When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  “Indeed. Delighted,” Jamie said.

  “Are you standing up for him?”

  “Quite so.”

  Cecilia smiled wickedly. “Are you having some form of a wonderful party for Lord Charles this evening? I was just trying to convince Maggie that she should allow me to take her out for a last evening as a single lady. Well, she’s widowed, but the point is really, before she’s married again.”

  “Don’t tell me Lady Maggie is hesitating?” Jamie said, staring at her.

  “She’s being no fun at all,” Cecilia pouted.

  “Ah, well, neither is my uncle. He is heading off to bed at an early hour, anxious for the morning to come, the day of his wedding.”

  “Is he really?” Cecilia said, her eyes sparkling. “Well, then, Sir James, perhaps we could convince you to join the two of us!”

  “Cecilia, I haven’t agreed that I’m going anywhere,” Maggie said uncomfortably. She was also tremendously uncomfortable with the way that Cecilia was looking at Jamie. A bolt of something shot through her, and she was disturbed to realize that it was jealousy.

  “What did you have in mind?” Jamie asked Cecilia.

  “I would never dream of being rude to Sir James, but if he accompanies us, it would hardly be a night out for the ladies,” Maggie said.

  “Alas, true,” Cecilia said. She stared at Jamie with a smile that was so blatant that, even given the conversation they’d just had, Maggie was shocked. “But, of course, with my dear friend Maggie marrying into the family, I’m sure we can meet again, Sir James.”

  “Yes, definitely,” Jamie said, bemused. “I am acquainted with your husband, my lady, which makes it all the more pleasant to make your reacquaintance.”

  Cecilia’s smile deepened. Maggie wanted to hit someone.

  She stood. “Cecilia, if we’re to be out and about this evening, I believe I’ll head home so that I might be properly dressed for the occasion.”

  “Fine.” Cecilia didn’t even look at her. She was still staring at Jamie. “My coachman will call for you at . . . eight, say?”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t go out this evening.”

  She was startled by Jamie’s words.

  “Harmless play,” Cecilia said.

  “Ah, but tomorrow will be such an event in Lady Maggie’s life,” Jamie pointed out.

  “All the more reason I should go out tonight,” Maggie said. She really would have preferred to spend her last evening at home instead of an evening out with Cecilia, but the very fact that he suggested that she not go, made her determined that she would.

  And all the more because of the way he and Cecilia were staring at one another. The conversation going on between their eyes was almost audible. Cecilia, so blatantly saying that she was married to a man who cheerfully gave her total freedom, Jamie musing that entertainment was all he really sought at the moment, the two of them thinking that together they both made prime candidates for a night of simple sex and pleasure.

  “Well, I shall see you both at a later time, then,” Maggie said.

  As she departed, the two were still staring at one another.

  * * *

  Arianna paced her room.

  She adored her father so much. How could he be doing this thing? It was all so silly, almost embarrassing. And it was deplorable that even her father could be such a fool—whatever was he thinking?

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go to the wedding, and she certainly couldn’t live with that woman!

  Definitely, she was evil. One look at her had assured Arianna that she was evil. And she hadn’t been in the least placating! She was too tall, too regal in her bearing, far too assured, and far too willing for this wedding for there not to be something terribly wrong.

  That was it, certainly. Her family was down on its luck. No great surprise. And still . . . there had to be something. Something about the woman, something in her past. Arianna hadn’t met her friend Mireau yet—a man her father talked about with amusement and pride—but there was something not quite right about him, either. He was probably Lady Maggie’s lover, and her father was simply too besotted or too naive to see such a thing.

  She sat at her dressing table and stared at her own reflection. They said that she looked like her mother. She barely remembered her own mother, and therefore, it was hard to know if people were right. She loved to imagine her mother, though—she had been the daughter of a Welshman knighted in India. Then, too, it was said, her father had thrown caution to the wind and married almost immediately upon meeting her. She had died of consumption, many years ago. But Arianna had seen paintings, and they had been beautiful.

