Lady Vice

by Wendy Lacapra

  “I’d like nothing more than to be with Mr. Harrison.” Anguish started in Lavinia’s lungs and spread to her belly. Selfishly, she wanted more time to bask in his love before destroying his good opinion. “But Emma, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about the brothel. He doesn’t know about me. I-I do not know how he will react.”

  Emma grabbed both her shoulders. “Tell him and do not fear. If he is your man, he will not see you as sullied. His anger will be directed at Vaile and Montechurch.”

  Lavinia drew together her brows. “So simple an answer?”

  “Men are simple creatures.” Emma kissed her cheek. “You needn’t use the passage if you do not wish.”

  “I haven’t any idea what I am going to do,” Lavinia said, still staring at the panel.

  “I know where I’d place my wager,” Emma said with a chuckle. “And now, I will toddle off.”

  Lavinia stayed rooted to the carpet and heard the door click closed. Rudely, she had not even thought to thank her hostess for the chocolate…or anything else.

  Should she pull the lever? Was she ready? How would Max react if she suddenly appeared in his sleeping chamber? And why, all of a sudden, did breathing hurt?

  If she opened the panel, she would most likely meet Max’s very scandalized valet. She placed her ear against the wall. She could hear no sounds from the room beyond. Perhaps he was not even there.

  The old duke had passed on more than ten years ago. Perhaps the mechanism had rusted. No use worrying about a trick door if the trick door no longer tricked. She grasped the lever and pulled. The panel popped.

  Lavinia froze as if caught. Silence. Her heart climbed a ladder to her throat, fluttering in the place where she swallowed. She leaned to the side and peered around the edge. Darkness.

  She yanked a nub in the cornice. Pain ricocheted up her arm, but the panel refused to budge. She pulled with concentrated effort—still nothing. Disappointment doused the fledgling flames of excitement.

  She bit her nail and stepped back to examine. She tested the hinge. Ah. The panel did not swing open like a door—it created a passage with a twist. She moved to the edge of the panel and pushed. In one swift, creaking swoosh, she landed on a thick carpet.

  Hesitantly, she stared up at the foot of Max’s bed. Wood in the fire would be a terrible extravagance for an empty room, unless Max was expected soon. She inhaled the scent of the crackling flame and something else—the warm, comforting scent of Max himself.

  Every rule-forged instinct screamed get out.

  No. She was finished playing by the rules for everyone else’s benefit. She closed the panel and brushed off her skirts. Slowly, she made her way to the bed.

  All she wanted to do was touch his pillow. Silly, really.

  She brushed light fingers over an absolutely stunning, golden bedcovering. She leaned over the bed and placed her cheek against incredibly soft fabric. What harm would come if she enjoyed the comfort of his mattress?

  Naturally, she would leave everything just as it had been when she came.

  She climbed atop the bed, sank into the feathered mattress, and closed her eyes…

  Chapter Nineteen

  Max fell against his chamber door with a silent, shuddering sigh.

  Tucked into the shell of his bed, and gleaming like a rare pearl, rested the object of his lifelong fascination. His golden bedcovering cast a warm glow on her cheek and her light brown hair—finally the natural, unpowdered color he remembered—spread over his pillow in waves of inviting silk. She lay still, protected by sleep’s gentle arms.

  He placed his hand on his valet’s shoulder in a thankful pat.

  “I appreciate your discretion,” he said. “Geste needn’t be informed. I will resolve the issue.”

  “I thought you would know what to do,” his valet replied, without physical sign of the smirk threaded through his tone. “Would you like me to take that to your study?”

  Max glanced down at the forgotten parcel beneath his arm. “No.” He placed the package on the floor just inside the door. “You may go.”

  His valet bowed before discreetly disappearing.

  Lavinia inhaled, curled her hand underneath her neck, and turned onto her back.

  Max closed his door, hardly breathing. Did he, as his valet said, know what to do? Cautiously, he approached the bedside.

  Yes, she was real.

