“You see, that’s just what I mean,” she murmured. “You always say such charming things.”
“I only say them if they are true, Edie.”
She looked away, shaking her head. “That’s absurd. I don’t see how you’re at my mercy at all.”
He would have been happy to explain how, and in precise detail, but she looked at him and spoke again before he had the chance. “Stuart, may I ask you something?”
The sudden intensity in her voice surprised him. “Of course,” he answered, unable to imagine what she was going to ask. With Edie, it could be anything.
“Did you . . .” She paused and took a swallow of wine, as if she needed it. “Did you have many women when you were in Africa?”
Her jealous streak peeking through again made him smile. As he’d told her last night, if she was jealous, she wasn’t indifferent, and that made all the difference in the world.
She perceived the reason for his smile at once, and she jerked her chin and looked away again. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s not my business.”
“But it is your business. You’re my wife.”
“Still, we had an agreement about other women.” She took another gulp of wine, then set it aside and began brushing grains of sand off of her skirt instead. “So I don’t really have the right to ask about it.”
He studied her bent head, and his amusement faded as he considered her question and realized what needed to be said. “You have the right to ask me anything you like,” he told her, “anytime you like, on any subject, and I’ll answer you. You may not always like the answer, but it will always be the truth. If you really want me to answer that question, I will.”
He waited, and after a moment, her curiosity impelled her to look at him again. “Did you?” she whispered.
“No, Edie, I didn’t have any women in Africa. That’s not to say I was celibate,” he added at once to make things clear. “I wasn’t. I had women, yes. But not in Africa. That’s because—” He broke off, suddenly feeling deuced awkward, but he’d promised her the truth. “Syphilis is very common in Africa. I didn’t want to catch it.”
Pink washed into her cheeks. “Oh.”
“It was usually easier to avoid feminine company altogether, but when things got desperate, I’d go to Paris.”
“So you had a lover in Paris, then?” She gave a diffident little shrug, as if it didn’t matter when he knew it did.
“No, Edie, no. No lovers, no mistresses, nothing of that kind. Only courtesans, and none of them meant anything to me. It was just basic need, physical release—” He stopped, grimacing. This conversation was becoming more awkward by the moment.
She bit her lip and was silent for several seconds, and he had no idea what she was thinking. “It seems an awfully long way to go for a courtesan,” she said at last.
He took a deep breath and told her why. “If a man wants that sort of thing, Paris is the best place to go. It’s easier to obtain condoms and find women who are—” He stopped again, and this time, it was his turn to look away. “God,” he muttered and rubbed his hands over his face, forcing a laugh. “This isn’t the sort of thing a man usually discusses with his wife.”
“No, I suppose not.”
He decided to steer the conversation to aspects of Paris’s appeal that were easier to talk about. “But it wasn’t just about women. I also had friends there. Trubridge was living in Paris then, sharing a house with Jack Featherstone. They’ve both been great friends of mine since Eton days. We’d carouse around, gamble, drink, and yes, chase skirts.” He paused, then added, “You may not believe this, but whenever I was in Paris, I thought about coming all the way home. But I could never see the point of it. Not as things stood.”
“No,” she agreed. “There wouldn’t have been any point. And thank you for being honest with me about the other women. I appreciate that it’s a difficult subject.”
He felt impelled to lighten the mood. “Yes, well, next thing I know, you’ll be asking me what a condom is, and I shall really be in the suds.”
“Oh, heavens, no.” She waved that aside with one hand. “I already know what a condom is.”
“You do?” That took him back. “Dash it, Edie, you didn’t even know what a lesbian was until I told you. How in hell do you know what a condom is?”
“I’m a married woman, Stuart. Married women talk about these things.”
“I see.”
“My friends told me all about condoms ages ago. One or two even suggested I might need some and offered to obtain them for me. With you away and all that, they thought I might want male companionship.”
“Indeed?” He began to feel a bit nettled. “Who are these friends? I’m not sure you should associate with them, Edie, really. Did they have any specific males in mind for this companionship?”
He could hear the testy note in his own voice. She heard it, too, and she pounced on it at once. “Now you’re the one who’s jealous.”
“I’m not,” he denied at once.
“You are!” She laughed as if astonished. “You really are.”
“All right, yes. A bit. There,” he added, as she laughed again. “Satisfied? Feel you’ve gotten a bit of your own back now? That we’re on more equal footing?”
“Yes,” she confessed, her smile the radiant one he liked so much. “I do, rather.”
“Good. Now that I’ve answered your questions, there’s something I want to know.” He eased closer to her on the blanket, and her smile faded away, but he decided that the sacrifice was worth it when he was close enough that his knee brushed her hip, and his body was beginning to burn. “I want to know if these friends of yours told you the truly important things. Such as how luscious lovemaking can be if it’s done properly.”
The pink in her cheeks deepened. She looked down, apparently still too shy about this subject to hold his gaze. To his surprise, however, she answered his question. “From the way they talked, I could tell they all thought it was nice.”
“Nice?” he echoed in disbelief. “That’s all they said?”
“Most of them seemed to think it a very pleasant thing.”
“Rather like a hot water bottle, in fact,” he murmured.
