Ecstasy Wears Emeralds

by Renee Bernard

  “I’m thinking that sometimes it’s good to be wrong.”

  “Is it?”

  She nodded.

  “And what were you wrong about, Mrs. West?” He planted a kiss on the nape of her neck, working his way down in a sizzling trail of fire as he tasted her skin.

  “I was wrong to think bonnets were better than husbands.”

  He nodded, nuzzling the soft indent behind her ear. “So long as you intend to have just one husband, I’ll agree.”

  Gayle sighed, leaning back against him. “And you were wrong about Caroline not having any more babies. . . .”

  He stopped and turned her about to face him. “Was I? Did she say anything to you or are you guessing?”

  Gayle put her hands on her hips. “She confided it just now and she’s going to tell Ashe tonight. It’s a miracle, Rowan.”

  “I don’t believe in miracles.”

  “I forgot. You don’t.” She tilted her head to one side, assessing the serious cloud overtaking his countenance. “But luckily, you aren’t in charge, so it seems they’re going to have a baby whether you believe they can or not.”

  He pulled a hand through his hair, and Gayle recognized his anxiety with new eyes. “It’s dangerously soon after her illness. There could be so much damage internally, and arsenic is a known hemorrhagic agent that this—”

  “Rowan! The woman is glowing with health and happiness, and from where I am standing, she is young and has every prospect of delivering a very beautiful baby. Your friend is already worried about her every hiccup. You Jaded are not an . . . optimistic club, are you?”

  Rowan shook his head. “Not naturally.”

  She reached up to frame his face with her hands, cherishing him for the care and concern for his friends that made him so serious. “Dr. West, if you don’t believe in miracles, then what do you believe in?”

  “Fate, my love. I believe in Fate.”

  And that a man’s luck can change!

  A Note to Readers

  Gayle Renshaw is only a few years ahead of the true-life female pioneers who tried to break into the extremely male world of British medical practice. Elizabeth Blackwell was the first woman to be accepted onto the medical registers in Britain in 1858, but she was educated in the United States and received her medical degree there. After she registered in London thanks to a loophole in the Registry Act, the loophole was promptly “repaired” to prevent the disaster of more women getting any ideas about following in her footsteps. It wasn’t until the 1870s that the real battle began, and again, universities would aggressively change their policies to try to prevent women from gaining the credentials they needed to become licensed physicians.

  Even Florence Nightingale, who championed the role of the nurse and pushed for higher standards in care, was horrified at the thought of women becoming physicians. She saw women as apt nurses because of the perfect fit of their obedient and submissive natures and nurturing instincts to the sickroom. She was sure that ignorance in medical matters for nurses was a way to guarantee that a doctor’s will would reign supreme in diagnosis and provide better patient care (without any debates or silly ideas from the help!).

  Women who expressed interest in practicing medicine were seen as an aberration, as though they were going against nature, and they were violently opposed at every turn. (Women who tried to walk into clinical classrooms had filth hurled at them—literally and figuratively—as educated men became abusive bullies defending their turf.)

  But as Gayle and Rowan discussed, the more that women were treated as separate beings requiring special medical care different than their male counterparts, ironically, the wider the door became for women to step in and become qualified to provide care for their peers. And once that barrier was down . . . well, the rest is history.

  Even if medical history isn’t “your thing,” I encourage anyone interested in feminism or women’s studies to take a look. If the past is a window into our future, then it never hurts to draw back the curtains and see just what we’ve overcome. ;-)

  For all my medical references, I used: Health, Medicine, and Society in Victorian England by Mary Wilson Carpenter, Anatomy and Physiology, Second Edition, by William F. Evans, and The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Healing Remedies by C. Norman Shealy, MD, PhD. Also, let’s not forget the wonderful gift from my dear husband, Deadly Doses: A Writer’s Guide to Poisons by Serita Deborah Stevens with Anne Klarner.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  the next Jaded Gentleman novel

  by Renee Bernard

  Passion Wears Pearls

  Coming May 2012 from Berkley Sensation!