  How had she managed to get in? Truthfully, he did not care. His arms ached for her weight, and his fingers tingled in expectation of her hair’s softness. The reflection of the fire danced across her face. Why was she always in shadow? Lavinia deserved light.

  He sank to his knees by the bedside, his spirit pleading for a divine blessing.

  As a prisoner, he had stopped praying. The absence of hope had robbed not only his present, but his future. Day after day he had huddled in the same dark cell, with the same rank odors stinging his nostrils and the same echoing drip lacerating the silence.

  Existing had become a punishment. The only levy between him and complete despair had been his memories of Lavinia.

  He’d strung together pieces of her—a chip of fantasy here, a bead of memory there—weaving an imaginary landscape. When finished, his nights had become life and his days, nightmare. The world he had created had been so vivid, all he’d needed to do was close his eyes, and he’d see Lavinia in just this fashion…her body limp and pliant and her pale skin glistening, beckoning his touch.

  Perhaps that world had been a different kind of prayer, a future he had promised God he’d seize if he survived.

  Here, finally by her side, he prayed a single word into the darkness of his heart—please.

  “Vinia,” he whispered.

  She blinked in hazed sleepiness. Her dark eyes came to life with ease, as if she woke to his face every morning.

  “You,” she whispered back.

  “Me.”

  “Oh,” she said, stretching in an unintentionally seductive twist. Embarrassed, she squeezed her eyes closed as a flush spread over her cheeks. “This is your bed.”

  Yes, his bed. The awareness rested thick and heavy in his groin. His lust bellowed in parched thirst. But he owed Lavinia what remained of the gentleman, not a panting barbarian.

  “I have imagined you like this many times.” He doubted she had any idea how her faint echo of a smile made knots of his tendons. He clasped his hands together and rested his chin atop, for extra measure.

  “Do I meet your expectations?” she asked.

  “No.” The corner of his lip turned up as her smile disappeared. “You exceed them.”

  Her blush deepened, spilling down her neck. She lowered her eyes and brushed his bedcovering with her fingertips.

  “Anything would look beautiful on this,” she said with a shy and uncertain quiver.

  He understood her reticence—how could they settle into a minuet of familiar lovers when, for so long, they had lived in fantasia, playing extemporaneous chords of aspiration and memory? Years yawned between their present experience and the solid ground of their prior connection.

  She picked at a thread, nervous and searching. “Where did you find this fabric?”

  “India.” He waited, but no squalid, bleak images assaulted. Instead, his memory infused with the scent of spice and the sound of children’s laughter. “A weaver made this for a Raja, but the palace declined. Later, he bartered with me, exchanging the fabric for a copy of Gulliver’s Travels and lessons in English.”

  “But teaching the locals to read is illegal.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Very illegal.”

  “Enlightening.” She raised her brows, her expression at once teasing and hopeful. “You, who are always so good, can break a law.”

  “Yes, when the law is unjust.” He tucked a curl behind her ear and held her eyes. “When I said you’d shown remarkable resourcefulness, I meant it. The law failed to protect you. I won’t.”

  “How can you be so certain when we are near-strangers?” She gl
anced up, eyes pleading with him to deny the lost years.

  “We are not strangers.” We are lovers. But they weren’t, not yet. “We are old friends who will come to know each other again.”

  A log in the fire snapped.

  “Will you tell me of India?”

  Max sucked in and bit his lip. He never spoke of those days. Different images flashed before his eyes, some beautiful, some terrifying. The song of India played like a visual concerto, sometimes dissonant, always dense.

  “India,” he sighed, “was a daily lesson in contrasts.”

  She rolled her head to one side and examined him thoughtfully. “Is that all you are going to say?”

  “No.” He braced himself on the bedpost. “Do you mind if I remove my cravat? The heat is stifling.”

  “This is your chamber.” A bemused smile graced her lips. “You must do as you please.”

