by Anne Gracie
“Hear me out. You don’t want to marry a lord, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but—”
“But in order to save Alice from whatever your father has threatened her with, he needs to believe you are going to marry a lord.”
She frowned. “Ye-es.”
“A formal betrothal would convince him, would it not? If it was officially announced in the Morning Post and the Gazette, and the banns called in St. George’s, Hanover Square.”
She thought about it. If Papa believed it was a done deal, and he probably would, with it being all formal and official, it could, just possibly work. Though he did say he’d come to her wedding. “Maybe.”
“Then you and I will announce our betrothal.”
She shook her head. “But you can’t! You don’t want to marry me!”
“Don’t worry. We can call it off as soon as Alice gets those letters back from your father. Actually you will call it off. A gentleman cannot honorably withdraw once the announcement has been made.”
“Why not?”
“A gentleman cannot break his word.”
She snorted. “Rubbish. Men break their word all the time.”
“Perhaps, but not if they’re gentlemen. I should have said a gentleman cannot honorably break his word. A gentleman’s promise—his word of honor—is the foundation of his status as a gentleman.” Seeing her skepticism, he continued, “That’s why gambling debts between gentlemen are called ‘debts of honor’—and are paid before any other kind of debt. It’s also why being caught cheating at cards will result in a gentleman being expelled from his club, disgraced in society and, in some cases, banished by their family to another country.”
“What about ladies? Isn’t a lady’s word of honor just as important?”
“No, ladies aren’t expected to keep promises. Being the weaker sex, it is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
She bristled. She hated that term, the “weaker sex”, but she’d struggled with enough lustful lords to know it was true enough, physically, at least. It had been her brains and agility that had kept her safe, not her physical strength, not to mention her willingness to kick a man in his cods—a strategy taught to her by the father planning his absence. “You’re saying that women have no sense of honor?”
“Y—no, well, not exactly. It’s just, girls are raised differently and not taught about—I mean, there’s no blame—” He was getting more and more tangled. “It’s not what I believe, but it is how the world sees it.”
The idea that only she could call off the betrothal because women were regarded as indecisive ninnyhammers was insulting. But she didn’t have to like it. There were many aspects of society she didn’t like. “So what you’re saying is that once our betrothal is announced, I can call it off, but you can’t?”
“Exactly.”
There was a short silence while she thought it over. “You’d be taking a big risk, wouldn’t you? What if I didn’t call it off?”
“I’d be relying on your sense of honor.” His eyes glinted with wry humor. “Not to mention your well-known antipathy to marrying a lord.”
This suggestion of his, coming out of the blue, on the one hand seemed like a clear and simple solution. On the other, it worried her.
All the time she’d known Lord Thornton, they’d been at daggers drawn. But tonight, not only had he gone out of his way to apologize—and she was sure that didn’t come easily to a man of his pride—now he was proposing. All right, so it was only a pretend betrothal, but just days ago he’d been certain she was in league with her blackmailing father. And now he was relying on her so-called honor not to trap him into marriage? She didn’t trust such an instant about-face.
“Why would you do such a thing? Be willing to put yourself in my hands?”
He met her gaze squarely. “Aunt Alice was very good to me as a child. She’s my favorite relative. My parents have done nothing to help her since her husband died. Now she’s in trouble, and I’m determined to help her however I can.”
He sounded sincere. She was inclined to believe him. Almost.
The idea was tempting. A public betrothal to a viscount who was also heir to an earldom might just bring Papa out of the woodwork. And save Alice from any further distress.
“And you would trust me to break the betrothal?”
“I would. But I should also warn you that if you did, there might be unpleasant repercussions for you. You’d need to be prepared for that.”
She knew it. Because people would be furious that a girl of no background had played fast and loose with the son of an earl. “I don’t care. I never set out to hook a husband in the first place. It was all Papa’s idea.”
He frowned. “The idea of social disgrace doesn’t worry you?”
She shrugged. “They’re not my people.” She’d never belonged anywhere, so being pushed out of the ton would be nothing new. She’d miss Alice, though, and Lord Tarrant’s little girls. And Penny Peplowe and some of the other friends she’d made. Thinking about it, it occurred to her that she’d made more friends than she’d realized.
Oh well, it was a risk she’d have to take. No matter what society believed, women did have honor, and she owed it to Alice to free her from Papa’s entrapment.
Emerging from her reflections, she looked up to see Lord Thornton regarding her with a curious expression. “Who are your people?”
“Gypsies, who do you think?” She had no “people.” Only Papa.
He eyed her shrewdly, but all he said was, “So, do you agree that a false betrothal is the solution to our problems?”
She took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll do it. And there’s no need to worry—I promise you that I won’t hold you to it. If you can believe the promises of a blackmailer’s daughter, that is.”
“I have every faith in your honor,” he said softly, and for some reason she felt herself tearing up. She turned away, blinking furiously.
He went on in a brisk voice. “I’ll put notices in the Morning Post and the Gazette. Shall we keep it quiet until then, or would you like me to arrange an announcement tonight, at this ball?”
