by Chloe Harris
Emiline’s eyes paled to a chilly light blue at the deliberate address. She said a quick farewell to Améliore and left the office without looking at him again.
Connor watched her speedy retreat, the smile on his lips slowly vanishing. A very interesting twist, indeed.
Emiline was careful to uphold a calm, sedate exterior when she ducked into Polilla’s, the tiny bookstore right around the corner. The instant she entered the bookshop, she felt better. Not only did the coolness calm her overheated body, as always, the scent of old paper and ink, vaguely moldy and bitter, had a soothing effect on her.
Emiline loved books. They were her escape from the burdens her life had become. There was no more need for decisions, no responsibility, no more hard work to do while she lost herself in her books. Poetry was her favorite; it made her feel again when everything else had dulled her.
Polilla, the owner of the shop, was a frail, old bookworm, but his eyes twinkled with delight when he saw her standing in his gloomy little store. “Ahh, Señorita du Ronde, how wonderful to see you,” he greeted her warmly. Before she could answer, he promptly bent under the ancient counter to retrieve a package. “Come, have a look. I’ve had these ordered exclusively with you in mind.”
She quickly shed her crochet gloves and let her fingers run gently over the exquisite leather bindings of the two books. She examined them, well aware of Señor Polilla closely watching her. It was too rare that somebody shared her passion for books, but Polilla did.
“Señorita, if it weren’t for you, I would have had to close this shop years ago.”
All he got was a tentative smile when she briefly glanced up from the poem that had captured her attention.
“Pray, forgive my speaking so openly, but there should be more in your life than printed words. I do think you need a husband.”
She shut the book a little too loudly. The smile on her lips froze to a friendly grimace at the mention of a husband once again.
“Pardon. I shouldn’t have…” Polilla bowed, averting his eyes.
“I’d like both of them. Thank you.” Emiline’s tone was warm and friendly to silently reassure him that she hadn’t taken offense where none was meant.
Gnarled fingers wrapped brown paper around the two books, and a simple twine secured the bundle. “Shall I keep these here for you until you’re ready to sail?”
“No, thank you. I’ll take them now.” Emiline reached for the purse in the small pocket of her gown and paid the old bookseller. Then, holding her precious package to her chest, she braced herself against the temperature outside.
Her feet carried her quickly back down the winding road to the harbor. She made her way swiftly through the dozens of sailors, traders, and marketers. St. George’s was the main port in the Caribbean to purchase and advertise all manner of traded goods like sugarcane and indigo, among other things. At this time of day, the Carenage, the deep water harbor, was buzzing with traders and buyers involved in heated discussions about quality, quantity, and prices, but a good many of them were bargaining for bargaining’s sake alone.
Emiline tried to blend in with the masses. She barely noticed the mixture of scents wafting through the port, from the delectable fragrance of spices to the strong, distinctive smell of coffee and tobacco all tinged by the stink of fish. She just wanted to get onboard the Sea Gull.
The crude wooden plank swayed under her feet as she ascended. Her maid, Justine, had returned from her errands along with the Sea Gull’s Captain Blanc, who had been so kind to accompany Justine. Emiline had wanted to be alone for the business she’d concluded today.
The Anglican Church proudly looked over the town and the port, its chiming bell bidding farewell to the Sea Gull slowly passing through the horseshoe-shaped harbor. The ship’s belly was now empty of its cargo of sugarcane from Ronde, the small island just north of Grenada that was her home.
Emiline held her white crochet-covered hand over her eyes to shield them from the bright morning sun, smiling up at her entourage, a horde of quibbling sea birds with their tuneless cacophony crudely imitating a fanfare as the Sea Gull made her way out of the port.
On his way to the most excellent house in town, Connor didn’t pay attention to whether he was walking in the shade or in the sunlight. He was too distracted. He had to be sure of his plan before he entered Madame Poivre’s establishment and met with Reinier.
