Seduction Wears Sapphires

by Renee Bernard

  “Y-yes! Well, Mr. Blackwell has been very . . . kind. I am very grateful for Mrs. Clark’s interest. Thank you, Daisy.” Caroline’s nerves made her hands shake and she returned her attention to the desk and its contents, removing the pile of drawings to make room for her afternoon tea. But her nerveless fingers dropped the bundle in a noisy cascade of papers, and Daisy rushed to help her.

  “Here, no need for that!” Daisy soothed, retrieving the pages while she knelt on the carpet. “I’ll get them—Oh, my! Is it going to be a church?”

  “They’re for a school, just for women. It’s just an idea I had.”

  “A school for ladies?”

  “A true college for any girl or woman who wishes to learn.”

  Daisy’s eyes widened. “Any girl? Truly?”

  And the hunger in the young maid’s eyes was like a hot coal in her stomach. Here was the reason for her journey, here was the inspiration for her strange arrangement and unreal time herding about a grown man. She was to have maintained control and demonstrated her worth, guided Ashe to more gentlemanly behavior . . . and earned her reward and a legacy that would outlive her and give other women hope when they had none.

  Hadn’t education been her salvation in so many ways when she was growing up? It had given her a glimpse of what was possible. The physical pain of withholding this part of herself from Ashe was crippling, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the money and her poverty. She was sure it would seem too trite, too contrived—as if she were some fortune hunter foisted on him or had seduced him for his money. And her honor wouldn’t allow it.

  “It doesn’t exist, Daisy.”

  “It will, I expect!” Daisy’s faith was unshaken. “And what a thing that will be!”

  “I’m not—” Caroline took a deep steadying breath and helped Daisy to her feet. “I don’t need help with the tray. I don’t . . . That will be all, Daisy.”

  “As you say, miss.” Daisy bobbed a curtsy again, barely masking her disappointment. “As you say.”

  She left quickly and Caroline gave in to bitter tears.

  For untold women, I have cast away the opportunity I was given in a moment of weakness—because I’m lost in the seductive blue storm of a man’s eyes.

  Chapter

  17

  Lady Fitzgerald’s dinner party was a droll gathering. After the men withdrew for port and cigars, the ladies made good use of their chance to gossip and explore less genteel topics with less discretion.

  Caroline did her best to stay out of the game, but Lady Fitzgerald beckoned her over to the settee to ensure her a seat at the center of the room’s conversations. The chatter swirled around her, rising and falling, and Caroline ignored most of it until the crisp voice of Mrs. Draper caught her attention.

  “I have it from a reliable source that Lord Winters founded the Jaded on a lark in India and that they now have over a hundred secret members!” Mrs. Draper stated with firm authority. “It’s to do with an ancient heathen religion.”

  Caroline’s spine stiffened. Ashe had described them as a “group of boring men.” “The Jaded?” she asked. “It hardly sounds religious.”

  “Hardly! Naughty things—so mysterious! Men do love their little clubs and secret meetings, do they not?” Mrs. Draper replied.

  “Playing at wicked games, more like!” Miss Woodberry chimed in, her lips pressed into a thin line of malicious pleasure. “My younger brother is sure that they learned some dark and twisted magic in India, and that’s what makes their members so impossibly rich—and why they keep to themselves! They practice the occult!”

  “And indulge in orgies!” whispered another of the older ladies, only to revel in all the shocked gasps around her.

  “Isn’t Mr. Blackwell a good friend of Lord Winters? Wasn’t he also in India recently during the Troubles?” one of the other women asked with a sly smile.

  “Blackwell’s a leader of the Jaded, I’ll warrant, for if any man could be accused of being impossibly wicked, it would be him!” Mrs. Draper nodded with authority, bringing a hush to the room as everyone awaited Caroline’s response.

  Caroline wasn’t having it. “They are friends, but if every Englishman who has seen India is to be a suspected member of this club, it would be hard to conceal such a mob, wouldn’t it?”