His mother was at the ball, Lucy recalled. She’d be bound to make a horrid fuss—a public fuss—and she’d blame Alice. “No, let’s keep it secret until the announcement in the papers.”
He nodded. “Just don’t tell Alice it’s a false betrothal.”
“But—”
“I’m very fond of Alice, but she’s a hopeless liar. She’d hate having to keep it a secret—and she’d probably botch it. Which would upset her very much.”
He was right. “Very well,” she agreed. “We’ll tell nobody the betrothal is a stratagem.”
Inside the ballroom the waltz was just finishing. “I’d better go in,” she said, rising to her feet. “I promised Mr. Grimswade I’d take supper with him.”
“Just one more thing.” Lord Thornton reached out and detained her with a light touch. “This agreement between us, there won’t be any kind of document to sign.”
“No, of course not.”
“So we’d better seal it in the time-honored way.”
“What time-honored—mmph!”
His mouth came down on hers, firm, warm and possessive. She was so surprised she couldn’t move or even think. She gasped and his tongue entered her mouth, hot, spicy and demanding.
By the time her brain had recovered from the shock, her body was pressing itself against him, her arms were twined around his neck, and she was kissing him back. He cupped her face in his hands, angling her mouth the better to explore her, to taste her.
Heat streaked through her in waves, pooling deep within her body.
Without warning he released her abruptly. She staggered back, struggling to gather her scrambled wits. It wasn’t the first time she’d been kissed, but she’d never expe
rienced anything like . . . like that.
Her whole body was tingling. She was panting, as if she’d run a mile instead of standing in a secluded corner.
His chest was heaving, too, she noticed. At least she wasn’t the only one.
Had he felt what she did? There was no way of knowing. His eyes were in shadow, dark, intense and unreadable. Her gaze dropped to the firm, unsmiling masculine mouth. Who knew that he could kiss like that?
As the silence between them stretched, broken only by their heavy breathing and the distant hum of people talking in the ballroom, all Lucy’s old insecurities came surging to the fore. Before tonight—even an hour ago—she would have sworn this man, this lord, disliked her. Only days ago he’d accused her of plotting against Alice. Then suddenly, tonight, he was talking false betrothals and trusting her. And now this?
A kiss too far?
Striving to sound calm and unflustered, she said, “What was that about?”
He said coolly, as if the answer were obvious, “As I said, it’s a time-honored way of sealing an agreement.”
His words, like a dash of cold water, brought her to her senses. This was what lords did. Take what they felt like, no care for anyone else. “Hah! So you kiss your horse coper like that when you buy a horse, do you? Or your wine merchant when he agrees to deliver wine?”
“Of course not. Men usually shake hands on an agreement, but ladies”—he grinned, a purely wicked grin—“ladies don’t shake hands with gentlemen, do they? So what else was I to do?”
She couldn’t think of a response. Truth to tell, she was still dazzled by the effects of his kiss. She tried for a withering look, but he stood there looking smug, handsome and annoyingly unwithered.
The buzz of conversation inside suddenly rose. Laughter and exclamations floated out onto the night air.
“The unmasking has begun,” he said. “I’ll go inside first. Wouldn’t do for us both to appear together, especially with you looking as though you’ve just been thoroughly kissed.”
She rubbed at her mouth as if he’d somehow branded her. What did “thoroughly kissed” look like anyway? She pressed her hands against her hot cheeks to cool them.
At the steps leading up to the ballroom, he turned and looked back. “And by the way, that permission-to-waltz thing? I’m fairly sure it applies only to Almack’s, not at a private ball.”
“Now you tell me—” she began wrathfully, but he was gone.
She sat back down, not yet ready to return to the ballroom and play her part. Some people had come out onto the terrace to cool down after the dance, but most would be going in to supper.
She was betrothed. To Lord Thornton.
It was the last thing she’d expected. No, the kiss was the last thing she’d expected. Why had he done it?
She removed her mask, ran her hands lightly over her hair and the circlet of vines, and checked the rest of her costume. She appeared to have lost a few leaves, but other than that, everything seemed quite intact.
Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, Lucy returned to the ballroom.
Chapter Thirteen
Shortly after five the following day, Alice went to keep her appointment with Lady Peplowe. She was absurdly nervous.
She’d arranged for Lucy to walk in the park with Penny Peplowe while Alice was visiting Lady Peplowe. It would ensure their privacy.
The girls headed off with a footman and maid in attendance, and Alice was shown into the drawing room. Nobody seeing this part of the house would imagine a grand ball had been held there the previous evening. Everything was immaculate. The servants must have been working since before dawn.
Lady Peplowe was seated in the bow window. She patted a chair in a welcoming gesture. “Good afternoon, Lady Charlton. I’m just watching our girls heading off to the park and wishing I had half their energy. It’s going to take me days to recover from the ball, but they bounce right back, bless them.”
Alice forced a smile. Her stomach was a tight knot. “I know how you feel.”
“Nonsense, you’re still young yourself. That peach walking dress really suits Lucy, doesn’t it? I do so like it when young girls wear colors instead of the endless white so many affect.”