  If she knew what he pleased, she would not be so glib. Her eyes followed him as he removed his neckcloth. The top of his shirt fell open and a welcome rush of cooler air eased the heat. He shrugged off his waistcoat.

  “Where was I?”

  “Here.” She inched to the side.

  He accepted her invitation and sank into the mattress. He leaned his cheek against the pillow and ran one of her stray curls through his fingers.

  He had lived before having Lavinia in his bed—but how and why?

  “One day,” he sighed, “I will thrill you with stories of haze rising over flat and dusty plains. I will tell you of court splendor, grand enough to shame our palaces. India has wealth unimaginable—bejeweled tombs, spires of marble, red stone forts, the finest silks and linens.” He lifted her hand and rubbed his thumb over the back of it. “In some towns, chants waft through the early morning air. The low intonations could resurrect an atheist’s belief in God.”

  “Beautiful.” Lavinia snuggled close. “There’s the Max I remember.” She threaded her fingers through his. “But what of your time in prison? Does it haunt you?”

  “Haunt,” he repeated, fixing his gaze to the ceiling, “is an excellent description.” If she had been anyone else, he would have lied. She was his Vinia, however, and she had known fear. Together, they would find new ground and new strength. “Sometimes”—He rolled to his side to see her face—“when I am in a confined space, I must remind myself I am not in danger.”

  Pain flashed over her features.

  “Sometimes,” he continued, “I struggle to maintain a gentleman’s façade. A beast lives in me, a dark rage I struggle to master.”

  He braced for her to recoil. Instead, she kissed his cheek.

  “Were there more men taken, or was it only you?”

  The beast urged him to cover the scent of his past as if he were hunting in the jungle. Once she knew about Sullivan, the pieces would fall together—the trip to Vauxhall, Sullivan’s appearance on her steps. He swung back and forth in the in-between.

  But he could not lie and build a future.

  “Wynchester’s brother was among those taken,” he said, finally. “Though in the end, Sullivan and I were the only two who remained.”

  The understanding he feared dawned in her eyes. “You knew Mr. Sullivan in India?”

  “Yes.” Her muscles constricted. “Your suspicions were correct. On my request he’s been following you since the night of Vaile’s murder.”

  She sat straight but he kept hold of her fingers.

  “Max.” She said his name with sorrowful disappointment.

  “You would not confide in me, even though you had no cause for worry.”

  “I am the better judge of that, don’t you think?” Her dark eyes held still, utterly unreadable. “You stole my opportunity to trust you.”

  “The inquest’s immediacy won against my better reason.” He rubbed her knuckles. “If you recall, you trusted Thea and Sophia and Randolph and held yourself apart from me.”

  “So neither of us is trustworthy?” Her eyes flickered and then fell. “Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of the boy you were, and I am warm and at ease. Sometimes, like now, I see only the man.”

  “This man is your servant and your sword, remember? You have nothing to fear.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps you should fear me. Vaile left a rotted mess”—she touched her forehead—“in here.”

  Her pain sung on him as a bow draws sound from strings. “I know Vaile made you go to a brothel,” he said carefully. “I heard your conversation with Iphigenia.”

  “Iphi—” She shut her lips, eyes wide. “At Vauxhall? Oh no, please say you didn’t hear everything.”

  “When you ran off I was stunned—stunned and angry. I had failed in my search until that woman led me to you.”

  She remained alert, frozen like a hunted hare.

  The package by his door fairly screamed in accusation. “Today, I went back to Vaile House. I saw your dressing room and the display of the Graces.”

  “Oh God!” She pulled her hands away and squeezed her eyes closed. She balled up like a wounded animal.

  He placed a tentative hand on the back of her neck and touched his forehead to hers.

  “There have been whispers about Vaile,” he said, quiet and calm, “but I never believed he would bring home his madness. I thought your marriage had simply been unhappy. If I had known the extent of his perfidy, I would have challenged him to meet me at dawn.”

  “If you hate me…” her dressing gown muffled her voice, “I understand.”

  “I do not hate you.”

