In the Garden of Temptation

by Cynthia Wicklund

  She turned to look at him, again seeming to hesitate as she searched his face. He was amazed by the sudden import he placed on her reply.

  “I suspect you will.”

  With that, she turned on him that remarkable backside, her skirts swaying side to side as she strode purposely to the rear entry of the castle. If she were tempted to turn around and look at him he was unaware because her posture implied she had already forgotten him. He watched her until she disappeared from sight then began his own trek to the front of the baron’s home so he could make a more suitable entrance.

  As he walked, Adam reviewed his encounter with the lovely maiden—at least he assumed she was a maiden. Perhaps hoped expressed it better. He guessed her age at early twenties. Considering her extraordinary good looks, to reach that age without becoming attached seemed impossible. Surely, she’d had the opportunity, for what man wouldn’t want such a prize.

  At the front of the castle again, Adam approached the metal-studded front door, grasped the ancient knocker and gave it three quick raps. Several moments passed before he heard a distant sound emanating from deep within the stone structure. By Jove! This old heap is inhabited, he thought.

  There came the sound of a large bolt being thrown from inside then the door, with much protest, opened slowly. A wizened little man stared out at the earl with something akin to impudence.

  “You’re late,” the man accused without preamble.

  Adam blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re late,” he repeated.

  “Since the missive I sent did not promise the exact hour of my arrival, I hardly believe one could call me late.”

  The servant’s demeanor so irritated the earl, if he hadn’t been driven by curiosity, he would have spun on his heel and immediately returned to London. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or administer the setdown this obnoxious twit so richly deserved. The man stepped back, his attitude grudging as he allowed Adam to enter.

  The interior of the castle looked as dilapidated and neglected as the exterior. An enormous staircase rose to a second-story landing. The landing traversed the entire length of that floor and was bounded by apartments on one side and a banister on the other, overlooking the great hall below. Adam suspected there had been major renovations over the centuries to modernize the building, but recent history would indicate a lack of any real care or improvement. The atmosphere was dank, dark and depressing.

  “Follow me.”

  Adam fell in behind the servant who led him down a hall past several doors. The last doorway on the right was their destination.

  “Enter,” a voice beckoned from within the room in response to the servant’s knock.

  The baron sat behind a large mahogany desk, and he looked up expectantly as the earl was shown into the library. “Ah, Willy, I see our guest has arrived. Bring us some sherry. You do like sherry, do you not, Ashworth?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The baron reached into his desk and, retrieving a pair of white gloves, proceeded to don them as he spoke. He stood and crossed the room to the earl and offered his hand in greeting. A limp affair at best, Adam had to control the urge to shudder as he shook the baron’s flaccid fist. Fortunately, it was also a brief encounter.

  “Please have a seat.” The baron indicated a dark green leather chair and returned to his own chair at the desk.

  He sat down and meticulously peeled off the gloves, starting at the wrist, turning them inside out in the process. With the tips of his fingers, he took the gloves and tossed them into the rubbish container on the floor. He glanced up at that moment and, catching sight of Adam’s face, appeared to hesitate.

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Bourgeault said, his attitude a study in nonchalance. “It’s a peculiarity of mine. I find casual contact has an unpleasant effect on me. It is an inconvenience, nothing more.”

  Adam merely nodded for lack of anything better to say. Unable to understand the bizarre ritual he had just witnessed, he could not shake the feeling he had stepped into the macabre world of a Shakespearean drama. Between the oppressiveness of the castle and the weirdness of its inhabitants, the expedition had taken on a nightmarish quality.

  Willy returned bearing a tray with the sherry and two glasses. He placed the tray on the desk and, after darting one more suspicious glance in Adam’s direction, left the room.

  The baron splashed a large measure in each glass and pushed one toward the earl. Reaching for his own drink, he inhaled a prodigious slurp and belched.

