Lady Windermere's Lover

by Miranda Neville

  “Don’t think about that now,” he whispered, running a trail of kisses down her neck to her bosom. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves.” He took one pink nipple between his lips and felt it stiffen as he sucked. Her breath slowed as he caressed her midriff.

  “Damian,” she said dreamily. “What’s that smoky stuff called?”

  “Bhang. Or hashish.”

  “It causes mirth and dalliance?”

  “That’s right. And drunkenness, just the appearance of it.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You don’t feel so bad the next morning.”

  “Tha’s good.” She slurred her words and her breathing changed again, coming slow and deep. “Tha’s very good. I feel very good now. Do you feel good, Damian? I hope so.”

  “Very good, and I fully expect to feel even better in the near future.”

  Soon. Very soon indeed.

  He made himself pay a minute’s more attention to her glorious breasts—no hardship, and eliciting sweet murmurs of pleasure—until he could take no more. Now, at long last, it was his turn. Anticipation of burying his aching cock in her tight, wet heat sent his brain awhirl. He positioned himself over her but held off a few more seconds. Her smug smile, promising that she would enjoy the coming union as much as he, surely merited a kiss.

  His lips descended to be met by a huff of warm breath and a funny little snort.

  “Cynthia?” Her eyes had closed. “Hell and damnation.”

  She had nodded off to sleep.

  No more bhang for Lady Windermere, he resolved.

  Chapter 13

  Cynthia awoke feeling extraordinarily well. She’d sometimes drunk too much wine at Caro’s parties and the mornings had not been enjoyable. This bhang stuff was marvelous: all the benefits of wine without the headache. Also, just possibly, her husband had contributed to her state of physical content.

  She couldn’t recall how the evening ended or how she’d returned to her own bed. Other memories were so dreamlike that she questioned their realty. Had she lain before Damian, naked as a Persian lady, letting him look at her and reveling in his admiration? Her belly turned hot and heavy. She peeked under the sheet and realized that she was naked, still. In that case, the next thing must have happened too. The thing he’d done to her with his mouth. Since she could never have conceived of such a thing in a thousand years, it hadn’t been a product of her imagination. Her powers of invention were beyond anything so extraordinarily delicious. The very recollection made her blush from head to foot with shame and clench inside with longing for a repetition.

  Had Damian . . . had they . . . coupled? She wished she could remember. She didn’t want to have missed it since she was fairly certain it would have been much, much better than the last time.

  Not a sound could be detected in his bedchamber. Either he was up and about or still abed. She had no idea of the time, except that a crack of light through the curtains told her it was past dawn. On most occasions since his return when he had shared her bed, Damian had left before she awoke. A few days ago she had found a daylight encounter across the pillows excruciatingly awkward; today she would have been intrigued . . .

  The difference between their earlier marital relations and last night could not have been greater. She wondered if he’d gained the knowledge to give pleasure from exotic naked creatures among the marble palaces of Persia and wasn’t sure how she felt about that. He was her husband and owed her fidelity, just as she owed it to him. She had kept faith with the marriage.

  Barely.

  She had come very close to betraying her vows with Denford. Could she really blame Damian if he had succumbed to temptation? She should forgive him, even if the thought of him cavorting with another woman made her feel a little queasy. Correction. Damian cavorting in a distant land with an unknown woman he’d never see again. That made her queasy. The thought of him doing deliciously indecent things with Lady Belinda Radcliffe in London made her want to howl.

  But she was feeling optimistic this morning, rather as she had the morning of her wedding. When she had walked into church on her uncle’s arm, sunshine poured in through the clear windows in the nave, bathing the lovely golden stone in light. A single rose window of stained glass cast its kaleidoscope of color onto the path before her, the well-trodden stone floor that carried her inexorably toward the vicar, waiting to conduct the ceremony that would make her Countess of Windermere, and the man who would bestow the title on his wife.

  Cynthia had willed him to turn, to look, to smile at his bride. To show some sign that he welcomed this marriage to an ordinary girl of undistinguished birth and little beauty. Would he ever love her? Aunt Lavinia had assured her that if she obeyed him and gave him a son, he would love her as a husband always loved a dutiful wife. As for Cynthia’s own feelings, all he needed to do was treat her with ordinary kindness and she would honor him; it wouldn’t take much more to make her fall all the way in love.

  He’d disappointed her dreadfully, but she didn’t want to cling to her grudge. Perhaps he hadn’t bedded another woman since their marriage, neither Persian temptress nor London siren. In that case, since evidence suggested he knew better, the dismal nature of his previous lovemaking must be attributed to carelessness and indifference. Optimism urged her to hope the change for the better would be permanent.

  She rang for her maid and learned that His Lordship had gone out riding. She dressed to look her best, and as she descended the stairs, a scent of spices sweetened the air. Her cook was preparing Christmas delicacies. Since her parents’ deaths, Christmas had never been a happy season for her. Last Yuletide had been spent at Beaulieu Manor with no one but the servants for company.

