When We Touch

by Heather Graham

She looked to the group and noted that they were in deep conversation with her uncle, Charles, her brother, and a few other guests.

  A few moments later, the threesome, followed by their “escorts,” came to her side, wishing her well, saying their good-byes. The Prince of Wales assessed her rather openly, as if amused by the night ahead for Lord Charles. Eddy, whom she had met often enough in social circles, was simply pleasant. Princess Alexandra was lovely, and exceptionally sweet, apparently pleased in the company of her husband and son, and Maggie found herself wondering how the woman put up with her husband’s behavior, and all that was constantly whispered.

  But then, perhaps it was worth it all to her, for one day, she would be queen of the greatest empire in the world.

  A trade-off . . .

  Just as she had made her own trade-off, Maggie thought, and it was not a pleasant image in her mind.

  When the royals departed, the discussion turned openly to the Crown, the state of the country, the shortcomings of the home secretary and the prime minister, and how it seemed that they were moving ever closer to disaster because way too many immigrants from other European countries found their way to English shores.

  She stood with Charles, listening to Lady Marian give a tirade on how they wouldn’t need to worry about the dreadful conditions in the East End if they could just keep the riff-raff from spilling across the channel. “Why, most of them just believe that they can come here and live off the charity of the land—or worse! Stealing their incomes from those who have been born to class or even those gentlemen who had created such fine businesses!”

  “Oh, come, Marian!” Charles said. “We’ve come a long way from the days of the Regency. Remember, we’ve our modern police forces now, and those fellows do extraordinary work. Imagine life before the Police Act of 1829.”

  “Pish-posh!” Marian said. “Now we’ve police! And we’ve decided that horrible criminals deserve the decency of private executions, and we’ve turned prisons into places of solitude and comfort.”

  “We’re trying to truly reach an age of enlightenment,” Mireau said quietly. “Sadly, despite our incredible technological achievements, there are still those who don’t mind making a living off the suffering of others. Those who charge massive rents for slum living conditions are criminals, as sure as petty thieves are.”

  “It’s only the charity of the rich that keeps those poor devils in the slums alive!” Lady Marian said. “The wealthy are the ones seeing to the very livelihoods of the poor! And if punishments were sterner, we’d find there would be more law and order!”

  “Oh, come, Marian!” Sir Roger argued, slipping into the group. He winked at Mireau, who looked quite taken aback. The Duchess had looked at him as she might her old bath water. Roger was attempting to lighten the moment. “What? Would you bring back the chopping block and axe?”

  “We need stronger deterrents. Quick action. Why, just the other week, I might well have been shot and killed because of a wretched charlatan pretending to be a great medium! And what did the police do? Let the head fellow escape! One was killed outright; the woman involved was a pretty thing and the police were kind to her, though she might well have committed murder herself! I tell you, if it weren’t for the ordinary citizens there . . . I shudder to think of what might have happened to me.”

  Maggie felt herself growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  “And, I tell you, it is coming to a truly wretched state!” Marian continued. “Have you kept up with the papers? There is a real monster afoot in the East End. Surely a foreigner, for no Englishman would ever be such an insane animal! There will be more, mark my words. Now, I grant you that this madman is killing women who can hardly be granted such a term in themselves, drunkards they are, the worst kinds of street harlots. But still, cattle are surely put down with less frenzy! We should rid the country of all of these people!”

  Maggie turned away, as if seeking another glass of champagne, and she turned directly into Jamie.

  His eyes were dark, like the stormiest day in the midst of winter. She trembled the instant she saw him, for he was stark, imposing, and incredibly attractive in the black dress attire he’d chosen for the occasion.

  “Well . . . Auntie Maggie,” he said dryly. “Will you dance with me?”

  She floundered, lifting the empty glass in her hand. “Ah, more champagne,” he continued. “Well, you do seem to gain incredible . . . energy . . . on champagne.”

  He took the glass from her, setting it down on a silver tray carried by a passing waiter. Then she was in his arms, and they were swirling across the floor.

