Love and Scandal, page 19
She was limp as he pulled out, utterly depleted, and he turned her over, pulled her under the covers and cradled her against him, his shaft still wet from their lovemaking.
“I am going to Wilson’s Gazette in the morning,” he said softly, holding her close. He kissed her neck and moved against her. “I will tell them that they must withdraw their filth and apologize completely for making up stories, or I will buy the building they are housed in and shut them down.”
She was silent, not sure how to respond. She didn’t want to hear about their tangle in that moment. She wanted him to say other things…that he adored her, longed for her…loved her completely and forever. It was a moment for sweet words of tenderness.
“And then,” he whispered, “I am moving you into my cottage. I won’t let you stay in that awful hotel any longer, and I won’t allow you to leave London. You may stay there and write to your heart’s content, my sweet, sweet Collette, and every evening I will come and make love to you until dawn.”
Perhaps they weren’t words of love, but still it sounded wonderful, she thought, drowsy. She would write by day, and then at night he would steal in and carry her to bed and make love to her.
If she ever wrote again. What if she couldn’t? What if her current inability to write anything that made sense stretched on and on forever? But then, he would still make love to her and she would feel wonderful. Even if the days were filled with frustration, the nights would compensate. “Would you still do all of this if I were not a writer?” she murmured.
“What?”
“If I were not a writer. If I didn’t write. Would you still…” She moved, pushing her bottom against him.
“Mmm, yes, yes, of course, my sweet,” he whispered, kissing her ear, suckling the lobe. “I shall build a little bower in the cottage garden, so I can take you out there and make love to you under the stars. I would love to see your naked body stretched out in the garden, moonlight on your breasts and face.” He kissed her cheek and rubbed his chin against it, the bristle of his growing stubble rough against her skin. “We have so much yet to explore, so many things I want to show you. I’ll take you to France, my sweet. There is a house there I have thought of buying. I’ll buy it, and we’ll go there and I’ll make love to you in the hot French sunlight.”
She was drunk with love and she shivered with the knowledge. She had given herself up wholly to him, and every time he made love to her he claimed more of her soul, but she was intoxicated beyond caring anymore. It sounded deliriously wonderful, and she could imagine the hot sun on her breasts and him between her legs, taking her to blissful paradise.
His deep well of experience was evident in his deftness, a tantalizing ability to make her want him again and again. She was consumed and deliciously happy, she thought as she fell asleep to his whispered words that he would take her to Greece and make love to her in the Mediterranean, floating naked together in the sun-warmed water, and then on the beach he would lick the saltwater from her breasts.
But Collette awoke some time later in the deepest darkness of the night with the knowledge throbbing within her that she had allowed herself to be seduced, not only in body, but in mind. His whispered, honeyed words, like mead, had made her drunk and she had forgotten everything in her life but him.
Even as she acknowledged the desire within her to stay with him into the next morning, to perhaps make love yet again, she stole from the bed. Listening to his rhythmic breathing, she felt around, not willing to stir the fire for more light, and found the doorway into the sitting room. There she hastily gathered her dry underclothes and found her dress, which had been cleaned, brushed and returned by his resourceful and circumspect housekeeper. How many times had the woman done the same for one of his other conquests? Collette dressed in front of the fire, doing up her gown with shaking hands as she tried to forget how she had knelt and let him take her in front of this same fire, on this same carpet.
Rapture had transformed into dismay.
This was what had happened to Susan, the girl in her book, throwing away a whole life’s dreams for the sake of a man who had no heart to give, who was only practicing his cold ability to seduce and enthrall, until a woman was slave to base desire and treacherous promises. He was doing what he did best, with no more feeling or emotion than if she was one of his bought women. It showed in every second of his skill. He had beguiled her with his alternating tenderness, domination and enticement until she was a puddle of passion, greedily begging for more.