  This year she’d looked forward to spending the holiday in Hampshire with the Duke and Duchess of Castleton. When Windermere’s return drew her back to London, she’d made preparations, ensuring that the servants had a suitable feast as well as extra wages on St. Stephen’s Day. Perhaps it was the aroma of cinnamon and cloves and nutmeg in the hall that filled her heart with the joy that legend, literature, and faded memories ascribed to the birth of Christ. She wanted wassail and carols, holly and mistletoe. And gifts. The arrival of the new girl at Flowers Street had postponed her gift giving there. And she had nothing for her husband. Christmas Eve wasn’t too late to find the perfect token to celebrate their better, even ecstatic future, together.

  She contemplated the possibility of a marriage she’d once dreamed of. A marriage like that of her parents. They might have died when she was only ten, but she could still remember the warmth and affection that infused their curate’s cottage and lingered through all the years at school and the chilly air of her uncle’s house. The warmth that had given her hope that she too would one day come together with a man in mutual respect and even love. The worst thing Windermere’s desertion had done to her was to destroy that aspiration. With every act of negligence and betrayal it had drained away until she was left without prospect of the love she craved.

  Now, perhaps foolishly, hope had been reborn, a fluttering dove demanding release from the cage of her disillusioned heart. Before she allowed it freedom she had to face the unkindest cut dealt her by her husband. Remembering the cruel letter, the few careless words engraved on her mind, her blood didn’t boil as it used to, but her happy glow dulled a little.

  Returning from his morning exercise, Damian was sorry to be informed that Her Ladyship was up, breakfasted, and in her parlor. He would have enjoyed finding her still in bed and in need of arousal. Instead he had no reason to postpone one or two disagreeable matters that needed to be addressed. Once he had cleared the air with Cynthia, laid down the law, kindly but firmly, about her future behavior, then they could move on to pure pleasure. Please God, before he went mad.

  He found her on the floor in her parlor surrounded by paper and cloth and ribbon and two large hampers.

  She looked up, eyes sparkling and cheeks delicately tinged with pink. He picked his way through t
he clutter and offered his hand. “You are busy this morning, Cynthia.”

  “Getting ready for tomorrow.” She let him help her to her feet, looking delightfully rumpled. On impulse he seized her waist, pulled her close, and gave her a quick kiss.

  “I haven’t hung the mistletoe yet,” she said, flustered.

  “I don’t need any ancient custom to kiss my wife,” he said, and kissed her again, more thoroughly.

  The dazed look in her eyes reminded him of last night. A good sign that he’d achieved the effect without benefit of foreign stimulants. He pulled her closer, against the evidence of his burgeoning interest. She, alas, retreated, pulling out of his arms. “It’s not even ten o’clock, my lord. I have much to prepare and I still have shopping to do.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “That would be delightful,” she said, though obviously not pleased by the suggestion, “but not this time. You would find my errands very dull. You wouldn’t wish to wait through a fitting with my dressmaker.”

  “Just as well. I expect Bingham in an hour. Don’t forget that we dine with the Radcliffes tomorrow.”

  That pleased her even less. “I thought we might enjoy our Christmas dinner together.”

  “I’d prefer it too, but I promised. It’s impolite to cancel an invitation that we have accepted.”

  “That you have accepted.”

  She was being unreasonable, he thought, but he wished to be conciliatory. “I am not used to consulting anyone else about my engagements. I promise to do better in the future.” She nodded with a mere twitch of a smile. For some reason she wasn’t looking forward to the Radcliffes’ feast. “If you are nervous about such a distinguished gathering, you need not worry. I am sure you can manage well, and I promise to stay at your side and assist you in any awkwardness. You will quickly learn how to comport yourself.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I cannot tell you how relieved I am.” He might almost have thought her sarcastic but her face was quite innocent of edge.

  “Come, sit with me. I have something I wish to say to you.”

  She nodded. “We do need to talk.”

  Settling her on a sofa, he perched beside her and took her hands. “First of all, let me say that I enjoyed last night and look forward to more such occasions.” She blushed scarlet and he swooped in to whisper, “Though they may end in different ways,” and kissed her again.

  She drew back and coughed. “My lord . . . Damian. You said you had something to say to me.”

  “I do. I want to clear up a few things that lie between us. After that I believe we shall be able to do extremely well together.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  He opened magnanimously. “Our marriage started badly, I know, and largely through my own fault. I won’t offer an excuse but perhaps an explanation. I felt I had been dragooned into the match by Mr. Chorley.”

  Her eyes widened but she said nothing, merely tilted her head.

  “I had finally set aside enough money to purchase Beaulieu. I thought I had come to terms with the owner when I learned he’d sold it to Chorley instead. Your uncle made it very clear that if I ever wished to repossess my mother’s estate, it would be through a marital alliance with his family.”

  She freed her hands and raised them to burning cheeks. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “I suspected you might not. Yet you agreed to the marriage. You spoke your vows.”

  “I was not forced to accept you,” she said softly, and looked away.

  “There is no shame in a woman agreeing to an advantageous match. We both wed with perfectly rational ambitions and I was wrong to blame you when all the duress was on the part of your uncle.” She nodded with a little more vigor. He had the impression she was holding something back. If it saved her pride not to have to admit she liked the idea of wedding an earl, he would allow her that indulgence. “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” he said.

