The Dukes of Vauxhall

by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen

  Leo was missing something. Some piece that ought to have fallen into place while he was gone. He bounced one of his legs, jittering his booted foot on the step until his thoughts made sense. “I wonder why Richard didn’t marry someone else, then.”

  “I suppose,” Poppy said, “it’s because he didn’t really want to marry any woman. That’s how I always saw his behavior.”

  “Hmm.” Leo had suspected the same about his brother, once upon a time. Yet Richard had seemed so set on wedding Poppy.

  As if she’d read his thoughts, she added, “He must have thought that if he had to wed, an old friend who was almost a part of the furniture would do.”

  “You could never be that.” Leo stood, took a step down, and turned toward her.

  “Not to you, maybe. But then, you like women in…that sort of way.”

  She looked up at him, falling into the shade of his body. Warm blond hair, laughing eyes, a few freckles spattered bronze over her nose. That curving mouth and, best of all, that sharp, kind wit.

  “I do,” he replied. “Yes.” One woman in particular. But there was a tiny little person between the two of them, keeping him from asking the false question for real.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t continue to see her while the false engagement persisted, though. And persist it would, if Uncle Bernard also persisted in being as stubborn as he’d been today.

  “Poppy.” Leo extended a hand, breath bated until she took it and let him pull her upright, face-to-face. “There will be a masked ball at Vauxhall. Do you want to go like everyone else does? Feet on the ground and mischief in their hearts?”

  “Is that all that’s in their hearts?”

  “I can’t answer for everyone else.” Leo grinned. “But it’s always in mine. Do come with me. Unless you will be performing during the masque?”

  “No, not that night. Of course I will go with you.” Her fingers tightened in his. “It’ll be grand to see more of the gardens than the high wire.”

  They arranged the plans then, preparing to meet at the entrance of Vauxhall the evening of the masked ball.

  Only later did it occur to Leo: If they both got what they wanted from their false engagement, they would never see each other again.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  Poppy had never visited Vauxhall Gardens except as a performer, and for a few hours of indecision on the day of the masked ball, she considered taking back her acceptance of Leo’s invitation. Would the gardens disappoint when seen at eye level? And what would be the purpose of spending time with someone she would soon have to leave behind?

  In the end, her heart had won out over her head. The purpose, she decided, was to fill one’s time in joyful ways. And she would not be disappointed in Leo’s company—or at least, she never had been before.

  Her only bit of fancy dress was her performance costume, so she shrugged into it. After donning her much-used black cloak and a blue half mask, she met Leo at their appointed place. They had planned an unfashionable early arrival, hoping to avoid the worst of the crowds this way, but already the whole city seemed to be out and about and celebrating. Before Poppy and Leo had cast off across the Thames in a barge, full-crammed with other costumed Vauxhall visitors, a crowd of other masked and laughing people had gathered on the north bank for the barge’s next trip across.

  Alas, the long-awaited Vauxhall Bridge wasn’t yet completed, so the crush of traffic along the Thames was dreadful. But being boated across the river to the pleasure gardens was, Poppy decided, part of the charm of arriving—when one didn’t have to prepare for a high-wire performance. She could enjoy the flickers and twinkles of the thousand blazing lamps, enticing through the trees surrounding the gardens, and soak up the merry mood of those around her.

  As soon as they threaded into the park itself, she heard the familiar strains of the orchestra. From the ground, the music was much clearer than it was at sixty feet in the air. Woodwinds and strings, percussion and singers, they wove a tune that roiled the crowd into a rhythmic press forward along the brightly lit central arcade.

  Poppy was garbed similarly to Leo, who wore a black domino over his clothing and a mask over his eyes. Compared to others around them, their fancy dress was plain indeed. A laughing king of hearts passed by, arm in arm with a mustachioed man dressed as a stout fishwife, and more than one Highlander in a long kilt was pressing at the spirit gum holding on a false beard. A Grecian maiden strolled in white and gold elegance; a half-dozen Lord Nelsons were scattered about, recognizable by their wigs and eye patches.