  “You left rather abruptly,” he said.

  She couldn’t find her voice at first. “It seemed the proper thing to do.”

  “Proper, yes, of course. And here we are; you’re duly wed.”

  “What should I have done?” she whispered miserably.

  “Called it off.”

  She lowered her head, shaking it. “You don’t understand. It wouldn’t have been right.”

  “Um. That’s right. You’d already been paid for services to be rendered.”

  “Do you have to be so vulgar and hateful?”

  “Well, I rather think I’m being honest. Let’s see . . . it wouldn’t be right to call off the wedding. But it wasn’t wrong that you didn’t call it off—after last night.”

  “Last night was—”

  “A terrible mistake, of course.”

  She felt as if she had been slapped. What had she expected?

  “A terrible mistake,” she agreed.

  “Never to happen again.”

  “Of course not!”

  “Still, it should have shown you that you should never have married Charles.”

  “Last night I was not married.”

  “And now you are. And look at you! Not in the least the worse for . . . wear.”

  Her cheeks colored. “I am quite miserable enough, thank you,” she said.

  He didn’t skip a beat in leading the dance, but his lashes lowered and his eyes seemed to pin her where she stood, tight in his embrace. “Well, as the saying goes, you have made your bed, and now you must lie in it. God help my uncle.”

  “If you felt so, sir, you had your chance to protest.”

  “It wasn’t my place to protest. It was yours.”

  “I had to go through with this!” she whispered. “That’s why I left as I did. Don’t you understand? I had never imagined . . . I mean, I would never again . . . Now I am his wife, then I was not. You are his nephew, his trusted confidant!”

  “I am neither a husband, nor engaged to be one, and men, naturally, are prone to seek entertainment where it is offered.”

  She gasped, longing to strike him. But there was an awful truth to his cold brutality. Men were forgiven for their escapades; they were expected to have them. Yet it hurt beyond definition to force herself to realize that she was nothing more to him.

  “I admit, I have seldom been so . . . mesmerized. But, of course, now you are my uncle’s wife. And, Auntie, I shall never, never, forget that you did indeed go through with the ceremony, that you married my Uncle Charles. As arranged.”

  As duly paid! he might have said.

  “I had to wed your uncle!”

  “Actually, no, you didn’t. You chose to,” he said. And he whirled around the floor, returning her to the place where Charles stood, continuing the debate on law and order. “Duchess!” Jamie said, “You’ve not granted me a dance!”

  And so, he went off with her, and minutes later, when Maggie looked at the floor again, he was with Lady Marian’s niece, a gorgeous young girl with a perfect complexion, slim figure, and glorious smile for her partner.

  The jealousy that swept through Maggie was agonizing. She turned away. She had made her choices. And she would never, ever, allow Sir James Langdon to believe that he had been anything more than a last fling to her.

  A mistake. The culmination of a very strange evening, indeed.

 
She danced with her brother, who now seemed to be in a cloud, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. And she danced with Percy and Roger, and others of his friends. Charles became distracted as well, and she realized that still he hadn’t seen his daughter.

  Later, the guests began to leave.

  Jamie must have left quietly; Maggie never saw him go.

  Just as well. She couldn’t bear the thought of meeting his eyes again. With him, she felt ashamed, and she felt a fever. She dreaded the night to come more deeply with every passing second.

  Mireau and Justin stayed until almost the very end.

  Mireau embraced her, again, offering as always, his support, his unfailing friendship.

  Then Maggie hugged her brother fiercely, and he swore that he’d see her the next day; she and Charles would remain at Moorhaven a few days, then they would honeymoon, beginning at Bath, perhaps moving on to the Continent. They would go, Charles had said, where the slightest whim led them.

  A few of the guests still lingered. Charles whispered to Maggie that she looked exhausted; she should escape up the stairs, and he would be with her as soon as possible. She dreaded the moment when they would be alone, but it was coming, and she couldn’t stop it. Best to hurry ahead and gather what resources she could in the time she had left.

