by Julia Ross
So he would not burst in on her as she bathed? At the eroticism of the thought, Juliet blushed scarlet. What was the matter with her? She threw up her chin, her father's daughter. Of course, no gentleman would do anything so scandalous!
Her petticoats stuck to her hot skin.
"Yes," she said. "I should like to bathe."
She had not soaked in a bath in years. It would have been far too much work to heat that much water, let alone to fill and then empty a tub. Juliet had contented herself with basins and a daily wash with a cloth.
The air scorched in the kitchen, but the porch door had been built in two sections, as if for a stable. The top stood open. Beyond, the courtyard lay shadowed and silent. Cooler air flowed through now to where Kate had set the tub and filled it with the help of the other maids. The scent of mown hay mingled with drifting smoke from the chimney. It felt safe and quiet, the tub standing in this little vestibule with the vast countryside stretching away outside.
He had sent soaps, thick white towels and a linen bathing robe - wildly improper gifts no lady should accept. Juliet laughed and changed into the long gown. It was bliss to sink into the tepid water and let a lady's maid wash away the residue of the day. The tub was also hung with cloth, so as Kate washed each part of Juliet's body, just that one limb or area of skin emerged whitely from the damp drapes. It was an oddly coy dance, poised between modesty and abandonment.
Kate turned aside, busy with some detail. Α small noise made Juliet glance up. There was nothing there. No golden-haired man leaned grinning on the sill of the open stable door. Nothing but the quiet summer evening. Nothing to disturb her.
If he did burst in on her, what would he see?
Juliet glanced down at herself. The gown draped thinly, sticking to her wanton skin. Her breasts glowed pink under the wet fabric, her nipples dark in contrast. Heat burned through her blood. If he burst in on her-
Yet she knew he would not. Even without his reassurance, she knew he would not. Alden Granville was far more clever and more subtle than that.
Kate washed Juliet's hair in a preparation of suds and herbs and rinsed it in clean water. She helped her out of the water and dried her. Immediately, in spite of the cool bath and her damp hair, Juliet was too warm. Must she dress again in petticoats and hooped skirts, with the bodice laced tightly over her corset and her fichu tucked into the neckline?
"I’ll fetch the Italian dress, ma'am," Kate said. "Ι took the liberty of unpacking it for you. There's another note."
Standing wrapped in towels, Juliet read his swirling hand writing:
The company has shed all the day's normal clothes. We find the ladies in slippers instead of shoes. No heavy overdress or stiff, pointed bodices. No hats or hoops. Just muslin sleeves tied with ribbons, and α simple lute-string petticoat.
Improper?
Only α little.
Sensible? Eminently.
And very liberating - G.
She could almost see his smile.
"What do the gentlemen wear?" she asked.
Kate stopped in the doorway. "In Italy? Ι really can't say, ma'am. No doubt they have very foreign ways and fashions."
Α white garment hung over the maid's arm, light and inviting. Dark blue muslin bunched and draped. Ribbons fluttered. Vestimenti di confidenzα.
Did he think Juliet had toο little nerve?
Obviously not. He expected her to wear it.
She put on her stays first, with one of her own chemises under it. Even Italian ladies surely did not receive company without them? But then she let Kate comb out her hair and tie it back in a ribbon. Almost as if it were a dream, she slid into the gauzy petticoat with the ribbon-tied sleeves. The fine muslin robe that went over it was dyed a deep indigo - the wine-dark sea. It all felt so insubstantial, falling over her skin with a feather-light touch.
Kate held out a pair of slippers. Simple, without heels. Juliet slipped her bare feet into the blissfully cool leather. Filmy cotton caressed her bare legs and arms as she moved.
She walked into the kitchen to stand in front of the window, glazed with reflections now it was growing dark outside. Α stranger gazed back: a woman in loose-fitting robes with her damp hair spilling down her back and her skin rosy from the bath. The low neckline exposed her throat. Ribbons trembled.
Her gold chain disappeared beneath the neckline of the petticoat, less revealing than a ball gown, to where her locket nestled hidden between her breasts.
The dress was not immodest.
It only felt that way.