  “Nothing like a fine wine to start the evening. Not a bad way to start the morning either.” Bourgeault emitted a raucous guffaw, apparently having amused at least himself.

  Adam took a discreet sip and rolled the liquid on his tongue. He was not impressed. However, he supposed getting intoxicated might be in order considering the oddity of the circumstances. Settling back, he prepared to drink himself into a semblance of normalcy. He did not affirm the quality of the baron’s “fine wine,” but evidently it wasn’t necessary.

  “I paid a visit to your stables before I announced my arrival at the house.”

  “Did you now?” The baron eyed Adam over the top of his glass. “And what have you decided?”

  “I would say it’s one of the finer stables I’ve encountered. I was disappointed not to see your grays at that time. Your groom said they were out to pasture.”

  The baron beamed. “My cattle are my passion. But come,” he said as he took another gulp of his drink, “let’s not worry about business this evening. There’s plenty of time to inspect the horseflesh tomorrow. My wife will be joining us soon. We keep country hours so dinner will be served shortly.”

  The earl nodded absently, but he could not help wondering what manner of woman would tie herself to a man of the baron’s stamp. If money were a problem, and the condition of the castle suggested this was a possibility, the lady had made a poor bargain indeed.

  *****

  Catherine stepped out of the lukewarm bath water and into a towel held by Edna. She dried off quickly and donned a cotton floral dressing gown. Distracted, she could not put two lucid thoughts together. Her unexpected meeting with the nobleman who was visiting downstairs had left her disconcerted and confused.

  She had gone to her room immediately after leaving Lord Ashworth, assailed by an unaccustomed churning in her stomach. Nerves, she decided, which mystified her.

  After all, this was not the first time Edgar had extended hospitality to a gentleman in their home. He made a frequent habit of inviting company, sometimes a crowd, and her husband expected her to play the hostess. But the earl seemed a cut above the usual guest. Though only a first impression, a first impression was often a good gauge by which to judge a person’s character.

  Perhaps it was because Lord Ashworth was handsome enough to make her pulse stutter. When she had turned around in the stable yard and found him towering over her, his broad shoulders seeming to block the sun, she was shocked almost as speechless as he.

  She remembered his sensuous mouth as he had grinned at her in amazed delight, his lips parting to reveal a perfect set of white teeth. He had fine black hair that curled in a thick mass against the collar of his shirt. But his eyes were his most riveting characteristic. They were a deep evening blue, dark and compelling, and when he had rested them on her, for a protracted moment the world had stop spinning. Even now her skin prickled hotly at the recollection.

  “And what will my lady be wearing this evening?” Edna’s pragmatic voice broke the uncomfortable flow of Catherine’s thoughts.

  “If I didn’t know you were pure of heart, Edna, I would swear you asked me that question just to taunt me. I am to wear the red dress.”

  The little maid looked justifiably horrified. “Oh, my lady, not the red one! No respectable lightskirt would wear that dress.”

  Catherine laughed. “Is there such a thing as a respectable lightskirt?” She sobered suddenly. “What will Lord Ashworth think when he sees me?”r />
  She dashed across the room to the cherry wardrobe, wrenched the doors open and yanked one dress after another along the wooden clothes pole, looking for something—anything—more suitable. Succumbing to a moment’s desperation, tears clouded her vision.

  “There’s nothing, absolutely nothing.”

  A quick rap brought her head around with a startled jerk as the door was flung wide. The baron’s angular frame filled the entrance to the room. He stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the two women who stared back at him in frozen alarm.

  A malicious grin spread across his features. “You’re not dressed yet, my dear. I hope you intend to wear the red gown I bought for you. I will be disappointed if you don’t.”

  She could beg him to see reason, but it would be useless. He would listen patiently, taking great enjoyment from her misery then demand she obey him. Catherine refused to relinquish that victory. If he must gloat, let him think she did not care.