It was quite unfortunate that the advice he’d given his friend years ago had turned out like this. As second son, Reinier hadn’t had too many options to make a fortune for himself, and since he was definitely not meant for the church, Reinier had started his career on a ship. One night Connor had told him half jokingly that Reinier needed to marry money and get his own ship. Had he known Reinier would take his advice that literally, Connor would have been more careful.
One didn’t go off and marry a young, besotted girl if one wanted to marry rich. One looked for a lonely, but wealthy—and if possible, passably attractive—widow. Connor supposed Reinier had never thought that part through and had certainly not taken heed of the consequences for her.
Reinier valued freedom above anything else. Never feeling tied down was his main ambition in life, and he was determined to achieve it. Yet, Connor had known him long enough and well enough to see a new restlessness in his eyes. Something was amiss. Reinier needed to settle down, whether he was aware of it or not. He needed to find a sense of peace before too long.
Is this the right choice? Connor wondered. Does he really have a right to meddle with his friend’s life like this?
Perhaps he wanted to do this to silence his own conscience. Reinier had taken his thoughtless words too seriously.
Nonetheless, Connor was sure he mustn’t tell Reinier about the divorce. In his current state of mind, Reinier would sign the agreement only too gladly. Four years was a long time. It changed people, and by the tone Mrs. Emiline du Ronde-Barhydt had laid into her words, as well as her determination to be rid of her husband, she seemed quite the opposite of how Reinier had described her. She might not have been before, but perhaps now she was exactly what his friend needed.
By the time he was taking two steps at once to climb the stairs to Madame Poivre’s, Connor had convinced himself of the best course of action. What he’d come up with may not have been the best of all lies, but it would do. Connor knew Reinier was competitive, especially when it came to what he regarded as his own.
What a shame. The world would certainly mourn the loss of a glorious rake such as Reinier.
“Bonjour, Monsieur O’Driscoll. This way.” A young maid greeted him, opening the door with a curtsy even before he reached for the bell. She must have been spying from behind the curtains.
They walked in silence toward a private room at the back of the house. Quietly, she opened the double doors and motioned with a quick gesture for him to enter. Bobbing another curtsy, she closed the doors to the room, giving the men some privacy.
Three very spacious armchairs surrounded a tiny table in the elegantly furnished room. It was polished and classic, a place where a man could relax before indulging in other, very pleasurable activities.
There were no silly-looking cupids around anywhere, no lush red carpets, no strong-smelling perfume in the air covering more undesirable scents that would indicate this was an establishment of the worst kind. The tasteful and timeless elegance made Madame Poivre’s an outstanding place, genteel and chic, an establishment of the best kind.
“What took you so long?”
Connor’s head snapped toward the voice. He could see only Reinier’s legs stretched out lazily and his hands hanging elegantly over the arms of the chair he was lounging in. Instantly, Connor felt his lips twitch into a smile again, but this time it wasn’t a forced smile. No, there was genuine delight in it—and a certain amount of playfulness as well.
He went to the armchair opposite his friend and made himself comfortable. Reinier returned the smile with one of his own, only his was more. It w
as enigmatic. It was meaningful, it was charming and unspeakably seductive—a direct assault to one’s senses.
He wore his hair loose today. There was no need to tie it back for what they had in mind. His blond hair was generally straight, but it curled slightly at the tips, and now, as he lounged in the armchair as confident as ever, his mane surrounded his head and brushed over his shoulders like a halo.
His unique eyes were translucent, crystalline jewels of lush green that became so bright they looked as golden as the sun in the center—almost like a cat’s eyes. It was precisely those bright, hypnotizing eyes that were taking Connor in from head to toe and back. The perusal sent a pleasant shiver of awareness through Connor’s body.
“So…” Reinier purred, a husky sound full of heat. “Where have you been?”
Connor relished in his friend’s sensual mouth gradually changing, the corners wandering up until he smiled his typical, breathtaking smile. Reinier knew his appeal, and he took great pleasure in seeing how it affected others.
Letting Reinier’s rich, velvety words trickle down his spine, Connor tried to sit more comfortably in the chair. The fly of his breeches had become dangerously confining.