  She touched her cheek. Was she beautiful, as well? Could she win the heart of a man so completely that nothing else mattered except for her—not the world around him, money, society, position?

  She pushed away from the dressing table, suddenly determining that she wouldn’t actually attend her father’s wedding.

  Rather, it would be a far more intriguing time to note the guests, and perhaps venture out from Moorhaven when those concerned with her welfare might be occupied elsewhere.

  * * *

  Maggie had nearly decided to tell Cecilia that she was sorry, she simply wasn’t going out, when Clayton came into the parlor to tell her that Lady de Burgh had arrived.

  It wasn’t much of a surprise to discover that the coachman approaching her was a strapping young fellow, very tall, and with massive shoulders. He informed her with the greatest courtesy that Lady de Burgh awaited her in the coach.

  When she reached the coach, she found herself helped in and embraced by Cecilia. But once sitting at Cecilia’s side, she informed her friend, “Cecilia, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m rather exhausted, all the preparations, you know.” She hadn’t actually done anything; Charles had seen to it all.

  “Oh, dear! Please, you mustn’t disappoint me now!” Cecilia begged.

  “Perhaps a quiet supper,” Maggie said, giving in.

  “Oh, yes, a quiet supper!” Cecilia agreed. The coach was already moving. Cecilia produced a small valise. “Now . . . for the fun of this supper, let’s dress up, shall we?”

  “Cecilia, I was thinking of a lovely restaurant not far from here—”

  “Oh, but we’ve reservations at a very exclusive place. Trust me, knowing you, you’ll never have this opportunity again. Now, here.”

  Cecilia dug into the bag. She handed Maggie a deep red wig and a cocky little hat with a tremendous amount of rich plumage.

  “Where on earth are we going?”

  “There’s a great cape, and a mask for you, too.”

  “A mask?”

  “It’s a Venetian supper club,” Cecilia said with a laugh. “Lovely, exotic food.”

  “Cecilia, we dress up in masks for supper? I’m not sure—”

  “Oh, come on. Live on the wild side for just one night! My dear friend, you are about to marry a man old enough to be your grandfather. You’ve not the least problem getting out and about on your causes. Have one night for yourself.”

  Before she could protest again, Cecilia had grabbed Maggie’s small bonnet and was replacing it with the wig and mask. Maggie had forgotten the extent of her friend’s acquired wealth. The mask was jeweled and gorgeous.

  “Sit still, will you?” Cecilia begged. “Let me get this on straight!”

  Cecilia was determined. Finishing her task, she sat back, surveying her handiwork. “Beautiful. You make a stunning redhead. So exotic.” She leaned toward the window. “Here! Here we are!”

  They hadn’t come terribly far from Mayfair, but Maggie hadn’t been watching their direction. The coach came to a stop. Cecilia dug into the bag again, coming out with a dark wig for herself, and a mask with dangling gems.

  “Capes!” she muttered, and reached across the coach. “Now, you must wear this! Trust me, no one will recognize you. No one will ever know that you were here!”

  They stepped from the coach. Maggie looked around quickly, but
knew that she had never been on this street. The building they were approaching was Georgian in style, and only slightly seedy, she noted, as they hurried up the steps.

  She could hear music. As they entered the doorway, they were met by a woman in gray satin and lace. Her dress was quite proper; her hair was almost orange, and her cheeks were highly rouged. From the entry, a door led to a theater. A woman was singing, and Maggie could hear the laughter of men and women alike.

  “It’s a dance hall?” Maggie whispered to Cecilia.

  “Yes, and no!” Cecilia told her.

  “Ah, Mrs. Peabody?” the woman with the orange hair said to Cecilia.

  “Yes, indeed, and I’ve a companion with me. Mrs. Bird.”

  What ridiculous names Cecilia was using! Maggie began to feel a twinge of real unease.

  “Branson will escort you to your table.”

  “Cecilia . . .” Maggie murmured.

  She felt a touch on her shoulder and turned. Her jaw nearly fell. Branson was a huge man, ebony black, dressed in nothing but what appeared to be native African garb—a concoction of grasses that fell from his waist to his mid thigh.