  Some of the women gasped at her cheekiness, but it was Lady Fitzgerald who came to her rescue with an acerbic retort. “Blackwell’s too well-heeled to bother with the Jaded, and even if he were, he would never admit such a thing. It is a good parlor game to try to guess about the Jaded. My dear Quaker has no interest in such nonsense! But if she did, mark my words, Miss Caroline Townsend would have them all sorted out before teatime! American girls are apparently made of sterner stuff.”

  “So are draft horses, but they don’t bother to venture into Town.” Mrs. Draper arched her eyebrows in the look of a woman unimpressed with American interlopers.

  Before Lady Fitzgerald could rally again, Caroline was on her feet in outrage. “Why anyone would bother with London if such a shallow—”

  The tight grip of Lady Fitzgerald’s hand on hers cut her off, and the dowager rose to stand next to her. “Ignore Arabelle, Quaker. Her claws are sharper than her wits and I’ll not have the evening spoiled by a jealous show.”

  “I? Jealous?” Arabelle Draper asked, her face red. “Of your Quaker?”

  “Certainly. For while you can only guess at the handsome Mr. Blackwell’s associations and resort to silly gossip, our dear Miss Townsend has the upper hand and is giving nothing away!” She unsnapped her fan and gave Caroline a gentle push toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse us both, I want to show the Quaker my new ridiculously expensive window pulls in my drawing room.”

  Caroline didn’t need any additional persuasion to leave, fury and embarrassment warring inside of her for control. With the elderly woman in her wake, she left the women to their whispers and stories, wishing she could stop her hands from shaking.

  It was too preposterous, but Caroline wasn’t sure if there was any logical rebuttal to be made to such gossip. Ashe would never! The thought was lost in a tangle of memories—of all his odd claims to not be a man fit for civilized company, his avoidance of “decent” women, the courtesan at the museum, and his mysterious disappearances. His friends seemed to call at the strangest hours, and again and again there was the subtle mention of their ties to India. But even more intimately damning was the wicked magic he wielded over her, making her wonder where any gentleman could learn how to unravel a woman so completely and bend her to his will.

  Was it possible? That he was involved in something unspeakable? That it had anything to do with these Jaded?

  Lady Fitzgerald clapped her hands dismissively as she guided her into a quiet room off the main foyer. It was a warm room awash in gold and ivory damask, an odd lace-accented sanctuary from the grander drawing room. “I told you that every woman in England would set out against you. Arabelle has always fancied Blackwell, but she’s too thick a creature to realize it.”

  “If she cares for him, she has an odd way of showing it by insulting the man!”

  Caroline realized her misstep the instant she spoke and watched the confirmation of her error in Lady Fitzgerald’s knowing eyes. “Ah! The girl I met in my home recently would have shrugged and said something about letting the catty hag have her wicked prize and good riddance! But to defend him? There’s a change.”

  “H-he’s been very kind. I’d have defended anyone in that situation.”

  Lady Fitzgerald shook her head slowly, walking over to one of the great windows across the room. “I didn’t hear a squeak about poor Lord Winters. . . .” Before Caroline could think of a reply she went on lightly, “But how is my American faring in London? I see you have truly abandoned your plain religion and embraced the finer things. Good for you! Have you had many offers?”

  “No,” Caroline said quietly.

  “None? Not a single one?” Lady Fitzgerald sat
by the fireplace. “What a disappointment!”

  “I’m not disappointed, your ladyship. As I told you, I didn’t expect to compete for offers.”

  “You didn’t expect to compete for Blackwell’s affections is, I believe, a more accurate accounting of our first conversation.” She waved off any protests. “Yes, yes! You care nothing for him! La! But don’t think those sharp-clawed gossips won’t conclude that you’ve received no offers because you harbor some secret wish to get one from your delightful villain of a guardian instead!”

  “I have . . . no such hope, your ladyship.”

  “And why not?” the older woman asked without a shred of humor or encouragement. “Blackwell’s heart would be quite the coup.”