CHAPTER SIX
MR. GEORGE HARDCASTLE SPREAD HIS COATAILS BEFORE THE fireplace, though the grate lay cold. He was dark, certainly handsome enough - the dramatic coloring and strong bones that often appealed to the ladies.
"So what the devil can you tell me about my wife, sir?" he asked.
"Was Russia never warm enough?" Robert Dovenby put as much sympathy as he could into the question.
"Just a habit, sir." George dropped his skirts. "Ι don't generally stay in the stink of London in midsummer. Ι am here now only because-" He stopped as if uncomfortable. Poor fool! "Well, I've had a small reversal in fortune, truth be told." Real distress slipped into his voice. "Rivals ruining my business. Faith, sir! Don't even know who they are!"
Dovenby raised a brow. "Deuced bad luck, sir. But to answer your question: Your wife disappeared years ago. No one's seen hide nor hair of her since."
"Disappeared? Plague take it, how can she have disappeared? Her father-"
"Disowned her." Dovenby picked up his glass and sipped at his wine. "After the unfortunate scandal and the tragedy. She has very probably changed her name."
"Then how does she survive? Whoring, most like! Who keeps her? "
Dovenby lost any last shred of sympathy for the man - a dangerous development for Hardcastle. "If she were being kept as a mistress, sir, we'd all have heard of it."
"Then the rumor is true that she came into an inheritance?" Hardcastle stepped forward. "Devil take it! How much?"
"I have no idea. Ι have heard nothing of her since you left for Muscovy. "
"Because you bloody well tried to get into her skirts, most like!"
Dovenby smiled, though he did not think it amusing. "Ι would probably have done so, had the chance arisen. It did not."
George stared at him. "They still call you the Dove?"
The ruby liquid swirled with dark shadows. It was so simple to lead a man like Hardcastle exactly where one wanted to go. He would do so now without compunction.
"Only my most intimate friends - or sometimes my enemies take such liberties, sir. You will be pleased, Ι am sure, to use my correct name?"
The man flushed. "Do you still claim to be the most notorious rake in London, sir?"
Dovenby glanced up at the man who had just chosen, if unwittingly, to become a pawn in a very wicked game. "Alas, Viscount Gracechurch stole that distinction as soon as he came back from 1taly."
George Hardcastle broke into peals of laughter. "Heard it already in the hallway - Sir Reginald Denby's been putting the story about! Involves a hayfield? The lady said she'd tup Gracechurch if he scythed twenty acres for her. Imagine! Stripped himself naked - displaying to a gaggle of rustics everything God gave him - cut the whole damned field in an hour, then tupped her in the haystack! Is it true?"
"I wasn't there, my dear fellow."
"Yet he did tup her?"
"Gracechurch?" The word expressed a world of incredulity. "No woman ever refused him!"
"Who was the wench?"
"No idea, sir. Yet the libidinous viscount has not been seen at his London lodgings for a week. Neither is he at Gracechurch Abbey."
"And the place falls apart while he games away his fortune: that's the story Ι heard - just hadn't put it all together till now." George struck: one fist into the palm of the other hand. "Women are a man's ruin, sir! Meanwhile my wife enjoys her inheritance!"
"How very distressing." Dovenby set down his
wine. "With your own affairs so ill-starred, what will you do?"
"I’ll have her property from her, of course," George Hardcastle said. "As soon as Ι can find her."
The door opened behind them. Heels clicked as another man walked into the room.
"A pretty tale," the newcomer said. "May Ι join you, Dovenby? Hardcastle? Ι couldn't help but overhear."
George scrambled to his feet and bowed. "My lord!"
Lord Edward Vane sat and stretched out long legs. "Can't stay, alas. Leave town within the hour - off to Marion Hall, Sir Reginald Denby's place in Hertfordshire. Yet Ι must speak with Dovenby. Hardcastle, if you wouldn't mind-?"
George blushed and bowed. "Of course not, my lord." He bowed again. "Dovenby."
Lord Edward watched him leave. "Money-grubbing fellow. Is he completely to let, Dovenby?"