  “Live a little! You’re entering the realm of eternity and death tomorrow!” Cecilia whispered. Later, those words would come back to haunt Maggie.

  She might have left at that moment, except that Branson was blocking the doorway by then, and Maggie decided it would be easier to reach their table—and escape.

  “We’re going downstairs!” Cecilia told her with pleasure.

  Maggie found herself between Cecilia and Branson. They passed around the center theater, and along a hallway. One door was slightly ajar. Maggie took a peek in as they passed. She was shocked. A girl dressed up in harem garb was lying on a pillow with a massive fellow, sharing a pipe with him.

  “This is an opium den!” Maggie said, shocked as they reached a bookcase.

  “Only if you choose,” Cecilia assured her. “Have you tried smoking?” she asked Maggie.

  “No!”

  Branson pushed at the bookcase, which proved to be a well-disguised door. There were steps that led downward.

  “Really, Cecilia—”

  “Maggie, we’ll only stay a few minutes if you’re too uncomfortable. But, please! Give yourself a chance to have fun. You can’t be that much of a prig!”

  It shouldn’t have mattered what Cecilia suggested. She should have fled right then. But for some silly reason, perhaps because she was marrying a man three times her age, she allowed herself to be led down the stairs.

  There was a stage. There were a few tables. Other diners were masked, in capes, and probably wearing wigs as well.

  Branson led them to a table. As she was seated, Cecilia allowed her fingers to cruise down the ebony musculature of Branson’s chest. He smiled, perfect white teeth flashing in a proud face.

  Then he was gone. “What kind of entertainment is it onstage?” Maggie asked.”Music? Drama?” She doubted the latter.

  “There’s music, of course,” Cecilia said. She smiled wickedly.

  Another man appeared at the table. He was white—but dressed like Branson. He poured champagne into the glasses at their table. Maggie turned away as he did so, and felt her heart thunder against her chest as she saw the server at the next table, where two men were seated. Their server was a woman. Her long dark hair was free-flowing down her back. She, too, wore a grass skirt, and nothing else. Her breasts were bared. Very large, and it appeared her nipples had been rouged.

  She gasped aloud.

  “Maggie, please!” Cecilia gasped. “You’re not behaving in the least Bohemian!”

  Maggie clamped her jaw shut and turned back to Cecilia. “I’m not Bohemian!” Maggie informed her.

  “May I suggest that you gaze upon young male flesh tonight? As of tomorrow, you may never have the opportunity again.”

  “I don’t think I want the opportunity!” Maggie said.

  “Drink your champagne, and I swear, the food will be delicious.”

  She took a long swallow of champagne. It seemed the thing to do. The champagne was excellent. She swallowed down the glass of it, attempting to steel her nerves.

  Cecilia, looking at her, giggled. “Oh, Maggie, you’re so deliciously shocked! Come now, men have always taken such pleasures, and absolutely nothing is thought of it. Men will be men, or so they say. And women are given the lot to look away, and pretend that the world is all morality, and sex is in the dark . . . and, well, for your sake, I hope it’s in the dark as of tomorrow!”

  “Cecilia, that’s terrible.”

  “Maggie, it’s true.”

  “I’m certain this place is illegal!” Maggie hissed.

  Cecilia leaned closer. “That’s a perfectly legitimate dance hall upstairs! Maybe not the Royal Opera, but. . . legal! Besides, relax, I can promise you, there will be no police raids tonight.”

  “And how can you guarantee that?” Maggie hadn’t even thought of a raid, but the concept was just dreadful. She could see the headlines: “TAINTED BRIDE OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS LORD CHARLES, VISCOUNT LANGDON, ARRESTED IN BAWDY-HOUSE RAID !”

  “There,” Cecilia said.

  “There what?”

  Cecilia lowered her voice still further. “At the far table. That’s the Prince of Wales.”

  Maggie gasped. “No!”

  “Maggie, quit staring!”

  “But—!”

  “Please, everyone is quite discreet here.”