  Chapter

  1

  As she reached the landing, she saw him standing in front of the fireplace, silhouetted by the orange glow. Broad shouldered and lean, she was struck by the long lines of him and the latent power there. His light brown hair was far too long and tied back in a loose queue with a strip of leather, but the old-world style suited him. It made him look more rugged and otherworldly, just as an artist should, she imagined.

  She cleared her throat to alert the man to her presence. “Mr. Hastings,” she said. “I’ve kept you waiting.”

  “You didn’t know I was coming, so how is that possible?” he countered with a smile. “It was only a few minutes.”

  Eleanor allowed the lie, flattered that he would go to such trouble. “I’m pleased to see you again, Mr. Hastings, if only to thank you once more for your kindness, but also to see if there is some way to rectify the arrangements.”

  “Is your apartment not comfortable enough? Mrs. Clay has a reputation for being accommodating, but if you’re not happy here, I can look for something else.”

  “No, you misunderstand. It’s very comfortable and far too luxurious for what I can afford.”

  “It costs you nothing. Surely that isn’t too taxing for your purse?”

  “Mr. Hastings, I cannot allow you to pay for my lodgings. It isn’t proper.”

  His look was pure innocence, as if the concept was new. “Mrs. Clay is simply repaying me for a favor by offering you a room until you’re on your feet.”

  “I do not like to feel cornered, Mr. Hastings.”

  All playful pretense fell away, and he squared his shoulders like a man facing sentence. “You aren’t.”

  “Let me be frank. I am at my wit’s end, sir. My reserves are . . . If I described them as dwindling, it would be kind. I’m not ungrateful for what you’ve done, for what you’re doing for me, but . . .”

  “Say it, Miss Beckett.”

  “I need to know why. Is this some scheme to ensnare me? Have you an ulterior motive for your generosity?”

  “I’ve kept nothing from you. I’ve never lied about my interests.” Josiah sighed. “I only want to paint you; that desire is unchanged. But honestly, after getting to know you and seeing how determined you are to protect your reputation—I’m not sure if I’ve done you a disservice already. A thousand chaperones wouldn’t protect you from the wicked imaginations and cruel tongues of people who will hear only that you modeled for me.”

  Eleanor couldn’t hide her shock at his confession. “You’re withdrawing your offer?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m letting you know that I’m aware of the price you’ll pay for agreeing. I’m letting you know that I’m not oblivious to the dilemma I’ve presented. But if anything, I’m renewing that offer, Miss Beckett. I am more determined than ever not to lose this chance. And as for the cost of your room and board . . .”

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “If you agree to sit for me, then if you wish, like your previous employer, I can deduct the cost of a room from your wages.”

  “And if I don’t agree to sit for you?”

  “Then you can find something you like better and live wherever you wish at my expense. I’ll still insist on helping you, and we can carry on the argument about unwarranted charity and pride later.”

  There was a long pause
as she nervously reached up to try to smooth down a cold, wet curl that had strayed onto her cheek. “I like it here.”

  “Then you should have your tea while it’s still hot, and we can see about a satisfying dinner for us both.”

  “I have never eaten dinner alone with a man, Mr. Hastings. I’m not sure if it’s—”

  “Proper?” he completed her sentence. “You have to eat, Miss Beckett. We can ask the server to stay, if that’s better.”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, that was foolish. You’ve already saved my life and I can’t keep insisting that it isn’t proper to trust you.”

  He smiled. “Thank you.” He rang the bell for the serving man, who answered the summons almost immediately. Josiah ordered for them both as if to give her time to gird herself for the next debate. Once they were alone, he leaned back in his chair. “May I ask you a personal question, Miss Beckett?”

  “I suppose.” She was wary, taking new measure of her handsome petitioner. His honesty was disarming and she was struggling to come up with firm objections to a man who offered the solution to all her present difficulties.

  “How did you come to work for Madame Claremont?”

  “It’s a long story and a bit complicated.” Eleanor looked away embarrassed, but then lifted her chin. “My father was quite successful in his business until things took a turn for the worse two years ago. He was a chemist and an inventor and came up with an array of new smelling salts that might be vaguely pleasing to the customer.”

  “Sounds like a clever idea. Not that I’ve ever been in the market for them, but I can see the appeal.”