  As she escaped up the stairs, she heard Charles’s voice boom out below, “Arianna! Where have you been?”

  “Father! I am so sorry. I witnessed the ceremony, but departed quickly for a ride.”

  “You went riding? On my wedding day?”

  “I felt terribly ill and thought that fresh air might help me feel better. I didn’t want to ruin your happiness by moping around, feeling so terribly ill.”

  The girl was a liar. A wretched liar, Maggie thought.

  She crept back to look down the stairs. Charles had taken his daughter in his arms. He kissed the top of her head. “Are you better?” he asked anxiously.

  “Oh, yes, much.”

  “I shall put off the honeymoon. Maggie will understand.”

  “Father! Don’t you even think such a thing. You and your young bride must go and enjoy yourselves—be wild, be young, be wicked!” she teased. “Get every little thing out of your new wedded bliss that you can!”

  “My sweet, sweet, child. Always thinking of my happiness!” Charles said.

  Shiite! Maggie thought.

  “I shall run up for some sleep, Father. Since you’re not leaving, we’ll have precious time together in the next few days—that is, if I can draw you away from your beautiful wife!”

  “But you’ve got to get to know Maggie as well, my dear.”

  “Of course. I can hardly wait. Good night, Father.”

  The girl was coming up the stairs. Maggie quickly retreated down the hall, slipping into the master’s chamber.

  She closed the door and leaned against it, and nearly jumped a mile when she saw that Mrs. Whitley was in the room.

  “I thought you might need some help with the gown, Lady Maggie,” she said.

  Maggie stared at her blankly for a minute. Her eyes flew to the massive oak master bed. It was dressed in elegant sheets, with a multitude of pillows. And there, lying atop the lowered spread, was an elegant see-through nightgown in the sheerest white gossamer silk. Suddenly, the rich food, the champagne, welled to her throat.

  No! Good God, no! She couldn’t marry such a good man as Charles and vomit the minute he took off his clothing.

  “I think I can manage,” Maggie said. She pushed away from the door, resolved. “I’m sorry . . . I’m rather accustomed to taking care of myself. If you wouldn’t mind helping with the hooks and then the tie on the corset . . .”

  “Indeed, madam.”

  The very dour housekeeper was still marvelously adept. In seconds, Maggie was freed from all manner of restraint. She was uncomfortable in such a state of undress, but apparently, Mrs. Whitley had served many a young woman and before Maggie knew it, she was bereft of everything, and clad in the white gown.

  Which was rather still like being bereft of everything. Mrs. Whitley, ever the perfect servant, seemed not to notice. She directed Maggie to the dressing table, where she removed all the pins from her hair, and began to brush it.

  Maggie thought that she’d crawl from her skin. The last time she’d had someone tend to her hair so, it had been Jamie.

  “Thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Whitley,” she said, jumping up. “I think . . . I think I’m quite fine now.”

  “Aye, my lady. There’s champagne in the bucket at the foot of the bed, and a tray of fruit, cheese, and sweets, there on the marble table near the door. Naturally, if you need anything . . .”

  “I’ll ring,” Maggie assured her.

  At last, the woman was gone.

  Maggie made a beeline for the champagne and guzzled down two glasses. She briefly considered the headache she’d have the following morning, then determined that the pain would be worth it, if she could just survive the night.

  She was on her fourth glass of champagne when the door opened. Lord Charles had arrived.

  He had evidently prepared for his wedding night elsewhere, for he entered the room in nothing but a rich cranberry smoking jacket.

  Maggie met his eyes, then found that her gaze traveled downward to the legs, bare beneath the hem of the jacket.

  Thin. Very thin. He wore matching maroon slippers.

  She brought her gaze up to his knobby knees. The gaslights were down, but too many candles burned through the room.

  She swallowed her fourth glass of champagne. Forced a smile to her lips.

  “Well, here we are. At last,” she breathed.

  “My dear . . . my dear, dear, dearest!”