  “I intend putting on that horrible dress, Edgar. If you would be so kind as to withdraw and allow me some privacy, I will do so now.” She deliberately grasped the collar of her dressing gown to emphasize her meaning.

  The grin slipped. He was annoyed and no doubt he would make her suffer later. But it was worth the momentary pleasure, and she refused to regret her defiance.

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Be ready.” He turned on his heel and slammed from the room.

  Catherine held her posture until her husband was gone then her shoulders slumped in resignation.

  “Get the dress. Let us see if the baron’s taste is as vulgar as we remember.”

  Edna pulled a white box from the bottom of the wardrobe and brought it to the bed. She lifted the lid and pushed the tissue paper aside, revealing red polished satin.

  Several minutes passed as Catherine, helped by her untiring servant, struggled and shimmied into the gown. With the last hook in place, she turned to her mirror and took a peek. She opened her mouth to vocalize her shock, but the words died in her throat. Her gaze shifted to the little abigail, and her worst fears were confirmed.

  How does one describe a monstrosity? If one were being subjective, perhaps it wasn’t so bad. The garment fit perfectly, thus it didn’t seem altogether ugly. However, its sole intention left no doubt.

  A bright, raspberry satin, the gown was trimmed in black lace and fashioned after the Empire style. But the skirt, rather than flowing loosely about the body, hugged her all the way to the floor. Tiny cap sleeves fell from her shoulders, and the neckline was scooped so low she feared for the modesty of her bosom. But none of these features concerned Catherine as much as the hem. It dipped dramatically in the back to form a short train and curved so far upward in the front her ankles were exposed.

  “My lady,” Edna wailed, “you look like a berry tart ready to be gobbled up by the first man who sees you.”

  Catherine assumed this was Edna’s way of saying she looked enticing. “I believe you have the tart part correct.”

  She spoke with such ironical good humor both women began to giggle. Within moments the room was filled with peals of unrestrained mirth.

  “Please, I mustn’t laugh anymore,” the baroness said. “I’m beginning to perspire. That won’t improve the looks of this red satin abomination.”

  That observation brought forth another burst of hilarity. Raucous laughter drifted from the baroness’ room and echoed down the drafty hallway.

  That laughter is what greeted the baron when he finally returned. He stood at the open door, a scowl deepening his ugly features as he took in the chaotic scene. Catherine was leaning against the bedpost, her body convulsed in near paralytic amusement. Her timid maid had collapsed on a nearby chair in a similar state.

  “What’s going on in here?” The baron did not mind being the source of gloom and doom, but it seemed he disliked being the butt of a jest. By the look on his face, he feared that might currently be the case.

  Catherine glanced at her husband, dabbing at the tears in her eyes. “Oh, Edgar,” she wheezed, “we were just marveling over the dress.”

  She tried unsuccessfully to stifle another gust of laughter, but it came anyway. Placing her hand over her mouth, she willed herself to regain control, for she could see the baron was becoming angry.

  “Stop it!” he barked. “Stand straight and let me have a look at you.”

  He might as well have dashed cold water in her face. The gaiety easing the tension of a few minutes earlier evaporated into the air like steam from a boiling kettle, leaving behind the old familiar dread. She pulled herself to attention, drew in a deep breath and steeled herself to endure his inspection.

  His eyes started at her ankles and, with slow deliberation, traveled up her figure until he reached the exposed flesh threatening to spill from her bodice. His gaze rested there for several moments, and a slow, lascivious grin eased the corners of his mouth.

  “Perfect. Turn around.” His words had taken on that odd, gravely sound that indicated he was aroused, and Catherine’s stomach curdled in disgust. She could almost feel his eyes as they burned a trail along the length of her back.

  “Ah, wife, you always did have a splendid derriere.” The tone in his voice had intensified.

  She swallowed convulsively as bile pooled in her throat. A wave of nausea threatened to engulf her. Years had gone by since the baron had shown so marked an interest in her appearance. He had her dress for his guests, but his involvement was impersonal and remote. Catherine preferred it that way. She was appalled and humiliated that he had allowed his baser nature to erupt in front of her maid.