Slowly licking his lips, Reinier leaned back more. The delightful physical pressure that was an immediate result of their arousing game was too sweet. Reinier loved anticipation. He adored the sensations brought on by withholding what was inevitably to follow.
At last, Connor found a position he was comfortable with. Now it was time to put his plan into action. He knew if he didn’t do it now, he’d forget about it all later. But how to begin?
“Business kept me from joining you sooner,” Connor finally replied. “But what I really wanted to tell you is I have heard some juicy rumors about one of the lonely wives on the islands around.”
“Is that so?” Reinier let the words out in a bored sigh and looked away. He studied a nonexistent piece of lint on the turquoise sleeve of his coat that boasted elegant patterns of gold.
He had definitely caught Reinier’s attention with that. One corner of Connor’s mouth flitted up. If only Reinier knew how much his taste in garments matched his wife’s—matched Emiline with her turquoise eyes and the golden highlights in her chocolate brown hair.
“I hired a new sailor at Ronde when we last stopped there to load up with sugarcane. But I am a little disappointed with him. He seems to not be able to stop prattling on about how he was wrongly accused of theft and thrown out by the mistress.” Connor deliberately paused for effect before he added, “And her lover.”
Now, this wasn’t quite the truth, but it could still be excused as a little white lie. Perhaps it wasn’t that little, after all, nor was it exactly white. But Connor knew Reinier well enough to trust it wouldn’t fail to rattle him.
Wrinkling his forehead, Reinier’s detached façade was unwavering. He was even too disciplined to grind his teeth, although inwardly he felt anything but calm. A flashing memory of brilliant turquoise eyes skirted through his mind. Their recurring image had been haunting his dreams lately.
She’d never do that, Reinier told himself. Not to him. She wouldn’t dare make a cuckold of him.
“Gossip.” With a wave of his hand he brushed off the rumor.
“Yes, it is,” Connor agreed, seemingly unaware of how this all affected Reinier. “But isn’t it entertaining? I thought it was highly amusing myself.”
Reinier snorted with contempt. Closing his eyes, he carefully hid the anger churning in him. If Connor saw his gaze darken, he’d know for sure his mood had changed, and there was no need to give him proof. Most times having such unique eyes was a blessing, but not around somebody who knew him so well, somebody who could tell what Reinier felt just by looking into his eyes.
Why did it even bother him? Everyone who married for convenience sought pleasure outside the marriage. It was almost expected.
Why did he feel that odd twinge in his chest, then? True, he’d married Emiline for practical reasons. But it wasn’t quite that simple. As soon as he realized he’d fallen for her, it became quite inconvenient.
“It was only a matter of time before she felt lonely enough to do it.” Connor’s low voice held a slight hint of reproach.
Only a matter of time. The words echoed in his head. Damn it. If Connor only knew how badly she’d broken his heart. Leaving her had been the only way to make sure she wouldn’t take his soul as well.
As soon as he felt certain he’d rid his eyes of any sign of treacherous emotion, Reinier opened them again to linger on his friend. His teeth ground now, but he made sure his eyes remained blank.
She was his, whether he liked it or not. She was his, whether she liked it or not. She had no right to act like this. She wasn’t free. She wasn’t independent. She belonged to him. Emiline was his wife.
Reinier rubbed his chin in thought. He had pushed that part of his life aside for far too long. She was a pretty girl when he left. Naïve, yes. And eager to please him, that too. Demanding, yet oh-so-unchallenging. At least that was what he had eventually convinced himself of.
Of course, he was completely over that immature infatuation.
Reinier took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out in a rush and along with it the memories that had come to life.
Perhaps it was time he reminded her of her place. A submissive wife needed a dominant husband. He would show her her place in the world—in his world.
Instantly, his wicked mood was completely restored with the prospect of the task ahead. “Connor,” he said, his decision final, “I do think it is time I take the southern route. I appreciate you doing it for the last few years, but I feel like going to Ronde again myself.” His lips twitched into a sly smile. “I’ll set sail tomorrow morning, so that leaves two more days for you.”