  “He would never offer it—to anyone. He’s been very honest in that regard, and if I pay attention to little else, I do seem to remember what I’m told.”

  Lady Fitzgerald nodded crisply. “You are a wise girl.” She stood from her upholstered seat, like a marshal about to inspect the field. “I’m glad that’s settled and without ridiculous hysterics. Come now, let me happily imagine my dearly departed George’s reaction while I show you my new costly Italian silk draperies and let us sit and discuss your future!”

  “You’re quiet tonight.” Ashe pulled her across the carriage to sit snugly against him, the heat of his body warming her in the cold night air. “Don’t tell me the dragon turned on you! If so, you mustn’t give the dowager a single moment’s worry.”

  “No, I am still . . . full of enough pluck to keep her respect. And she approved of my new wardrobe, so you also have a bit of a reprieve.”

  “Did she fuss that you’ve yet to land a husband?” He kissed the slope behind her ear and Caroline’s fingers clutched reactively at his arm at the spiral of fire that came to life inside of her. “Did you blame your overprotective guardian?”

  “I blamed it on my Colonial manners,” she whispered.

  “I love your Colonial manners.”

  She pushed away from him slightly in protest. “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “It’s true, although I miss your stern lectures. They were so”—he paused to nip again at the sensitive juncture behind her ear, deliberately exhaling along the moist path his tongue created down the side of her neck—“arousing.”

  “Tell me about the Jaded, Ashe.”

  He was instantly still at the sound of the word Jaded, but he didn’t abandon his strategy altogether as he continued to kiss her throat. “Why do you ask? Did someone mention them tonight?”

  “The ladies seem overly curious, but you did say you knew them. Friends of yours, wasn’t it?” Her last question ended with a soft sigh as he circled back upward to nibble on her earlobe.

  “Odd conversation for the drawing room . . . I’d just assumed there was lively feminine debate on ribbons and the weather.” His teeth grazed the outer shell of her ear and she sagged against him in surrender. “And to think we men wasted our time after dinner talking about Hamilton’s fondness for hunting rifles.”

  “Ashe!” she moaned.

  His cock stiffened painfully at the sound of her voice, rough with frustration and wanting. But she pushed against him. “Ashe, I want to have one intact conversation with you, without . . .” Her protest faded.

  “Without?”

  “Without finding myself at a loss to remember my own name or the location of my stockings!”

  “As you wish.” He straightened his coat and tried to give his best impression of a man in a drawing room and not in the secluded confines of a winter’s carriage ride. “Very well. You were asking about the Jaded?”

  “No, I don’t think I should. Or rather, it is not the right question to ask.”

  “And what is the right question, Miss Townsend?”

  “What happened in India, Ashe?” She reached out to take his hand. “For clearly something must have. Your grandfather isn’t the only one to note that you changed after returning, yet no one seems to have anything else to say on the subject.”

  “There is nothing worth telling.”

  “Really? Nothing? How long were you there?”

  “Three years.”

  “And in three years, nothing of significance occurred?”

  “Significant to whom?” He was being obtuse and he knew it, but this was the last subject he wanted to explore with her. In the shadows, it felt too close, and he felt vulnerable somehow. “Her name was Anjali and I fell in love with her in India. It was . . . I thought only of my own family’s potential disapproval and I cavalierly disregarded it. Love blinded me to everything. I never thought of her family or her neighbors or the political and religious consequences of my actions while the world around us was preparing to burst into flames.”

  “Ashe, I—”

  “I loved her and she died as a direct result and I don’t wish to talk about this ever again.”

  A small silence spun out between them, and Ashe focused on the way her fingers wrapped so comfortingly around his. She didn’t press him for more, didn’t sigh in disappointment, and most strikingly of all, didn’t look away. Instead he could see, even in the dim light, those large, beautiful eyes of hers looking at him with steadfast support and concern.

  It was too much, and guilt almost swamped him. “Things that change us are rarely pleasant. I am sure it is why I have chosen to find solace in pleasurable things that don’t have that power.”