And that was why he intended to install her in that little cottage. It was what a rake did, this mastery over her senses and bewitching of her mind. He would move her into his cottage, and that would make her his mistress. Soon he would forget she had ever been anything but his mistress. He would come and go as he pleased, finally coming to her less and less, until he abandoned her one day for a new girl, one whose favors were fresh and dewy as morning.
If it had been anything more than that to him, more than an exchange of favors, surely he would have said so, would have told her if his feelings were engaged in any way. Tears welled into her eyes but she hastily dashed them away, retrieving her bonnet. She would not shed tears for him. It would be the height of hubris to think she could induce him to stay with her beyond a few months, at most, but a few months were not enough. She loved him…or at least she thought she did. She wouldn’t know for sure until she was away from him, for in his presence she was a defenseless slave to his bewitching skill. A few months would not suffice for her. She was terribly afraid no finite amount of time would ever be enough. But forever was not in a rake’s vocabulary. She had seen many men of his ilk, if not his quality, and they all tired of a woman’s favors eventually, moving on to fresh pastures.
Collette tiptoed into the bed chamber for one last look. He was stretched out, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest bare. He was utterly precious in his sleep, his expression blissful, his mouth slack in the dim light from the window, the moonlight that showed her it no longer rained. She could slip away from him and the pain he would inevitably bring her.
Jameson stretched luxuriously and yawned. Morning. So much to do today, he thought, but first… He reached over, but there was no Collette. He opened his eyes to bright morning sunlight. Mockley had clearly already been there, for the drapes were fully open when they had been half drawn last night.
He sat up in bed and looked around the room. Was she in the sitting room getting dressed? Perhaps. He slipped out of bed and to the door, hoping to surprise her in the act of dressing, but the sitting room was empty except for a maid bent over the fire, sweeping the ashes.
“Where is she?” he exclaimed.
The maid gasped and pinkened, her eyes wide and averted to the open doorway to the hall. “Beg pardon, sir,” the maid squeaked shyly, “but who?”
He stared at her, shook his head and retreated back into his bed chamber, slamming the door behind him, realizing his nakedness was discomfiting the poor girl terribly. Mockley was there, setting a tray down on the bedside table.
“Where is she?”
“Who, sir?”
“You know damn well who! The girl I was with here last night.”
Mockley gazed at him steadily, then said, “There was no one here this morning, sir. I entered at six, briefly, and you were alone.” The valet glanced over at the rumpled bed, the covers tossed wildly into a heap, and raised his eyebrows.
Jameson collected himself. He was acting completely out of character, and he did not wish to draw attention to that fact. But he had pictured another start to the morning, a more passionate one, and he was sorely disappointed.
“I will bathe this morning, Mockley. In the sitting room, though, for the bed will need to be stripped completely.”
He grabbed his robe and pulled it on, then went to the window to look out on a brilliant morning, mist rising from the damp roofs along the row of townhouses. She must have feared being found in his bed by his staff, he thought, feeling bereft without Collette there. She was new at this and likely embarrassed. He smiled just thinking of her, and how passionate and sweet she was despite her inexperience.
Still, she could have woken him and he would have made sure she got back to her hotel safely. He hated to think of her stealing out in the night and making her own way. Was she safe? The moment he was bathed and dressed he would have to go to the Chapter Coffeehouse and make sure, and then tell her to gather her things, for she would be staying at his cottage from now on.
A twinge of uneasiness pierced him. One never knew how Collette was going to take anything. Did she understand the previous night, when he had told her he was moving her into the cottage? Had she understood he meant to be her patron—with a few delightful benefits—and to support her in her writing so she could continue without leaving London immediately?
Or… He whirled and glared at the bed. Had she thought he meant to keep her as his mistress? Though there would be little difference in fact, he still did not think of it in that way. Taking a mistress was a negotiation, a series of meetings with a polite pretense of seduction, and a business arrangement finally, drawn up often by his man of business, who made sure both sides were pleased with the arrangement. That wasn’t how it was meant to be with Collette. She would be free…free to do as she pleased, to make love with him or not, though he hoped it would be the former more often than the latter.