  She gave him a skeptical look, but continued calmly. “He’d invested everything in them, but his partner stole the formulas and patented them as his own to sell to a drug company all too happy with the potential profits.”

  “Your father must have had some legal recourse.”

  She nodded. “He did, and the lawyers were also all too happy to take the last of my father’s money in the pursuit of his case. He kept most of his troubles from us until near the end, borrowing money from disreputable creditors to shield us from any hardships. But then my mother died of influenza. It was too much for him. His heart failed and he followed her within the week.”

  “My God,” he exclaimed softly. “When did all of this take place?”

  “Last summer.” She picked up her teacup, the illusion of her cool composure spoiled by her trembling hands. “The solicitors took everything to settle his debts, legal and domestic, and I was literally turned out. I have no relatives to speak of, and I refuse to impose myself on family friends who had made their indifference clear by their silence when it was discovered that my father’s fortunes had changed.”

  “You have no one?”

  “I am very resourceful, Mr. Hastings. I’ve had a superior education, I possess some skills with a needle, and I’m not the sort of woman to sit helplessly on the floor and lament my fate. I’m not afraid of honest work.”

  “You continually amaze, Miss Beckett.”

  “Why? Because I sought work in a dress shop and discovered I’m as trusting as my father when it comes to other people and their true intentions?”

  “Anyone with a good nature expects to find the same in others. You’re no fool, Miss Beckett, and don’t think for a moment that I’d mistake you for one.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Mr. Hastings.”

  “But it does make things more challenging if you don’t trust your own instincts. I very much want you to sit for me, Miss Beckett. I can’t hide my intentions, nor do I want to, but you will have to trust me.”

  “You really want to paint me?” she asked, lowering her voice at the scandalous subject. “You’re sure?”

  “Is it really so surprising a notion?”

  “I am no great beauty, sir, and there is something . . . awkward . . . about presuming that I am worthy of . . . such attention.” Her skin warmed at the thought of such a man openly staring and studying her for hours on end. It didn’t seem possible to hold anyone’s interest for that period of time, but even so, the way he looked at her now, hungry and wary, eager and cautious—as if he feared she would bolt from the room and spoil his plans, made her want nothing more than to let him look his fill. She wanted to do whatever she could to ease the ache in his expression and please him.

  And that alone was reason enough to refuse him.

  I’m not myself when he looks at me like that. I become another woman who would sit on a dais and preen and hide nothing from him.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.” His command was soft but compelling.

  “I’m wishing I were a stronger person. I’m wishing your offer didn’t appeal.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think saying yes would reveal some great flaw in my character. It will make me less in other people’s eyes.”

  “To hell with what other people think, Miss Beckett.” He leaned forward, the intensity of his gaze pinning her in place. “Say yes and become more. Become your own woman, independent again, and unconcerned with the gossip of small minds. You’ll have the money you need to create any life you desire. If you never broke another rule again for the rest of your life, so be it. But don’t deny me, Eleanor. Help me to achieve this work and I’ll spend an eternity in your debt.”

  Independent again. Any life I desire. It sounds too easy. She took one deep breath, so aware of the sodden weight of her wet wool skirts, the tight icy feel of her leather boots, and even the confines of her corset and clothing. She felt constricted and cold. To turn him down was to embrace a future without promise, as bleak as an English moor. To accept him was to let go of fear and pride and gamble her very soul for the hope of a life with security and comfort again.

  “I am not for sale, Mr. Hastings,” she whispered.

  “I’m not offering to purchase you, Miss Beckett. I would simply pay for the right to look at you, for as long as I wish—for the sole purpose of capturing your likeness.

  And there it was.

  The right to look at you, for as long as I wish.

  “I’m not taking off my . . .” She swallowed hard, unsure of how a person delicately addressed the subject of nudity with such a man. “I won’t pose without . . .”

  “I’ll not ask you to remove a thing against your will.” His brown eyes blazed hotter than the embers of a fire. “And if that was your last objection, I take it that your answer is—”

  “Yes.”

  God help me. Yes.

  Berkley Sensation Titles by Renee Bernard

  REVENGE WEARS RUBIES

  SEDUCTION WEARS SAPPHIRES

  ECSTASY WEARS EMERALDS