  Leo and Poppy had each received a ticket for a single glass of champagne with admission, but as they edged their way toward the park’s central quadrangle, the crowd seemed far tipsier than those single tickets would warrant. Shepherdesses showed their bosoms; queens flirted their skirts. The price of admission to the Grand Gala was far more than usual, but the crowd was heavier.

  All of London wanted to wear a mask, it seemed, to fling off the ordinary and become someone else. And all of those someone elses wanted sparkling wine and seduction. Torches and lamps blazed, further heating a summer night already heavy with the scents of lamp oil and perfume. Poppy breathed it in deeply. Far from making her feel sick, she found it pleasant.

  “What do you want to see?” Leo bent to ask in Poppy’s ear, nimbly dodging a thin woman reeling with drink who had accentuated her height with a plume of peacock feathers identical to those adorning her skirted derriere. “There is a pretty grotto, I’ve heard.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a grotto sort of evening to me,” Poppy decided. “Not exciting enough.” As if in agreement, a passing military band played a mournful slide of brassy notes.

  “Shall we find a juggler or an acrobat to watch?”

  “How could we tell the performers from the others in the crowd?” For this very reason, she had wheedled this night off from the Barretts when arranging her performing schedule.

  “You are unfailingly logical.” Leo drew Poppy aside, avoiding the flailing arms of a strolling player with a tambourine. “How exciting. That fellow is dressed as an octopus, and he surely has mastered the movements.”

  Poppy laughed. “We should have been more ambitious with our costumes.”

  “I’m willing to sacrifice ambition for comfort,” Leo said. “Where would you like to go next? Shall we pace up and down one of the famous dark walks? Not that there’s much to see there since they are, you know, dark.”

  “True, they aren’t the prettiest places.” Poppy coughed; her throat had gone dry. “But people visit those for…other reasons.”

  “That they do,” Leo agreed. “And very good reasons those are. Here, don’t get separated from me in the crowd.” He hooked a finger inside her glove, pulling her out of reach of a domino-clad man with outstretched hands.

  She stumbled, falling against his chest. “Sorry,” she mumbled, but then his arm came around her. She looked up at him; their eyes locked. Behind his mask, Leo’s green eyes asked a question.

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  Inadequate words. It was more than all right. But every word felt as heavy as the air, and she had to be careful lest she say too much for her own good.

  How could you step aside for Richard when you wanted me for yourself? What does it mean that you are holding me now?

  Maybe he was just protecting her in the crowd. Maybe it was no more than that. Certainly the gardens were full, and growing more crowded by the minute.

  So. “Thank you,” was all she said next. Two words in place of so many others.

  He released her from his embrace, but his forefinger was still hooked in her glove. Eyes never leaving hers, he extended his finger into her glove. He stroked the sensitive flesh of her forearm, then withdrew. A simple touch, yet its tenderness made her shiver.

  “You choose, Poppy,” he said quietly, as if they were alone. “We will do whatever you want to do.”

  “Whatever I want?” Enticing offer. Th
e summer air, the cloak, the look in Leo’s eyes—all were warm enough to heat Poppy’s blood, to make her think…what if?

  What if Leo had never left?

  What if the Marquess of Nithsdale had never caught Poppy alone in her cousin’s conservatory, where no one could hear her scream?

  What if there had been no baby as a result, and she was just Poppy, unfettered, and Leo was back in England for good?

  Tonight, anything seemed possible. Tonight she could pretend any of it was true, had always been true, would always be true. Where others wore a mask to hide their true selves, tonight Poppy felt more real than she had in years. It seemed as if the years since Leo had left England had been a play, and now she could finally stop acting.

  Deliberately, Poppy turned her arm and presented her hand, palm up. “I want you to touch me some more.”

  Leo accepted at once. Again, his finger slipped beneath the kid of her own glove. The long glove was loose at the elbow, easily shaken down to reveal more and yet more of her arm, half the pale underside. Leo’s black-gloved finger on her skin was like ink painting paper. She caught her breath, wanting to see what shape it would paint next.