  “There is power in . . . passion, Ashe.”

  He shook his head. “Give me your hand.”

  She held out her hand and he peeled off the soft protective layer of her glove, tucking it into his pocket. “Here is passion, Caroline.”

  Ashe pressed her hand against the carriage window, the heat from her fingers splayed across the cold surface until it warmed beneath her touch. She gasped at the sensation and he covered her hand with his for a moment, trapping her gently between the two extremes of fire and ice. She shivered and leaned back against him, and Ashe indulged in the soft curve of her neck, trailing hot kisses up toward her ear until she moaned.

  He pulled her hand back from the window and the detailed imprint of her own palm and fingers remained like a wintry ghost. “There. You see? You affected the glass and warmed it, but you didn’t change its nature. That is passion, dearest. A momentary escape from our world, but it need not leave any scars. It has the power to distract and divert but nothing more.”

  She said nothing, staring at her handprint, and everything in him regretted his words.

  Caroline contemplated her reflection in her vanity mirror as she brushed out her hair for the night and wondered if there were any truth to Ashe’s philosophies. It was as if he meant to ward her off and protect her from becoming too attached to him—as if it were possible.

  Too late. It is far too late for me to dictate practicality to my heart now. He can speak of passion changing nothing, but for me, it has changed everything. I don’t remember feeling anything before I met Ashe. And now I cannot stop feeling. There is no part of him I don’t desire.

  But that night he’d only underscored the conversation she’d had with Lady Fitzgerald, driving home the reality that no matter how much he wanted her, there was no future match for an American mud wren and an English falcon.

  Chapter

  18

  Caroline waited until the house was dark and quiet before making her way to his room wearing one of her new nightgowns and matching wrap. The rendezvous had been set without conversation, their nightly clandestine meetings simply understood. She knew it was another subtle sign that he was already an integrated part of her existence.

  It’s hard to imagine a night without him.

  In front of the fireplace, he’d laid out an exotic little picnic of crystal port glasses and small sandwiches on a silver platter, arranged for a sultan on the oriental rug, with pillows strewn about. Ashe reclined on the floor with his legs crossed, his shirt unbuttoned to give her a tantalizing glimpse of his muscular b
ody. “In case you were hungry, I thought some late-night repast would please you.”

  She rolled her eyes as she sat next to him on the floor, tossing her wrap over a chair. “So much for your servants not knowing. . . .”

  “I never doubted Godwin’s omniscience for a minute, did you?”

  Caroline smiled. “No, but I prefer to cling to my last tattered dream of discretion.”

  “Ah! Speaking of dreams.” He gave her a gentle pinch on her arm that made her giggle. “I wanted to make sure you were awake, Miss Townsend.”

  “How noble of you!”

  He laughed. “How is it that you are so easy with me? I have never known anyone who made things so . . . entertaining without the slightest show of effort. I am myself completely when you’re near, Caroline. And for once, it doesn’t feel disappointing to be me.”

  She shrugged, taking a sip of port from the tray. “Perhaps it’s because we disliked each other so much at the start.”

  “How would that help?”

  “It means neither one of us even bothered to try to win the other over. And so here we are.”

  “Caroline,” he began cautiously, “what I said in the carriage about passion—”

  “There are people that live their entire lives without a wisp of passion, Ashe. Not that a quiet life doesn’t hold a certain appeal, but if you have no choice . . . then nothing appeals, does it?”

  She stood in front of the fire, fully aware of the view she offered him, setting her glass down on the mantel. The thin silk would do nothing to shield her from his eyes, and she warmed at the way his eyes trailed over her body and lingered on her face.

  “And what would you choose, Miss Townsend?”

  Love, Ashe. I would choose to be loved. The answer clamored in her head, but for once, her pluck failed her and she accepted her cowardice. “I cannot say.”

  “Can you not?” He reached up to tug at the sheer fabric of her nightgown, pulling it taut across her breasts and making them swell as her nipples puckered in response.