Love and Scandal, page 13
But as their laughter died and she wiped the tears from her eyes, he gazed at her seriously. What was he going to do? It was only right that he tell the world he was not Colin Jenkins, if they would believe him now. Collette dabbed at her eyes, a last chuckle lighting her face with delight. She was adorable and clever and sweet and unaffected. How had a woman such as this written a complex, thoughtful exploration of a rake’s life and repentance? And yet he must believe her, for she was also honest and forthright, as well as maddeningly independent and on occasion tactless.
She was utterly charming, and he was a miserable, slavering beast to be having the thoughts about her that he was having, the wicked, improper imaginings of hot, sunlit rooms in France and sweet, green bowers in England and white, soft skin and naked curves awakened under his skillful hands to ecstasy.
Her laughter had completely died now, and she gazed up at him with a look in her eyes that held him spellbound. Green and glowing and as brilliant as the morning, those expressive eyes made him yearn for her touch, so when she reached out and caressed his cheek, he quivered with desire. He stared deep into her eyes as she searched him, turning him inside out and running her hands through his soul, and touching his heart with wonder. He felt naked and vulnerable, as though for that moment he could conceal nothing from her, and he was terrified she would see his thoughts and all his wicked, dirty, improper desires.
She would turn her snub nose up in disdain if she knew what he wanted, that he craved her body, and yet more than that, he wanted her to desire him, too. He wanted to make love to her. In his imagination she was eager and lusty beneath his hands, passion flaring in green-gold eyes lit by sunlight. He knew it was wrong, but it didn’t feel wrong, somehow. It felt all too right. That was the most frightening part. He could imagine, with Collette, feeling that way forever, day and night, and not just in bed, feeling a connection so strong it required no words to express it.
Perhaps it was fleeting. It was just long abstinence that was driving him mad. He turned his face away from her gentle hand and said, “We must leave this park, my dear. I will take you back to the Chapter Coffeehouse.”
Eleven
Disappointing as it was, he did just that, dropping Collette off at the door of the Chapter Coffeehouse with no mention of seeing her again. When she turned to ask him when they could finish their talk, he was already trotting away, clicking to his carriage horses.
Why had he deserted her that way? Twenty-four hours later, she still didn’t have an answer.
“Colly, dear, what is going on between you and that irrepressible rake, Jameson?” Philoxia said, leaning across the table in the coffeehouse public room as she and Collette took a cup of the inn’s steaming brew the next morning. Collette sipped hers, made a face and set it down on the scarred wood table by the window overlooking Paternoster Row. She had come to love the view of men hustling by, sheaves of paper clutched in their hands as they clamped their hats down on their heads against the tugging breeze.
Her friends could not understand why she stayed at the Chapter—both Henny and Loxy had offered her a room in their own homes—but the twofold reasons were, it was on Paternoster Row, center of English publishing and therefore dear to her heart even before she had ever seen it, and the inn itself had housed many a struggling writer and several of the successful ones, too. Her needs were simple. Though the service was poor, her room musty and her linens not changed as often as she liked, it provided a change from her usual life. She would appreciate home all the more once she was back in Kent.
But there was a more important motive behind her choice. She had things to do and people to see. She did not want her friends, no matter how well-intentioned, minding her business every day and asking where she went and who she saw. She must alternately badger her infuriating publisher and try to talk Jameson into confessing his duplicity. For that, she required the freedom to come and go as she pleased.
Besides, it was the first time she had ever lived on her own, and she liked the sensation. It was invigorating and intoxicating. A little freedom was, perhaps, a dangerous thing for a young, unmarried woman, and that was why men kept them so “protected”. The male half of the population was no doubt afraid women would come to realize they did not need men for every little thing.
Despite that enjoyment of her unprotected freedom, the memory of Jameson’s gallant challenge to his friend still lingered, intriguing her. There was something charming and old-fashioned about him, and perhaps that was his attraction for her. He was like a rogue from a previous time, for under his wastrel airs, he was chivalrous toward ladies, kindhearted against all reason and gentle until stirred to battle. She was more than a little besotted, she had realized, late the night before as she tried to sleep. It was disconcerting to realize how attractive she found him and how unexpectedly endearing.
Philoxia repeated her question and Collette said, “There is nothing going on between Mr. Jameson and me. We met on the train from Kent, and I think he finds me amusing and countrified.” Her sleepless night had been spent mulling over what it meant, that he had kissed her, and in public, too, and then challenged his friend over her honor. She had not asked him for protection, but he had challenged a man—a good friend, apparently—in defense of her honor. Though she had been angry at first, she was not now.
The kiss would never be forgotten. In the dappled shade of a towering beech he had touched her lips for the merest of seconds, and yet long enough for her to know the feelings that coursed through her were dangerous to her equanimity.
“Amusing and countrified? Try innocent and naïve. Be careful, my dear, for he is a rake, and you have no defenses against the kind of man you have never experienced before.” Philoxia readied herself to leave.