She didn’t seem to perceive the hint of sarcasm. “Some of them said it was deuced good fun. I didn’t see how any of that could be so, but I never said anything.”
“And now? After last night, do you think you might be starting to appreciate their point of view?”
“Last night?” she murmured, clearly trying to pretend she didn’t know what he meant, but she still did not look at him. Instead, she pretended a vast interest in brushing bits of grass off her skirt. “Did something happen last night?”
“And you say you don’t flirt? Edie, you are flirting with me right now.” He bent his knee, deliberately rubbing it against her hip, savoring his own awakening lust, playing with fire. “Tell me more of what your friends told you about lovemaking, for I refuse to believe nice, pleasant, and fun were their only descriptions.” He leaned in until his forehead touched the wide brim of her hat. “Did they tell you what bliss it is to be kissed and caressed?”
Only the lower half of her face was visible, so he couldn’t look into her eyes, but he saw her lips part, quivering just a little, and that was encouragement enough. He pressed on, teasing her as he tortured himself. “Did they tell you that you can lift a man to ecstasy or drive him down to despair? That you can transform him to a beggar? Or make him feel like a king?” He ducked his head beneath her hat to look in her eyes. “You could do all of that to me, Edie. If you wanted to. That’s why I’m at your mercy.”
He heard her catch her breath. In her face was all the wariness he was used to, but along with it there was something else, something he’d never seen in her face before. A dawning awareness, perhaps, of her own power.
; “Now I’ve done it.” He eased across her body, his wrist brushing her hip, his fingers weaving into the grass at the edge of the blanket. “I shall be putty in your hands from now on, I fear.”
The lust he’d been trying to keep in check all day was overtaking him now, thick and hot, but he no longer cared about stopping it. He knew he had to kiss her again. Right here, right now. He leaned closer.
“Edie!” The voice calling her name had both of them turning their heads as Joanna came over the nearby knoll of grass and sand, an enormous piece of gnarled driftwood in her hands. “Look what I found! Won’t this be smashing for a still life?”
Stuart groaned and sat back. “School, Edie,” he muttered. “The girl needs to go to school.”
THE SUN WAS setting by the time they packed up the picnic things and drove back to Highclyffe. Joanna talked nineteen to the dozen during the ride, which to Edie was a blessing, for she was in no frame of mind to make ordinary conversation. All sorts of emotions were tumbling around inside her—bewildering, contradictory emotions.
There was fear, of course. That was always with her, something she’d accepted and learned to live with a long time ago. But, right beside it, other emotions were pushing up, fighting for space and light and air. Things like excitement and desire, longing and hope. Agony and uncertainty. Things that made fear seem almost comfortable, like a broken-in pair of leather shoes or a perfectly fitted glove. Fear, at least, was familiar.
She could feel Stuart watching her, taking occasional sideways glances at her profile, but thankfully, he didn’t ask her any questions about her pensive mood. He didn’t speak to her at all, except in polite inquiries about whether or not she was comfortable and if she’d prefer the top of the landau up instead of down. Beyond that, he talked mainly with Joanna, chaffing her about the huge chunk of driftwood taking up all the floor space in the landau and shamelessly praising the two watercolor landscapes she’d done of the coastline that morning.
It was nearly dark by the time they reached the house. Snuffles was sent below stairs for a bath, and everyone went to their rooms to change for dinner. But if Edie thought her bedroom would prove any kind of haven, she was mistaken. As she stood in front of the long cheval mirror watching Reeves lace her into a corset, Stuart’s words of earlier in the day echoed back to her.
You can transform him to a beggar . . . or make him feel like a king.
She didn’t see it. She tried, studying her reflection in the glass, but she knew hers was not the face to launch a thousand ships or topple a kingdom. She could only conclude that Stuart was either flattering her to turn her sweet, or he was blind. Because all she saw when she looked in the mirror was a plain woman with a mop of curly red-blond hair, a stubborn jaw, and a pale face sprinkled with freckles.
I wondered if you had them everywhere, and I started reckoning up how long it would take me to kiss them all.
She touched her fingertips to her breastbone, tracing the faint gold dots. It would take lots of time, Stuart, she thought, and lots of kisses. Just like that, and heat began spreading through her body.
Her body. Well, that was a whole other issue, wasn’t it? Edie sighed, and the flush of desire died away in the wake of cold realities. In the woman in the mirror, she saw the girl who had towered over her dance partners, been mercilessly teased about her freckles and her overbite, and who had possessed one of the most unimpressive bosoms in New York.
. . . the curve of your hip, your long, long legs . . .
Perhaps, she thought wistfully, she did have rather nice legs. But that was hardly enough to lift a man to ecstasy or drive him down to despair. What, she wondered, could Stuart possibly see in her that she did not?
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
It was, she thought painfully, rather similar to the question she’d asked herself after Saratoga. What was it in her that had transformed Frederick Van Hausen from gentleman to animal? What had driven him to shove her down onto a splintered wooden table, rip her drawers apart, cover her body with his own, so heavy on top of her she couldn’t breathe, and . . .