  He walked into the room. Maggie nervously grabbed another glass from the tray at the foot of the bed, poured him one, and a fifth for herself. She handed it to him. “Charles.”

  “My dear, dear, dear . . .”

  He took the glass of champagne, but set it immediately down. He took Maggie’s from her hand, despite her protest. His hands came around her waist. He lifted her, setting her standing on the bed, the white gossamer trailing around her. He was far stronger than she had expected.

  “Charles . . . I think we should share a glass of champagne!” she whispered.

  He came closer, ignoring her words. And suddenly, it seemed that everything about him changed. His eyes were flatly . . . lascivious.

  “No more champagne. I think I’ve had quite enough.”

  He buried his head against her abdomen, his hands coming around her ankles, sliding up around her calves to her kneecaps and her thighs. She gritted her teeth in misery, remembering that she had chosen this path, that he was a good man, that she had known exactly what being a wife meant.

  “I’m not sure I’ve had enough,” she whispered.

  “You’re nervous, my dear? When you know that I adore you beyond life itself?”

  She nodded. His hands against her flesh felt as dry as his lips.

  “One more glass!” she whispered.

  Again, he lifted her. This time, his hands against her bare waist. The sheer gown rose, then fell as her feet touched the ground and she scampered across the floor. She was tempted to grab the champagne bottle and drink straight from it.

  She retrieved her glass instead. Charles had kept his distance. He was still just staring at her. She realized, with the light of the fire behind her, she might as well be wearing nothing.

  A swallow finished off the glass of champagne.

  “Come here, my love,” Charles said.

  “The lights! The gaslights, the candles . . . I’ll put them out.”

  “No,” he told her. “No . . . come here.”

  She walked back across the floor to him. She hated herself. She felt as if she were walking to her own execution.

  He put up a hand, and she stopped, puzzled.

  “Slip from the gown,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Slip it from your sho
ulders. Untie the little white ribbon at the nape, and let it fall to the floor.”

  Maggie inhaled. “I’d actually be far more comfortable if . . .”

  “Please, Maggie. I am besotted with your exquisite beauty. Allow me my enjoyment of it.” Then his voice changed, ever so slightly. “Come, Maggie. We both know that you are a woman of some experience. And now, you are my wife.”

  Yes, she was his wife, and the reminder was a very firm one.

  “Maggie . . . the gown.”

  A simple enough request. She had married him. And yet, she suddenly felt more deeply shamed than she had in the whole of her life.

  More like a . . .

  Whore.

  She wasn’t sure that she could have felt worse if she’d been working the filthy, trash-lined streets in the East End.

  “Maggie . . . slowly, please. Very slowly. And turn about for me as you do it.”

  She swallowed hard and pulled the ribbon, turning about.

  “Let it come off your shoulders as you turn back to me. Now . . . let it fall to the ground.”

  Mortified, she let the gown fall to the floor. She blinked then, as he gave her another command. Walk . . . across the room, back again. Crawl onto the bed, turn, position herself, do it all slowly . . . slowly, rise again, come to him.

  The sound of his voice was suddenly horrible to her. Despite herself, she was nearly in tears. She had been convinced that he would be the kindest man in the world. She was beginning to feel that he was . . . sick! Lecherous as they came . . .

  He jerked off his smoking jacket. She looked away from his withered flesh, and the sadly pathetic rise of his excitement. He strode to the bed, hopping upon it, lying back.

  “Now, Maggie, come to me . . . walk . . . walk, and do what I tell you as you walk. . . .”

  In two seconds, she would scream and say no, and he could divorce her, annul the marriage—shoot her!—for all she cared. She couldn’t bear this. If only . . . if only he had allowed her to douse the lights, crawled in beside her . . .

  God, dear God! She was suddenly desperate to . . . just die! Sink into the floor. Whatever she had done, surely she hadn’t deserved this. God, sweet Jesu, sweet Mary! She prayed for deliverance, for salvation, to drop into a dead faint, and never awaken.