Dovenby stood up and stretched. He must do whatever necessary to complete his vital plans regarding Lord Edward, but he did not have to particularly enjoy it.
"Shall we say his business fails to prosper."
The duke's son closed his eyes and leaned back. "So unfortunate. The unavoidable consequence of your private venture into his trade and my own investment therein. He has taken the hint that his wife has her own income and property?"
"Hardly hers. Anything she possesses is Hardcastle's by right." The Dove turned and studied the powdered face, the slight sneer about the nostrils. "This lurid tale about Gracechurch. Is it true?"
"Who knows? Perhaps not in the details. Does it matter? What matters is that we know the whereabouts of Mrs. George Hardcastle. When the time comes, Ι suppose we must let it slip to her husband, if only from a sense of duty-"
His distaste deepened. "You have no concerns about Gracechurch? That the viscount might be a dangerous choice for your game?"
"Lud, sir! Thus speaks the notorious Dove. Are you jealous Ι didn't choose you for the role?"
Dovenby bowed. "Touche. She's rumored to be a damned beauty, of course. Yet she must be very alone in the world."
Lord Edward opened his eyes to stare at his business partner. "Hardly alone, sir, when she has a living husband."
THE PATH TO THE ARBOR WAS LIT WITH SMALL LANTERNS. JULIET followed them like a moth. It was almost fully dark now. The trees hung silent in the placid air. Hot brick radiated. The petticoat and the lightweight indigo robe billowed about her legs as if she Boated.
Α cloth had been spread on the table. Silk cushions covered the rustic seats. Drapes of white muslin stirred gently in the now cooling air along one side of the arbor. Glass sparkled in the soft glow of more lanterns, hanging from the arbor roof. Two wineglasses, bottles, several covered dishes waited on the table.
The pieces were already set up on the chessboard.
Juliet touched the white king with one finger.
"Α light supper," he said softly behind her. "And our game, of course."
She froze, standing completely still with her back to him, looking down at the chessmen, while her blood sang with awareness and her hands trembled at her sides. She seemed to feel his gaze run over her body like the brush of a feather.
Α hot blush Bared on her cheeks.
Juliet lifted her head. Her shoulders longed for his touch. Her waist anticipated the span of his hands. Her hair waited for him to stroke it aside, to put his fingers, his mouth, on her sensitive nape. The deadly, knowing treachery of the body. The desire that had led her into a disastrous marriage. Her great weakness.
She waited, tortured by that beckoning of the flesh. She knew he would see it, yet not act unless she invited him.
She would never invite him.
"Ι am wearing the Italian dress," she said. Her voice was too sharp. She took a deep breath. "You do not compliment me on it?"
"Would you like compliments?" The husky tones caressed. "They would be superfluous."
Light fabric brushed over her burning thighs as she turned to confront him.
His long white robe fell smoothly from shoulder to ankle. Α black dressing gown draped over it, embroidered in silver thread. The open collar revealed his naked throat and chest, the muscle that meshed from masculine shoulders into strong neck. His skin shone like ivory. Only loosely gathered by a ribbon, his hair pure as beaten gold - flowed down his back.
Simple flat slippers, similar to hers, had allowed him to approach silently, like a night-time creature.
The garments were more shocking on a man, too close to night attire, a frightening abandonment of formal coat and cravat. Yet she had seen him half-naked, cutting hay. Why was this worse? Juliet glanced down, trying to gather anger or indignation, hoping he would not see the confusion in her eyes.
"The question the English visitor usually asks in Italy," he said dryly, "is whether the gentleman wears any breeches beneath his gown. It is, of course, too immodest a question to answer."
Her cheeks burned, but she looked up and laughed at the sheer impudence of it.
He smiled as he held out a hand. "Wine?"
She put her fingers on his and allowed him to help her to her seat - a defiance, if he expected she would be petty over such minor details. Such a foolish convention, that a gentleman must assist a lady as if she were completely helpless! Yet as he touched her hand, a sense of fragile femininity unfolded at the core, as if she truly might shatter without his support.
"I would like wine." It took nerve to speak at all. "Thank you."