  He always found some way to punish her if she were foolish enough to anger him, and she suspected this degrading display was a result of his displeasure with her. But when she turned around, the hot intensity of his gaze caused her to reconsider and she became truly alarmed.

  His attention shifted to Edna. “Put your mistress’ hair up on top of her head.” He looked back at his wife. “That will set off your neck and shoulders quite nicely.”

  Catherine gritted her teeth, for she knew it was not her neck and shoulders for which he showed such fascination but the skin overflowing the top of her gown. Just what she needed—to enhance the effect.

  “Is that all, Edgar?” She was amazed at how calm she sounded, for inside she felt like a sea of roiling nerves.

  “Yes, yes, my dear, I believe it is.” He beamed at her, openly jolly now that he had taken the advantage. “Be in the drawing room within the half hour. I wish you to make an entrance.” With that parting shot he left the room.

  “My poor, poor lady.” Edna dabbed tearfully at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

  “Stop it right now,” Catherine said sternly, “or I shall be joining you, and that is last thing I need. Come, let’s do my hair. The quicker this evening begins, the quicker it ends.”

  Words so easily spoken and so utterly mistaken.

  *****

  Catherine halted at the bottom of the staircase and tried to catch her breath. She had just navigated the steps and had found it treacherous going, considering the tightness of her gown. It would have been easier if she could have lifted the skirt above her knees before she attempted the descent, but Willy, the lecherous little gnome, stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting to escort her to the drawing room.

  She refused to provide him with any further stimulation, for he leered at her in undisguised appreciation, and she found his lack of respect maddening. She could hardly blame him, though. If her husband did not place her high in his esteem, how could she expect the servants to feel differently?

  “I don’t need you to accompany me, Willy. After all these years I know where the drawing room is.” She made her attitude haughty, almost rude.

  Willy was unperturbed. “Only doing what Lord Bourgeault has instructed me to do, my lady.”

  This, of course, was his way of saying he need not follow the orders of anyone save those of his master. He approached the double doors
and, flinging them open with a flourish, announced his mistress to the occupants of the room.

  *****

  Adam stood by the fireplace, sipping on a glass of wine and studying the shabby drawing room that the baron and he now occupied. He had difficulty believing this man really had a wife, for he found no evidence of a woman’s touch anywhere—not even in this room where the Bourgeaults received their guests.

  The earl looked at his host, but the baron seemed oblivious to all but the glass of sherry he nursed. The conversation had drifted back and forth with little of worth being discussed, since the two men had less than nothing in common, until the talk had died out completely.

  But the atmosphere had become heavy with a sense of expectancy. The baron would occasionally glance at the door as if he were anticipating some impending event, leading Adam to believe the man was not as unaware of his surroundings as his cavalier attitude might suggest.

  The announcement of Lady Bourgeault brought to an end the bored silence that had settled over the gentlemen. Adam glanced up in mild curiosity and nearly spit out the mouthful of wine he had just taken.

  It was she! In the doorway stood the goddess from the stable yard. Too stunned at first to speak, Adam was vaguely aware of the baron rising from his chair to beckon the lady into the room. Never had Adam seen such an extraordinary combination of angelic beauty and vulgar display. He realized one nearly blinding emotion, though, as she entered the room and drifted toward him. Keen, overwhelming disappointment.

  The baron’s wife—how had Lord Bourgeault managed to attain such a prize? She had not even hinted at the possibility of her being the lady in residence, and he would never have guessed. The earl was staggered by the revelation.

  Lady Bourgeault closed the distance between the two men and herself as her husband made the introductions. If Adam expected her to be discomposed in light of the fact that they had already met, again he was surprised. She stared directly into his eyes, brows slightly raised, daring him to expose her subterfuge.