Tea and biscuits were brought in, and while they drank and ate—or rather, Lady Peplowe drank and ate; Alice was too nervous—they chatted about the ball and the costumes and how much everyone had enjoyed it. Alice did her best, all the while nerving herself to broach the dreaded subject. Finally it simply burst from her. “I need to ask you a personal question, Lady Peplowe. Very personal, I mean.”
The older woman gave her a shrewd glance and set down her teacup. “Of course.” She added with a smile, “I might not answer it, but I promise I will respect a confidence.”
That would suffice. “It’s about the . . . the marriage bed.”
Lady Peplowe’s elegantly plucked brows rose. “So you can prepare Lucy, I presume. But surely, after your marriage—”
“It’s not the, er, mechanics, I’m asking about. It’s—” She broke off, feeling her cheeks heat. She recalled Lord Tarrant’s words. “Did you ever find it . . . pleasant? Pleasurable I mean? Because I’m told most women . . .” She couldn’t finish. It was too humiliating.
There was a short silence. Lady Peplowe’s brows knotted, and she took a deep breath. “I never did like that husband of yours,” she said briskly. “Are you saying that you never . . . ?”
Alice, face aflame, shook her head.
“The selfish pig!” The older lady reached out and patted Alice on the hand. “Well, thank goodness it’s not too late to learn.”
Alice blinked. “But I’ll be forty in a few years.”
Lady Peplowe chuckled. “And I’ll be sixty. But the good news, my dear, is that it only gets better with age and experience.”
Better? Alice struggled to hide her amazement. It had never occurred to her that older ladies might still do that. Even though there was no chance of children.
“I married young, and for love,” Lady Peplowe began. She glanced at the overmantel, where a family portrait hung. Alice followed her gaze. Lord Peplowe was a nondescript-looking man of medium height. These days he was balding and with a paunch, but Alice had seen the fond way his wife looked at him.
“I was just eighteen, and Peplowe had just turned one-and-twenty.” She sighed reminiscently. “We were both so innocent—my mother had prepared me for my wedding night by telling me to do as my husband bid me, and Peplowe, well, his papa had died when he was twelve, and he’d never been one of those boys who chased after women—we’d grown up together you see.”
She chuckled. “A pair of ignorant virgins we were. Oh, we fumbled around and managed to get the deed done, but it was awkward and uncomfortable and quite ridiculously strange. But we both assumed that was how it was done, so we persisted.” She took a sip of tea, grimaced and rang for a fresh pot.
“But we both had the feeling that there ought to be something more—I mean, what the poets go on about was nothing like what we were finding, and we were in love.” She glanced at Alice. “And then Peplowe had the great good sense to seek out a courtesan.”
Alice gasped.
“A retired one,” Lady Peplowe hastened to assure her. “You don’t think I’d let him actually do anything with another woman, do you?” She laughed. “She was a good deal older, but a woman of great experience, and she explained to him just exactly how things worked, and what he should do to make it better. And even what I should do. Courtesans know all about how to pleasure men—some of them, the most surprising things. I don’t think anyone ever asks them how to please a woman, but she was happy to instruct my darling Peplowe.”
“And that made the experience more pleasant?”
“Pleasant?” She regarded Alice sympathetically. “That husband of yours really deserved a horsewhipping. No, my dear
, ‘pleasant’ is far too bland a word. It became . . . glorious. Sometimes earthy, sometimes raw, sometimes sublime and always splendid. A true physical expression of Peplowe’s and my love for each other.”
Alice tried to swallow. A lump had formed in her throat. She half wanted to cry, which made no sense to her.
The fresh tea arrived, and while Alice poured and added milk and stirred in a sugar lump, she managed to get control of her emotions.
Lady Peplowe drank some tea, set her cup down and sat back. “So, my dear, now that you know, what are you going to do?”
“Do?”
“To experience for yourself some of the physical splendor your abominable husband denied you, of course.”
Alice picked up her teacup, unable to think of an answer. What was she going to do? She had no idea.
“I’ve noticed Lord Tarrant has a certain gleam in his eye whenever he looks at you. I’ll be bound a fine, strapping lad like that will know how to introduce a woman to the bliss of the bedchamber.”
Alice almost choked on a mouthful of tea. “No, no, you have it wrong. I have no intention of—of—”
“Discovering what it’s all about? Nonsense! For nearly twenty years you did your duty to a selfish, undeserving bully, and now it’s time you paid attention to your own needs and desires. Or allowed someone else to. Get that gel of yours fired off in style and then see to your own pleasure and satisfaction.” She sipped her tea and eyed Alice over the rim of her teacup. “If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering.”
* * *
* * *
It took Alice a whole day and night to make up her mind. Lady Peplowe’s words kept coming back to haunt her: If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering.
She was still far from convinced that she could experience anything like the pleasure Lady Peplowe had described. After all, Thaddeus had kept the same mistress for twenty years, and he’d obviously been satisfied with her responses in bed—and presumably she with his.
It seemed clear to Alice that she’d been the one lacking.