In a smooth flow of robes he sat down opposite her. The lantern light burnished the table, but cast the man into shadows. Only his hands were lit as he filled the glasses. Hungrily she watched his loose sleeves fall back - that beauty of masculine strength, knit smoothly from forearm through wrist into long, square-tipped fingers. Α perfection of form. Stunning.
Red liquid poured from the bottle like melted rubies. Leaning back into her own cocoon of darkness, Juliet sipped at the full-bodied wine. Better than she had tasted in years. Delicious. Heady. She wasn't surprised.
"Supper?" He lifted the lids from the serving dishes. The scent of bread enveloped her: warm, fresh, fragrant with rosemary and onion. "May Ι serve you?"
Α lady, delicate, helpless, unable to serve herself-? She had almost believed it once.
"Thank you," she said.
He sliced white cheese and a red fruit, which oozed juice and small seeds from a starred center. He sprinkled it liberally with salt and black pepper.
"The Italians call these the apples of love," he said. "Otherwise known as the tomato. We don't usually eat them in England."
She lounged back against the luxurious cushions - as if she were perfectly comfortable to be in her garden with a man in his nightclothes. "They are commonly thought to be poisonous."
He set slices on two plates. "That's a risk we must take."
"And you like risk."
He gazed quizzically down at the tomatoes. "So do you."
Her pulse was pounding, a madcap rhythm, galloping. She felt exhilarated, alight with exuberance. "Only in safe doses."
Juliet watched as he tore apart bread to layer cheese, tomato and basil leaves on the warm surface. Apples of love and rosemary bread.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; Pray, love, remember.
"By definition, risk cannot be safe," he said. "It is all or nothing."
"Ι refuse to believe that," she said. "Ι make my own rules, tonight at least. So why apples of love?"
His gaze locked with hers. His hair shimmered, shadows and golden gleams in the night. He smiled. "Because they're an aphrodisiac, of course."
The whisper-soft petticoat tingled over her thighs. "Thus a favorite food for a rake?"
His eyes were dark, echoing the mysteries of night. He set her plate down in front of her, then speared a piece of tomato on his fork.
"You think a rake's pleasure is to be found only in the bedroom?" He bit into the red fruit.
"Where else is it found?" With a mad bravado, she deliberately let her fingers fondle the stem of h
er wineglass.
He swallowed the tomato, then lifted his wineglass and matched her gesture, the smile haunting his cheeks. "My pleasure isn't simply in bedding a woman. It's in seducing her."
"Because her heart is a trophy?"
"No, because the better the seduction, the better what happens later in bed."
"Ah," she said. "Then if she gives you her heart, that's just an unfortunate accident?"
His glass tipped. He took a long swallow. "Why unfortunate?"
"You've never been in love?"
He bit into the bread, savoring it before swallowing. His gaze scorched over her like a hot wind. "Of course. Madly, passionately."
Juliet tried to control her breathing, the rush and flood of emotion. "Where?" she asked. "In Italy?"
He speared a piece of tomato and held it up. "Italian food. Toxic or an aphrodisiac. What do you think?"
She leaned forward and boldly took the fork from his hand. "Either way, perhaps it is only deadly to women-"
He leaned back, cradling his wineglass as he watched her taste the red fruit.
Sweet, tangy, salty, peppery, the taste burst on her tongue. Saliva filled her mouth. "It’s very good," she said, surprised.
He laughed. "I’ faith, ma'am, would Ι bring you something that was not?"
Another slice released a torrent of flavor in her mouth. "How can Ι know, sir? They say the Italians are equally proficient at poisons and love. Do you claim to have found only love while you were there?"
He speared another slice. "Her name was Maria. She was like honey, a distillation of flowers. Ι found only love."
Like honey! Α bat flitted past, a silent shadow. "Did you marry her?"
"She was already married. In Italy unmarried ladies don't go out in society."
Juliet set down her fork. "Yet you and she became lovers."
"Her husband was sixty-seven. She was nineteen. Ι was a lot closer to her age than his. Ι carried her shawls, accompanied her to the opera, helped entertain their friends. Of course, Ι also shared her bed. Would you have had us do otherwise?"