  Then the painter hesitated. “Poppy, perhaps we’d better—”

  “Dance?” she interrupted, forestalling what sounded like the beginning of a rejection.

  “A dance?” He tilted his head. “Not quite what I was going to say, but yes. Perhaps we’d better dance.”

  As they made their way toward the Grove that served as the heart of the park, Poppy allowed herself a secret smile. If he thought a dance would set a dutiful distance between them, he’d never seen a Vauxhall masquerade before.

  The whole Grove was outlined by colonnades, festooned with lamps. The night sky above seemed far away. At the center of the quadrangle, the orchestra played on a rounded platform, supported a story above the ground and spangled all about the edges with tiny lamps. It was flanked by raised boxes for the wealthy and spendthrifts, while ordinary supper boxes bounded the Grove at ground level. Flocks of red-coated waiters served the boxes, bearing plates and platters and punchbowls and every manner of sweet.

  In the area before the orchestra, normally threaded all through with strolling couples and Savoyards, a row of constables pressed the crowd back. The reason was soon apparent: The Prince Regent had mounted the steps to the orchestra, and he came to the fore of its platform to wave. He was dressed, alarmingly, as a heavily rouged Zeus draped in great swaths of cloth of gold. With a sloshing glass of champagne in each hand, he spoke a few words that Poppy could not understand over the continuing threads of sound: chatter, more tootles from the enthusiastic military band, a snatch of distant song from a soprano.

  The orchestra was so well lit that Poppy could see the heavy prince’s face growing red. He raised his voice, waving a flute of champagne around, and bellowed the final words of his speech. “All in honor of our victory at Waterloo and of my birthday. So make yourselves merry!”

  As if anyone needed to be told! But there were cheers and applause, which was likely all the Prince Regent had wanted.

  “What a relief that he reminded us to be merry,” Leo murmured into Poppy’s ear as the applause died away. “I was planning to invite you to peel carrots in the kitchen of my town house, but now I’ve thought better of it.”

  “It is not a bad idea. People often make merry with carrots,” Poppy replied. “And cucumbers. You know, all the long sorts of produce.”

  Yes, she was flirting with him in her own awkward botanical way. But from the look in his eye, he liked it. “Your views on vegetables are most fascinating. We must explore the subject in more detail.”

  “In a bit.” She winked, delighted to see his eyes widen. “But right now, the music is beginning again.”

  Once the Prince Regent had descended the stairs, the orchestra struck up a sprightly gigue, and the chain of constables broke and allowed dancers to rush back onto the open ground before the musicians’ platform.

  “Do you know the steps?” Poppy caught Leo’s hand.

  “Are there steps?”

  No, not really. Costumed dancers had flooded the open space, packed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. They swayed, they twirled, jostling however space permitted. Lust and laughter wove through the air in a sweet contagion.

  “We can use whatever steps we wish to,” Poppy decided, then pulled him into the crowd.

  He caught her about the waist from behind, a sensual echo of the surprising moment he’d caught her descending from the tightrope. The span of his broad hands made her feel slim and feminine, her body still familiar and unchanged—and, for this moment, entirely her own.

  She wanted it to be his.

  And again, she wondered…what if?

  She stretched to her toes, tipping her head back to speak into his ear. “Come with me, Leo. I have an idea.”

  As the orchestra sawed out a lively tune, step by step, Poppy and Leo made their way through the dance toward the raised pavilion. Progress was slow, delightfully so, as they became threads in a skein of weaving, leaping dancers with swirling capes and swift feet. The cool night grew warmer and warmer, starry lamps beating down on the Grove like tiny suns.

  Then they were through, beneath the pavilion. The music of the orchestra rushed all around, muffled by the platform above but spilling clear like a waterfall down the open sides. A scatter of columns and arches and nooks supported the structure overhead, and a central table played host to wealthy gardengoers. Just now they were absent—dancing, perhaps, as the song fiddled and trilled to an energetic finale.