  Discreet. She couldn’t help looking at the man in question. He was almost ridiculously dressed in a wig reminiscent of the age of Charles II. His mask was dark leather with a huge nose.

  “Maggie, don’t stare!”

  She turned back around. She wasn’t sure when the half-naked man had returned to refill her glass, but it was full again. She swallowed it down, wincing slightly, and asked Cecilia, “How do you know that it’s the Prince of Wales?”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  Maggie stared at her and gasped. “You’ve had an affair with him!”

  Cecilia smiled. “Eustace prefers the son. I like the father.”

  A plate of oysters was set before them. “Food for lovers!” Cecilia teased, delicately slipping the meat of one down her throat. “I’ll bet that Lord Charles will see to it that they’re served tomorrow.”

  “Cecilia, please, the intimate moments between a couple do not constitute the entire meaning of life!”

  “Shh! The show is beginning!”

  And indeed, it was. The curtain on the small stage was slowly being drawn. A giant shell was present stage center. The gaslights in the room drew very low.

  The shell opened. Slowly, to the music of a sitar, a woman began to emerge. Strawberry hair curled over her naked shoulders and down to her thighs as she elegantly rose to stand within the shell. A drumbeat slowly began to throb. Two young men suddenly leapt onto the stage, dancers, yes, their movement that of the very well trained, but they were not the customary figures Maggie had seen at the ballet. They were clad in skintight leggings and nothing more.

  A story began to evolve, the first dancer, the darker of the two, attempting to seduce the young woman—Venus rising, Maggie thought dryly. The second then vied for her attentions. Harder and harder the two tried.

  Then the first abducted the girl, sweeping her away into his arms. As the second man pretended to search for the lost beauty, the first began his seduction.

  It was absolutely, totally indecent. Maggie thought she should look away.

  But she didn’t.

  The female dancer was flat on the floor, while the male moved above her, touching her, not really touching her, evoking thoughts of all manner of things. His body began to gyrate, and Maggie realized that her mouth was open again as she watched—she had never imagined that someone could so completely simulate the act of intercourse without having it. It was decadent. Total debauchery.

  She had to get up and leave immediately.

  She was terrified to move
. Horrified that anyone would see her witnessing such an act.

  She remained in her chair, all but frozen there.

  Suddenly, the second man was there, tearing the first from the beauty, his actions showing his fury, and his hunger. And the girl was up, her body rubbing against his, her elegant long legs curling around him in a manner which was surely not natural for the human body.

  Then both would-be lovers were with the girl. She was pressed between them, and again came a simulation of movement. From the edges of the stage, more young dancers began to crawl on. One of the men was drawn away, and a beauty with a length of blond hair crawled behind the girl with the red, and they writhed to the floor together.

  It was all quite disgusting!

  And absurdly . . . evocative.

  Maggie heard the scrape of a chair and turned her head. The diners themselves were beginning to rise; they were disappearing into little curtained alcoves in the shadows on the sides of the room. She turned once more to see that the man in the Charles II wig and mask was approaching their table, offering his hand to Cecilia.

  To Maggie’s horror, Cecilia giggled, and accepted the hand.

  She was about to shout a protest, then realized that she shouldn’t shout her friend’s name, but then, neither should Cecilia even think about deserting her in this room!

  Something brushed her body and she turned. One of the nearly naked dancers was now at her side, gyrating his way down to his knees before her.

  “No, no, thank you . . . no,” she murmured. He was persistent. She rose, trying to wedge the chair between them. He seemed to think that she wanted to play. She started to back around the table. “Young man, quite seriously, no!”

  She backed into something.

  Someone.

  Another of the dancers.

  “No, and I mean no!” she cried, panic setting in. She turned and shoved hard at the chest in front of her. “No!”

  The man started to drag her against him, against his oiled and formidable chest. She realized that she might well find herself the victim of rape, because it seemed evident that they assumed she had come for the fantasy of the chase and the ravage-ment.

  She wanted to skin Cecilia alive. But her friend wasn’t there—she was behind one of the curtains with the bewigged fellow, whether he truly was or wasn’t the Crown Prince.