslight. ‘I took you for a different sort of man, Sloane,’ he said, in a low even tone. ‘We part ways here. There’s a hack across the street and I’m off to hire him to drive me home.’ Without another word, Keating crossed the street and, after a word with the driver, climbed in the hack.
Sloane watched him until the coach disappeared from his sight.
Guy leaned back against the cool leather of the hackney’s seat. Curse Sloane for giving him one more thing to worry about. He needed to get home, to see Emily, and explain what he ought to have told her from the beginning.
When he woke and found her gone, he’d known he’d erred by not telling her the whole. Now he realised he had managed to deceive her one more time. Would it be too late to explain? Would she understand that he’d merely wanted to play out her masquerade?
He hadn’t needed Sloane’s extra bit of information. If Sloane were willing to ruin that poor lady’s life, the man indeed deserved his reputation as a scoundrel. To think Guy had almost come to like him.
But Sloane was a petty matter at the moment. He would deal with Sloane’s threat later. Emily was more important.
The hack delivered him home and he hurried inside, rushing up the stairs to his bedchamber, and only then shedding his topcoat and hat. He went immediately to the door connecting his room with his wife’s.
It was locked. She had never locked the door against him. Temptation had often driven him to test the door, though he stopped himself before entering her room.
He could knock. He could break down the door for that matter, but would either of those actions gain him credit with her?
No, he was done with forcing her into situations not of her choosing. He’d respect her desire to keep him out. Morning was time enough to speak to her.
He fell exhausted into bed, but sleep eluded him. The memory of Emily in his arms tormented him, again and again drawing his eyes back to the door that separated them. Would he ever unlock that door? Would he ever find his way to her side?
With their moment of pleasure lingering in his mind, he finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.
When morning came, Emily dragged herself from her bed. She’d heard her husband return a few hours before, listened to him checking the door between them. What had he thought? He could go from Lady Widow’s bed to Emily’s?
She grabbed the bedpost as the pain of it shot through her. She’d thought she could treasure that one moment with Guy, even if he had been with Lady Widow and not his wife. She thought she could hold the memory close to her heart, to warm her on lonely nights. A brief memory of love.
It was all illusion.
It had been a wager, nothing more. He’d bet on bedding her. They’d all bet on bedding her, as if her heart meant nothing more than a horse running a race, a man in a bout of fisticuffs, a cock fighting to the death.
She could not even hold that one moment as precious. How false men were. How easily they trifled with a woman’s affections, the lot of them. She’d never return to Madame Bisou’s. She’d been a fool to step foot in such a place from the outset.
Hester entered the room. ‘You are awake, my lady.’
Awake. Had she ever been asleep? ‘Yes, I’m awake.’
She accepted Hester’s ministrations as if by rote, caring not which of her drab dresses she wore or how her hair was arranged. The walls around her seemed like a prison cell, but she could imagine no other place to feel less captive.
The idea of continuing as Emily, so correct, so compliant, so uncomplaining, felt akin to death, but what had Lady Widow’s world brought her?
She watched herself in the glass as Hester put pins in her hair to keep it in place, fancying her image dissolving like fog after sunrise. She did not know who she could be.
‘There you are, my lady,’ Hester said with her usual cheer.
Emily took a fortifying breath. She could make it through the day. She could walk and talk and do whatever anyone required of her. She was well practised in that skill.
Trying to erect a tower around her heart with each step, Emily went down to the breakfast room. The staircase, the rooms, the hall all looked the same, but she felt so altered it was like seeing them in a dream. One from which she would never wak
e.
Her mother-in-law was the only one at breakfast. Emily was relieved she would not yet have to encounter Guy. The Dowager barely glanced up when Emily entered.
‘Good morning,’ Emily said, though it sounded like the words came from someone else.
‘Hmph,’ Lady Keating muttered.
Emily shrugged, selecting her slices of toast and sitting down to pour tea. Amazing how one could act with a modicum of normality when one’s insides seemed shattered to bits.
‘You have slept late again,’ Lady Keating said.
Emily had been about to take a bite of toast. Her hand remained poised in the air for a moment before she returned the slice to her plate and clasped her hands in her lap.
‘Not late enough,’ she said, not quite under her breath.
Her mother-in-law seized upon her words. ‘What is your meaning, not late enough?’
Emily took a breath before meeting the older woman’s eye. She felt like a vessel, already filled to the brim, into which Lady Keating had poured another pitcher full. ‘Lady Keating, please inform me. Why do you dislike me so? What have I done to deserve this constant disparagement?’
Her mother-in-law gasped. ‘How impertinent!’
Emily kept her gaze level. ‘Not impertinent, ma’am. I truly wish to know what it is you object to in me. I have endeavoured to be pleasing to you.’
Emily would not take another moment of this treatment from her mother-in-law. She was done with being agreeable. She doubted she could abide another second of being agreeable.
‘I am sure I have never—’ Lady Keating began.
Emily interrupted. ‘I am sure you have never called me by name. Do you realise that? You have never once used my name.’
She was not a vessel overflowing, she feared. She was a dam bursting. ‘Why is that, Lady Keating?’
‘This is the outside of enough!’ Her mother-in-law threw down her fork and started to rise.
‘No,’ Emily said. ‘Do not leave. Let us have this out. Tell me why you despise me so.’