Connor bowed his head as a sign he understood. They had played this particular game before, after all; Reinier would leave and Connor would follow in a few days. If that was really necessary. Quite honestly, Reinier expected it wouldn’t come to that. If she still was who she was, she’d be no match for his honed seductive skills. And speaking of which…
“Madame Poivre said she had someone special for us.”
He didn’t feel guilty about his “leisure” activities, not anymore. What he did here or elsewhere was something men in his position did, period. It was ridiculous that all of a sudden he’d think of it as something damnable.
“Someone special, you say?” Connor’s eyebrows rose with curiosity, distracting Reinier’s pensive mood and pointing it back in the right direction. “Where is she, anyway? I could do with a glass of port.”
At that, the double doors opened and Madame Poivre came in with a tray that held two glasses of the finest wine her excellent establishment offered to only its best of clients.
With her cloying perfume, the much-too-round and much-too-small matron of the maison close of St. George’s dressed a little too indecently for her age and for Reinier’s taste, wore a little too much rouge on her cheeks and lips, and hid her graying hair under an absurdly large turban that bobbed like a pecking robin whenever she moved her head. But Madame Poivre had exquisite taste in deciding whom she’d let work for her. Reinier had to grant her that.
Turning his head, Reinier smiled at her. “Please have a seat, madame, and tell us about this latest and oh-so-special acquisition of yours.” He accompanied his words with a graceful show of his hand, indicating she take the still-empty armchair.
“Ahh,” Madame Poivre set out and nodded. “Certainement.” Her acquired French heritage almost hid her cockney accent completely.
She placed the now-empty tray against the side of the third armchair, then sat down and leaned back, casually folding her legs. Obviously, she enjoyed the men’s attention and drew it out for her own sake. Finally, when she had arranged herself, she declared, “The young woman is completely inexperienced in this métier, messieurs.”
Connor turned to her and interrupted rudely, “But sh
e is not a virgin, is she? If so, I won’t—”
“Oh, no, no!” Madame Poivre shook both her hands like the flopping wings of a butterfly, the turban on her head bouncing in tandem. “She isn’t all that innocent anymore. But she still needs some guidance as to what will be expected from ’er in the future.”
Reinier tilted his head in thought. “Why us, madame?”
Laughing, Madame Poivre’s elbows rested on the arms of the chair while she brought her fingertips together excitedly, as if applauding herself. “You seemed the right choice to introduce ’er to the ways of ’er new profession.”
Reinier raised both his eyebrows and looked at Connor, who, in turn, shrugged as a sign that he didn’t understand either.
“Messieurs.” Madame Poivre rolled her eyes. “I ’ave other girls ’oo ’ave already ’ad…shall we say…the pleasure of making your acquaintance? It was their ceaseless rhapsodizing that made me decide you should be the ones to educate ’er.”
Reinier laughed low, an understanding, knowing purr. Connor chuckled into his fist.
“I feel obliged to tell you, though,” Madame Poivre pointed out, “she is unattractively thin despite ’aving been ’ere for two weeks already. Moreover, she is unfashionably tall for a woman and ’er face is distorted with ghastly freckles.”
Connor sat up and leaned forward. “Freckles, you say?”
Reinier hid his smile in his handkerchief as he watched him. He already knew the Irishman could be quickly and easily charmed by blond, flaxen, golden straw or even tawny hair as long as it came with a lovely face. Personally, he couldn’t care less. Reinier failed to imagine how a woman with such a fair complexion could have ended up here, in a whorehouse in the Caribbean Sea, but he, too, did not think freckles could be classified as a “distortion.” For Connor, it was probably quite the contrary.
Madame Poivre sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
Perhaps it was time Reinier scattered Madame Poivre’s worries about the woman’s “unattractiveness.” He knew she’d be appealing. Madame Poivre had a good eye for beauty, after all. Therefore, Reinier stated dryly, “I do believe freckles pose no hindrance to our performance.”