But had she understood?
“Oh, lord, she must have thought… Mockley!”
The valet reentered and bowed.
“I wish to bathe, as I said, but quickly. Now!”
“But your breakfast, sir…”
“I don’t have time. Bath and then clothes…now! And my carriage in half an hour.”
Randall Proctor chuckled as he read the day’s gossip column for Wilson’s Gazette. Everyone assumed the daily piece was written secretly by some society matron or upper crust hanger-on, but Proctor had found within himself a curious ability to transform bits and pieces he gleaned from butlers and footmen, and even a few impecunious poor relatives eager for the odd bob or bull, into the archest, most gagging pieces of gossip.
To his own amazement, the public—he included high and low in that group—were voracious in their hunger for the swill he wrote with such disdain. It was one of the most popular pieces in the paper, and had given him the leverage with old Wilson himself to put his name to pieces he wanted to be known for writing. One day he would be a real writer, and he would expose all of the evil and inequities he had known as a child in the filthy back streets of London.
Until then he would spew this tripe, maybe ruining the reputation of a few innocent people along the way, but what did these high muckety-mucks know about suffering anyway? It would be good for their souls to be held up to the ridicule of their fellow nobs.
This column was a good ‘un!
It can now be revealed that Mr. Charles Jameson’s new ladybird has a startling similarity with her protector. They have the same initials! The young “lady,” staying at the Chapter Coffeehouse on Paternoster Row (Is that so that when Mr. Jameson visits his publishers, Rosewood Publishing, he can drop in for a little “refreshment”?) is also C.J.. What a coincidence, then, that Mr. Jameson’s nom de plume (to employ a French term—Mr. Jameson would seem to be fond of the French) is also a C.J., Colin Jenkins!
Proctor chuckled and rubbed his hands with glee. Oh, what he would not give to see the reaction to this piece in some quarters!
The clock on the mantle of the fireplace in Henny Dancey’s snug parlor ticked-tick-ticked away the morning hours. Henny was settled comfortably with her teapot, her sewing and three of her children, working on a tricky piece of embroidery, silent for the moment while she unsnarled her knotted silk. The children were playing quietly in the corner with a doll and a train set.
Collette leaned her head wearily back against the sofa cushion and stretched. Her vigorous, passionate exercise from the day and evening before and her late night escape had left her aching and feverish. She was so, so tired.
Once back in her room at the inn she had tried to sleep, and supposed she must have for a time, for she had awoken from passionate dreams to the memory of her lover’s body and his skillful lovemaking. Now that she understood their relationship and how widely their expectations varied, she was determined to not only forget last night, but to not be available for his seduction anymore. If he came to her, she was afraid of his ability to bewitch her mind and even more afraid of what his answer would be if she asked him what his intentions were. She may have written of a rake’s reformation, but it didn’t come in the middle of a seduction that was for sure. It came from contemplation and the abstention of the body’s pleasure in exchange for an inner peace and repose.
She could not see Jamie seeking reformation, or inner peace. He was who he was, and she should have realized that from the start. She had never meant things to go so far, nor to allow her curiosity about the pleasures of the flesh to end in her own heart being engaged so completely. Her new knowledge was hard won indeed.
Finally done with her unsnarling, Henny glanced up at Collette. “Dearest, I heard from Philoxia that you have several times seen that rogue, Charles Jameson. Perhaps you do not know, my dear, but he is whispered to be the worst kind of…of…” She glanced over at her children and leaned forward, her sewing bundled on her lap, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Seducer. He keeps women. I do not understand, dearest, why you would consort with a man like that.”
Just then little Loxy stole little Colly’s doll, and her namesake started wailing. A harassed nanny raced into the room and hauled both girls off for their tea, leaving just the baby, Edward, placidly sucking his thumb in a cradle by Henny’s feet.