Collette was caught between amusement and guilt at her friend’s concern. No, she had never met a rake before meeting Mr. Charles Jameson, but she had had the temerity to write a life history of one. More and more she wondered how she ever did it. Sometimes she had felt like she was in a trance as she wrote, living and breathing inside of her creation, Edgar Lankin. She had imagined him to life, and yet now he seemed a pale shadow of the real thing, Charles Jameson, who pulsed with sensuality. Now she understood why Susan, the innocent victim of Lankin’s seduction, had fallen from virtue. A woman was not safe from her own feelings around him. She hoped it was not just his handsome person she was responding to, for that made her no better than the coquettish dairymaid in her home village, whose virtue had been overcome by the tinker’s son and his comely face.
She glanced up at Philoxia, who was straightening her shawl and retrieving her packages from the chair beside her. Guilt plagued Collette. She was fond of honesty and longed to tell her friends the truth, that she was a published novelist, the infamous author of The Last Days of a Rake. Unfortunately, once told, the truth could never be taken back and unsaid, and she was not sure if she was ready for anyone to know, though she missed having someone in whom to confide. She never told half her worries and thoughts to her aunt, nor even to the Professor, who as a man and having lived in the world some, could be expected to understand more, perhaps. She was too used to turning things over in her own mind and making decisions without consulting any outside influence.
Philoxia gathered her reticule and pulled her shawl up over her shoulders. “I wish I could go with you today, my dear, but one of my charitable societies is holding a meeting I simply must attend, or a bunch of very silly women will be providing purse netting materials to the poor instead of meat and clothing and coal, or something absurd like that.”
Collette laughed at the notion of providing supplies for fussy make-work to those in need of sustenance. Loxy was a wealthy and coddled lady, it was true, but she had the soul of a military commander and used her ability to marshal forces for the betterment of many in need. Charitable work was one of the few appropriate activities for a lady of means. Collette stood and said, “I’m just going shopping, Loxy, dear. If I am to stay in London any longer I simply must have a couple more gowns and a day dress or two. I had not intended to spend so long in London. The dressmaker’s name and your recommendation are valuable. I only hope she has something suitable already made up. I am not a fashion plate!” She looked down at her dowdy dress ruefully. “I should be the greenest goose anyone de-feathered if I had not your note. She will not dare cheat me now.”
“She would not anyway, my dear,” Philoxia said, pulling on her gloves. “She is a clever woman and knows that a good reputation is worth gold. The note is just a precaution. Save it for the moment when you think she is charging too much. But be warned—a new wardrobe is expensive, so prepare to spend some money. Do get something in green, to go with your eyes, dear. And think again about coming to stay with me. You know I would adore it!”
The two friends embraced and Philoxia left.
Collette leisurely pulled on her gloves and bonnet, and then made her way out of the inn coffee room and down the steps to bustling, gloomy Paternoster, lined with tall narrow buildings. It was a dead-end street, and so to retain the services of a hansom, she would need to walk down to the corner of Paternoster and Warwick Lane, as the carriages for hire did not like trying to turn their cumbersome equipages on that narrow street.
But first she would breathe in the air of freedom and enterprise. She took a deep breath and gasped, choking. It smelled remarkably like horse manure and rotten cabbage.
“Miss Jardiniere… Collette!”
She stiffened.
She would know that voice even in her sleep, she thought, even in her dreams where it had taken to whispering precious words of love and longing. His deep voice and honeyed words drew her to him and tempted her to deeds she had never imagined until he came into her life.
Carruthers and botheration, how the man did haunt her! “Mr. Jameson,” Collette said, turning slowly and looking up at him on his phaeton.
“Do I have the good fortune of finding you just coming, or the misfortune of finding you just leaving?”
Stilling her thudding heart with the utmost of difficulty and some deep, calm breaths, Collette said, “I am just leaving.” She should be angry with him, she told herself, knowing anger would be one protection against the weakness she felt in his presence. He still had not told her what he was prepared to do to make things right in Wilson’s Gazette. But she could not hold onto it, that ire. It melted away when her eyes traced the curve of his lips, or the line of the cleft in his chin, or gazed deeply into the charcoal depths of his eyes, framed in sooty, thick lashes. Was she just a foolish woman then, and not the rational creature she had believed herself to be before setting eyes on Charles Jameson?
“Oh. I had hoped…”
She was a fool to think she meant something to him, and yet every glance, every touch said she was the most important woman in the world. And so she fell a little further in love and gave a little more of her heart every time they talked and every time they touched.
When he said, “You are beautiful,” she heard, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” And when he said, “I enjoy your company,” she heard “You are the wittiest, sweetest creature alive.”
And when he whispered, “Will you make love with me?” she heard, “I love you.”
“Well, Miss Jardiniere. Do you have no answer for me?”
“What?” She blinked, the harsh sunlight of the summer sky, filtered by London’s enduring smoke, but still hot in August, blinding her as she gazed up at him. He had asked something, but she had drifted off again and hadn’t heard him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Jameson. I was not attending.”
“I said, I had hoped to speak with you further.” He jumped down from his carriage. “If you are going out, may I convey you to your destination? I realize that yesterday, because of the incident with Sain, we did not speak of your…problem.”