Her sharp intake of breath caused Reeves to stop lacing. “Too tight, Your Grace?”
She pasted a smile on her face. “Perhaps a bit,” she lied.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s just an evening gown does have to be tighter.” She finished off the lacing at Edie’s tailbone, tied and tucked the laces, then helped her into her corset cover and evening petticoat and turned toward the bed where she had laid out Edie’s pale pink tea gown earlier in the day. “I’ll go fetch an evening gown, then. If you’re sure?” she added, pausing, pale pink silk draped over one arm. “You don’t often wear an evening gown at home.”
“I prefer one tonight.” She didn’t explain her reasons. The duchess didn’t have to explain anything, ever. Except perhaps to the duke.
Reeves nodded, seeming pleased. “Which one shall I bring? The one in royal blue silk is ever so nice. Or perhaps the Nile green? Or the purple?”
“No.” Edie shook her head at these choices. “Bring the brown one.”
“Oh, no, Your Grace, no!” Reeves groaned. “Not the brown.”
Edie turned in surprise, for her maid was staunchly proper, and had never once had the impertinence to contradict her. “Reeves, what on earth?”
The maid flushed at once, looking contrite. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. It’s just that the brown is . . .” She paused, sighed, and gave a gulp. “A bit dull. Matronly.”
“Yes, exactly.” Edie nodded, for dull and matronly made her feel much safer. “Perhaps some might even describe it as dowdy.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer something prettier? The royal blue is ever so nice with your hair. And it’s got a lower bit of neckline to it.”
Edie made a rueful face, studying her reflection. “As if that even matters on me.”
“We could add a bit of padding.” Reeves glanced at the clock. “We have plenty of time.”
Edie looked past her own reflection to that of the maid. “And why,” she asked, her voice suddenly brittle to her own ears, “would we want to do that?”
“Well . . .” Reeves paused. “It’s just that the duke is home now,” she said after a moment. “And I’m sure he would be wanting a fetching sight across the table after being in the wilds so long . . . and . . . and . . .” She studied Edie’s reflected face, sighed, and gave up. “I’ll fetch the brown.”
Reeves vanished into the dressing room, and Edie returned her attention to the mirror. “Padding, indeed,” she muttered under her breath, smoothing down her corset cover over her small bosom. “I haven’t worn padding since I was eighteen.”
The girl before Saratoga had willingly worn padding and bust improvers under her clothes. She’d rubbed cherry juice on her pale cheeks and mouth, too, and dared to dream that a certain gentleman from the other end of Madison Avenue might fall in love with her. But then, Saratoga had happened, killing all of those girlish dreams and romantic ideas, snuffing out passion before she’d even had the chance to discover what it was.
It was too late now. Wasn’t it?
Edie bit her lip, staring at her reflection, seeing Stuart’s face in her mind, his eyes daring her to discover the bliss of being kissed and caressed.
What did she want?
That would have been an easy question to answer a week ago. She would have answered that she wanted what she had, that her life was perfect. She’d never dared to ask if there was anything missing.
She could hear his voice, assuring her she was a passionate woman. Was she?
She certainly felt stirred up since his return. If passion was to be in a constant state of agonizing uncertainty, to be caught between fear and excitement, then Stuart was right. If passion was muddled wits, exhilaration, and stark terror, then yes, she supposed she was passionate. If he could create this much havoc in her
in a week, what would happen if she gave him a lifetime?
She thought of his face, graver now than when she’d first seen it across a ballroom, a bit older, a bit battered and careworn perhaps, but still so devastatingly handsome, with eyes like silver smoke. A man who, by his own admission, had had many women, who knew just why peaches were erotic and what words to say to make a plain girl’s heart twist in her breast. How many other feminine hearts had twisted just like hers? Probably too many to count.
Granted they were married, but what did that mean? Could a man like Stuart really stick with a woman like her? Could he really want her, love her, be faithful?
Heavens, she thought, appalled. She was piling up romantic expectations faster than an eighteen-year-old girl.
Was that what she wanted? To feel as she had then? To be the girl before Saratoga? To wipe it out as if it had never happened? Was that even possible?
Edie pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks, dismayed. Where was the self-assured duchess who ran five households on her own, raised a young sister, managed twelve immense charities, and gave some of the most popular Afternoon-At-Homes of the London season? She thought she’d become a confident, independent woman, but she now realized that all she’d done was place herself inside a safe cocoon where nothing could question her assurance, test her confidence, or threaten her independence.
No man to hold her down, degrade her, force her. That was true.
But also no man to kiss her mouth so tenderly it made her heart sing.
Edie pressed her fingers to her lips and stared at her reflection. She didn’t need to make up her mind about a lifetime. As long as she didn’t kiss him, she had five days before that decision had to be made. In the meantime, perhaps all she had do was . . . enjoy being a woman. And let him do all the kissing.
The maid came out of the dressing room, and Edie turned. “I’ve changed my mind. Bring the blue.”
Reeves—that sober-faced, middle-aged model of the perfect lady’s maid—gave a delighted jump and grinned like a girl. “I’ll do your hair up with the tongs, too, shall I? That would take the frizz from the sea air out of it.”
How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days Page 23