“I am not consorting with Mr. Jameson,” she answered. “We met on the train coming here, and he has just popped up a couple of times.” Henny was the last one she could confess to. The woman would be shocked to the core if she even suspected that there was more to Collette’s relationship with Charles Jameson. She had always been very conventional, even as a little girl, when Loxy’s adventures had horrified her as much as entertained her.
“But Philoxia said some paper has been hinting that you are consorting with him?”
“Only vaguely. They have not named me. I have taken care of it. Please don’t worry.” She wished Loxy had not said anything to Henny.
Herbert Dancey came into the parlor just then and laid a calm kiss on his wife’s brow. “My dear.” He petted little Edward’s head and then turned to Collette with an unfriendly look in his protuberant eyes. He carried a paper in one hand and opened it. He paused then and glanced over at his wife.
“My dear, I have something of a personal nature to discuss with your friend. Would you take little Edward upstairs?”
Personal? What could he have to say that was personal? Collette had straightened at his entrance—it would not do to lounge in company—and now she frowned and gazed at the master of the house as Henny automatically began to set aside her sewing and gather the baby’s blankets. The nanny had returned and was waiting to carry baby Edward once her mistress was done fussing.
“Wait!” Collette said, holding out one hand toward Henny. “Mr. Dancey, you are very much a stranger to me, and I cannot imagine you would have something to say to me that I would not want your wife to hear.”
Henny paused and looked puzzled.
“I do not think you will wish Henrietta to hear our conversation. Henny, dear, do as I say. And Nanny, take away little Edward this moment.” The nanny scurried to obey, scooping up the child and retreating, though she paused at the door and threw back one curious look to the frozen tableau.
“Do not leave, Henny!” Collette’s tiredness dissipated in the face of Mr. Dancey’s pugnacity. She stood slowly and faced him. “I assure you, sir, that I wish Henny to remain.”
“As you will,” he said, his voice cold. He tossed the paper at her feet with deliberate rudeness. “In light of this article, I think it would be best if you do not visit our home again. We do not associate with the demimonde.”
Henny gasped and bent to pick up the paper, but he put his foot on it, almost trapping her fingers with the shiny black of his shoe.
“No, my dear, that is not fit for you to read.”
Collette picked it up as he released it, and saw it was the infamous Wilson’s Gazette once more and was folded over to the gossip column. She scanned the piece then blanched, feeling a wave of dizziness overcome her. They had named the Chapter Coffeehouse and her publisher and spoke of Jameson being fond of the French, a clear allusion to her French name. C.J. They had practically spelled it out!
But still—
She glared at Mr. Dancey while Henny worriedly wrung her hands and stared at the back of her husband’s head.
“Not a word of this scurrilous nonsense is true,” she said, waving the paper and then tossing it to the floor again. She felt no compunction at all about lying to a man like Herbert Dancey. She had seen his kind before in her own village: the smugness, the self-satisfied air, the iron rule of his house. All were familiar traits. He was a dictator and tyrant, no doubt. “It is the result of happenstance only. Circumstances have made it appear…”
“I might have known you would try to explain it away. Your type always does.” He enunciated type as if it were the most hideous profanity. “It makes no difference to me. I would like you to leave now and not bother my wife in the future with your presence.”
“Herbert, whatever is going on?” Henrietta pleaded, pulling at his coattail. “I do not understand—”
“Henny!”
She stopped talking at his command and dropped his coattail.
He turned to her and, putting his hands on her shoulders, he gently said, “My dear, you have been sadly taken in by this strumpet. I do not know what she was when you knew her, but Miss Collette Jardiniere is that despicable rake, Charles Jameson’s…” He broke off, but then shook his head. “I dislike saying such a word in front of a gently bred lady, but I know no other way to put it.” He lowered his voice. “She is his whore, his kept woman. This article clearly states it. I do not want her in this house, and furthermore, I will not have you associating with such trash.” His voice had risen again in volume and was harsh, his condemnation guttural.