  She raised her face. “Then you must not understand. I went to a brothel, Max. I let men watch while Vaile and I—”

  “Shh.” He placed a finger on her lips. “I know.”

  She sniffed. “You won’t let me speak because I disgust you.”

  “You do not disgust me. He disgusts me. Not you.” Get this right. Get this right. “There’s no need to torment yourself with dark remembrances, but if you wish to speak, I will listen.” He thrust aside his heart’s insistent pounding. He took her right hand in both of his, carefully cradling her fingers.

  “How can you possibly understand?”

  “I know what having no choice means.” Holding her gaze, he lowered his lips to her knuckles and kissed, vowing fealty through his eyes like a knight to a lord. “Again I say: your sword and your servant.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I may be battered, but I am yours.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Her servant and her sword. What had she done to deserve such loyalty?

  For years, Lavinia had kept her secrets in tight and aching fingers. Full of ardent devotion, Max urged her to release all into his keeping.

  He had capable hands. But this time, would he remain constant? Would he stay with her, no matter what?

  If she could let go, trust his word and the feeling between them, she would willingly offer up all her secrets, along with her heart, soul, and body. But first, she had to force her hand to open.

  “You are so beautiful,” he breathed, his spring-green eyes pure as thimbleweed petals.

  Remembered whispers from darker times snaked over her skin.

  “Like a statue is beautiful?” she asked, in a whisper.

  “No.” He hummed in displeasure as his gaze crisscrossed her face. “My Vinia is not made of stone. My Vinia has skin that speaks to me, and her eyes sparkle with every known sentiment.”

  “Max,” she said.

  Too much light. Like a night creature, she shrank into shadow and left the light to him.

  “Please do not withdraw,” he said.

  She did not want to withdraw. She wanted the gates she’d kept closed to remain open. She wanted to walk through them and enter his world of light and love.

  Creases fanned out from the corners of his eyes. In them, she read the years he had spent alone. Hers, terrible as it had been, had been only half a story. Perhaps the world of light and love was not his, but was a possibility that could be theirs together.

&
nbsp; She recalled Emma’s words—If he is your man, he will not see you as sullied.

  Could he see the truth in her, just as in him, she could see beyond the years that had left him battered?

  In the moment of her worst crisis, he had been so far away—unreachable, no better than a creature born of a dream. He had suffered through his own hell. Heal me, he had demanded in Vauxhall’s inky wood. Could she?

  His wounds were deep. She touched his cheek, rough with the day’s stubble. Without the greatest care, she risked driving them deeper.

  The years they had lost swirled about her like smoke from an uncut wick; their twisting twirls tempted her to banish them. When Max had needed a reason to breathe, he had turned to his memories of her, just as she had turned to her memories of him. There was hope, wasn’t there?

  Slowly, she opened, leaning toward him. She prayed, give me strength to heal us both, as, she caressed his lips with hers, soft as summer rose petals.

  “Mmmm, did that feel like disgust?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered.

  The hint of a smile flirted with his lips.

  “What about this?” He held her neck in a firm grip while his warm mouth tantalized, promising pleasure beyond her experience.

  Her body alternated between hot and cold, as if she were standing in the doorway of an ice house on a sultry summer day.

  “This situation could deteriorate quickly,” she said.

  “I would like nothing better,” he drawled, eyes lazy and hooded.

  Her feminine places—nipples and lower—grew vital, raw, and pleading. She moaned, soft and low and permeated with longing.

  Could she go where they were headed?

  “Max, I am not sure. I mean, I am sure but I cannot promise—”

  “Shh.” Slowly, he kneaded her neck and shoulders. “I want nothing you are not ready to give. We have a lifetime to discover each other.”

  What lifetime, when the reflection of flames on his ceiling might be prescient?

  “Petty treason,” she reminded.

  He paused and then smoothed away the wrinkle in her forehead.

  “I will not allow them to take you from me. I will spirit you to the continent—and then on to some tropic land. We can begin anew.”