  Poppy blew out the single lamp beside the table.

  “What are you doing, Poppy?” Leo’s voice sounded tight.

  “Seducing you? I hope?” Catching his hand, she pulled him into the darkest of nooks.

  The sound he made was half laugh, half choke. “You can’t imagine how often I thought of such a thing over the years.”

  “I have a fairly good imagination. I’ve imagined a few things myself.”

  She had never imagined this, a seduction both public and secret at once, but it suited the mood of the night. Beneath the costume of Madame Haut, the borrowed mask, she could make a choice fully her own.

  He trailed gentle fingers over her cheek. “Poppy. I ought to—that is, we aren’t really betrothed, and—”

  “You said you would do what I want. I want you, Leo.” I always have. Laughing, she added, “All I need is you.” Clad in their black cloaks, there was no telling where the night ended and they began. She kept hold of Leo, her hand easing free from his to slide up the hard line of his forearm.

  “Are you throwing my own words back at me? I seem to remember getting in trouble the last time I said that to a ropedancer.” His fingertips quested, brushing back a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

  She hoped he could hear the smile in her voice. “Call it teasing, rather. For if we’re to be realistic—”

  “No, please, no.”

  “—then we also need air, and food, and—”

  He stopped her with a kiss.

  She had always expected a calm life, one in which walking fence rails turned into riding horses turned into waltzing at a neighborhood assembly. Having a kiss with the laughing younger son of a duke under the stars, then having another, until the stars laughed too and winked out for the night.

  None of that had happened. Leo’s kiss, as bold and brutally lovely as it had been, had come in stark daylight, tinged in retrospect with good-bye.

  This was the hello they’d never had, the kiss that ought to have become more. There was no good-bye in this kiss. It was a beginning, a sweet brush of lips parting to a deeper, more intimate caress. The memory of that first kiss was threadbare by now, but this one was a tapestry, all bright colors filling her, blurring her vision. She could see nothing of the past now; she didn’t care to look toward the future. There was only now.

  “More,” she murmured. “Please.”

  “Thank
God you said that,” he growled, pushing against her until her back met firm stone. His mouth found the side of her neck, burning the sensitive skin with kisses, with nips of his teeth that made her toes clench.

  Leo’s thigh slid between hers. She moaned at the intimate touch, letting her body sink onto the hard line of his leg. Her performing costume, with pantalettes under her shortened skirts, rubbed erotically against her sensitive skin.

  The pantalettes had to go. With fumbling fingers and shortened breath, she rucked up her skirts and tugged at the ties holding up the garments that separated her from Leo. His fingers found her core, rubbing her wetness over her own sensitive skin. “God.” He sounded half strangled. “Poppy. I want you so much.”

  “Take me,” she said. “Make me yours.”

  With no fear of consequences, no worries about a baby, since one already grew in her belly. That baby had come from an act of violence. This, though—this was an act of love. Of complete control, complete choice…complete surrender.

  Darkness hid them. There was nothing to do but feel his movement within her in slow, deliberate thrusts that pressed her between the stone of the wall and the heated strength of his body. Above them, the orchestra swept through a ballad, slow and languid and sweet. This was the best dance of all, an eager, winding desire that made her back arch, her hips work with his. Their bodies fit, familiar and rough and sweet and new at once. A play of strings overhead cloaked their gasps.

  With a flourish of brass, the song built to a climax that had Leo thrusting more quickly, keeping pace. All she could do was follow along, letting him draw her to a peak—then leave her to tumble with a joyous cry.

  The ballad ended with the orchestra in full harmony, sustaining a note longer than one would have thought possible. And then all fell silent. In the second between song and applause, Leo covered her mouth with a kiss, then came into her with a groan that seemed heart-deep.

  “They are clapping for you,” Poppy whispered as he let his head fall forward to the wall. “Excellent performance.” She couldn’t muster breath to say any more than that. God. The man had taken her apart, and she hadn’t put herself back together yet.