Before she realized it, she had agreed that he could take her where she needed to go. A dark, slightly seedy man caught her eye as she allowed Jameson to lift her into the carriage. The strange knowing look he gave her unnerved her, so that even when Jameson sprang his horses, she was lost in thought.
Had she met the man before? Why did he look at her so, as if he knew a secret not to her credit?
“And where am I taking you?”
“Oh! I am going to Mrs. Parker’s Dressmaking Establishment, on—”
“I know where it is,” Jameson said, and snapped his crop over his horses’ heads.
“You know where it is?” Collette shot him an astonished look, but he was busy guiding the horses and did not see. He knew Mrs. Parker’s dressmaking shop? There was yet another aspect of rakedom she had not considered: the intimate knowledge he would have of every detail of women’s clothing, right down to…Oh, my.
It seemed everywhere her mind led was yet another reminder that the man beside her was acquainted with a woman’s body and women’s apparel in ways she had not thought of. She eyed his hands, gloveless, on the ribbons. They were strong, with prominent knuckles and protruding veins, dark hairs across the back, and with long fingers that curled around the leather straps, holding the sleekly muscled strength of his matched bays with an easy assurance. How many women had he undressed with those hands?
Every time she met him it struck her anew that she had written the life of a rake without having any idea of what a rake did to earn his reputation. She had considered the inside life, the thoughts, the philosophies of a rake, but never the day-to-day rakish doings. Here was her opportunity to learn more.
“Philoxia says I am to beware of you, for you are a rake,” she blurted out.
He shouted with laughter and glanced over at her before returning his attention to the road and the other drivers, some of them erratic. An omnibus careened around the corner ahead of them, three-horse team stamping and snorting, and Jameson pulled his bays up, cursing as a lorry followed close behind the conveyance. They stopped for a few minutes while Jameson settled his team, but finally started up again.
When they were on an even track once more, he said, “I suspected she told you that, but that was when you were glaring at me at her literary party. I thought you were quite properly shocked and horrified that you had consorted with such a vile creature on the train without knowing my true colors, though any lady should know a man who kisses her on a train a half hour after meeting her is either a rake or worse.”
“Is there worse?” she interjected.
He laughed again and glanced at her with a smile still on his lips. “Indeed, good question. Of course now I know it was the mention of my true name that horrified you so. You found out I was the base pretender who had boldly dared not contradict the rumor that I was Colin Jenkins.”
“You are incorrigible,” she said, trying to maintain her anger at him but finding it impossible in the face of his smile and smoky eyes.
“And you, my dear, are adorable!”
A tingle of some new sensation trilled through her and it became suddenly hard to breathe. Did he really think that? Was she—
Rake. He is a rake, she told herself firmly. He can no more help saying such audacious things to a woman than he can stop breathing. Surely he did not mean them, not to her, a little country nothing!
Primly, she replied, “Yes, Philoxia told me you were a rake and warned me against you. She is worried there is ‘something’ going on between us.” Thank goodness she had not known about the ride in the park, the kiss and the set-to with Sainsbury Ellice. In retrospect, it did not look good, the way he and she were kissing before Mr. Ellice interrupted them.
“And so there is,” he murmured.
She wasn’t sure if she had heard right, and so stayed silent.
Finally, she said, “Are you going to tell the truth, Mr. Jameson? Are you going to talk to that reporter and tell him the truth?”
They pulled up in front of a windowed establishment. The bow windows held a gorgeous array of silks and satins, with a selection of ribbons and gloves displayed enticingly. “We are here, Miss Jardiniere,” Jameson said, unnecessarily, given the bold sign that proclaimed Mrs. Parker’s Exclusive Dressmaking.
She sighed. “Are you going to plague me yet again by not telling me what you will do to make things right between us?”
He took her hand, caressing the thin, worn leather of her glove as if it were her skin. She felt the warmth of his touch and blushed. A man walked by slowly, and she pulled her hand away, but Jameson caught it up again.
“My sweet,” he said, his voice deep, his tone sincere. “I would do anything for you. Now that I know you, know your talents, what this delicate hand of yours is capable of, I am your slave. I wish to be your benefactor. I think your talents are such that a wider audience should be made aware of the passion, the, the…” He stopped and shook his head. “Words fail me.”
Collette was as deeply touched as she had ever been in her life. He finally believed her to be the writer and was impressed by her talent! She glanced around anxiously and then leaned over and planted a kiss on Jameson’s cheek, lingering just a second as the warm roughness of his mustache and smoothness of his cheek teased her lips, a sensation much more enticing in life than it was in words.
The man on the street had seen them, and Collette pulled back as if she had been burned by the touch of his skin. Whatever had possessed her to do such an outrageous thing? She had believed the street to be empty of people; the man was walking and should have been past them before now. But…surely, she thought, glancing at him with a frown, that is the same fellow she had seen on Paternoster as she was lifted into Jameson’s carriage. Or was her brain confused?
She risked a glance at her companion to find he was staring at her, his hand on his cheek where she had touched her lips to him. His eyes, coal-dark, burned into her and he moved forward, then appeared to master himself with difficulty.