  “Have we?”

  “Certainly! We have admitted that neither of us came into the marriage with the most praiseworthy of motives. Let us put them behind us and move forward.”

  “Since we are married, Damian,” she said, “mutual harmony is a desirable state.”

  He leaned in and whispered, “After last night I am especially anxious to establish that harmony.”

  She blushed deeply and looked down at her lap, deliciously confused. He could imagine finally coming to a place where he had nothing to regret about his bride. First he needed to deal with greatest obstacle that lay between them. After that . . . Was it likely that a proper wife would like to take a trip to the bedchamber in the middle of the day? No, forget a hypothetical wife. Would his wife, would Cynthia, be ready to be made love to in broad daylight? Tempted to try his luck right away, he made himself attend to the less pleasant order of business. First the medicine, then the sweetener. For both of them.

  “There’s one more thing. I refer to what happened in my absence. It is not a subject I wish to discuss in detail, but we need to put it behind us.” Her head jerked up to meet his gaze. He would have expected guilt; instead she looked eager. “I must insist,” he said firmly, “that you cut off your connection with the Duke of Denford.”

  He was being generous and reasonable. Like many civilized men before him, he was ready to put aside her unfortunate transgression in the interests of his family’s future. Unfortunately, he wasn’t feeling civilized. Instead his chest felt ready to explode and he wanted to berate her in a way no diplomat worth his salt would do. And then he wanted to hunt down Julian Fortescue and administer a long overdue beating.

  He summoned his control and spoke calmly, with an air of undeniable command. “There is no need for you ever to see or speak to him again, except when unavoidable in the course of normal social events.“ There. The law had been laid down.

  She seemed puzzled. “I thought you and he had made up your differences. You invited him to dinner.”

  “As it happens I have business with Denford. What’s between him and me, past and present, is none of your affair.”

  “He is also our neighbor. Am I supposed to cut him on the street? I have been alone this past year, my lord, and Julian has been my friend.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. Instead of penitence she was arguing with him. He realized she only now addressed him as “my lord” when she was annoyed. Yet she was the one who was at fault. Did she intend to carry on a relationship with her cicisbeo under the very eyes of her husband?

  He wouldn’t have it. The Earls of Windermere were no decadent Venetians. Even if he were to agree to the kind of complacent marriage that was common enough even in England—like that of the Radcliffes, for example—she should at least expect to wait until there was an heir or two. Did she have no idea how to behave?

  “Friend! Is that what you call it? That will do very well in public, my lady, but let us remove our gloves.” He rose to stand in front of the fire, hands behind his back. She perched on the settee, cool as a cucumber in demure ivory muslin, seemingly unaware that he knew the truth. He’d see how cool and demure she’d look now. “I will not tolerate scandal, nor a cuckoo in my nest,” he said flatly. “I am prepared to forgive and forget what happened in my absence, but your affair with Denford is over. He is no longer your lover.”

  She twisted her hands together and turned aside. “Whatever you may have heard is untrue. He has never been my lover.”

  “You face refutes your claim. Look at me and deny that you have betrayed me.”

  Instead of holding contrition, her eyes clashed with his. “I do deny it. I have kept faith with you though you certainly haven’t deserved it, you—you—” She sputtered, apparently unable to find a word to describe him. Or maybe what she had in mind wasn’t repeatable.

  “You lie, madam, and I can prove it. I saw you with Denford at Drury Lane.” He wasn’t about to admit he hadn’t recognized her.

  “What of it?” she said, taken aback. For the first time she look
ed self-conscious, but this sign of guilt didn’t last long. She rallied her forces. “And I saw you with Lady Belinda Radcliffe. What’s sauce for the gander should be sauce for the goose, my lord!”

  “Lady Belinda is the wife of a close colleague.”

  “Hah! Very close.”

  “Any flirtation there may have been between us was over long before our marriage. Do you honestly believe that I would take my wife to spend Christmas Day in the house of my mistress? You have a very strange notion of propriety.”

  She rose from the sofa and retreated toward the French window, where she stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “What do I know of your notions of propriety, being a mere provincial nobody? What do I know of your manners and morals? If you cared so much for your vows you would have taken me, your wife, to the theater and I would not have needed a different escort.”

  This piece of specious reasoning made him want to tear his hair out. “How was I supposed to know you were in London? I left you at Beaulieu and expected you to stay there.”

  “For how many years?”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” he said, avoiding shaky ground. “The point is, I didn’t know you were in London or that the house was open. That is why I stayed at a hotel.” He moved closer to give himself the advantage of height. “And we’re not talking about my imagined sins but your very real ones.”

  “Don’t wag your finger at me,” she almost shrieked, stamping her foot. “You have no proof of my supposed affair with Denford because there is none.” She folded her arms and stuck her nose in the air.

  “I have only the evidence of my own eyes. I know what happened after the theater.”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “The duke escorted me home.” But a trace of uneasiness leached through the mask of bravado. How could it not?

  He raised his eyebrows. “To the house next door to his.”