A Lascivious Lady (6 page)

Burrowing her face in the crook of his collarbone, she whimpered, “Did you truly hear them? I knew they were out here. We must get back inside before they find us, Traverson. We must.”

It was odd, to see Josephine genuinely terrified of something. She was always so strong. So comfortable. So bloody arrogant.

Traverson almost considered sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her gallantly back to the house, but his new vow stopped him.

You are a robber fly, he reminded himself darkly. So be a robber fly, Traverson. Not a damn doormat.

“I was joking.” Grasping her shoulders, he pushed her slowly and deliberately away from him. “There are no wolves this far south, Josephine. There are snakes and spiders, but your caterwauling has no doubt driven them off.”

She scowled up at him. “That was not very kind, Traverson.”

“No,” he agreed. “It was not.”

Hugging her arms to her chest, Josephine asked, “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” he said, being deliberately obtuse.

“Traverson!” Josephine stamped her small booted heel into the grass and glared.

“Yes?”

“You are… you are… Well, you are being something and I do not believe I like it at all!”

Arching one eyebrow, Traverson settled back on his heels and regarded her with thinly veiled amusement. It was not an expression he normally wore, and he was somewhat surprised it came so easily. Rather like an actor portraying a certain character for a play, he had adopted the demeanor of one of those caustic lords he so abhorred. And he was enjoying ever second of it. “Perhaps it would be best if you returned to the estate now.”

Josephine did not like that. Drawing in a sharp breath, she pinned her hands to the slender curve of her hips and stepped forward until they were mere inches apart. Tilting her chin up so she could look him square in the eye, she drew in a deep breath and said, “I understand what occurred earlier in the bedroom has upset you, Traverson, but that is no reason to—”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” he snapped, taking her by surprise. When Josephine gasped and her eyes widened, Traverson was left with a feeling of grim satisfaction. How do you like it, he thought silently, when you are you interrupted and your words belittled?

“You must truly be ill. You are not acting at all like yourself. Come, let us return and get you some tea.” Reaching out, Josephine made as if to slip her arm through his. He took a step back and linked his hands behind his back, treating her with a dark scowl.

“I do not wish to return,” he said.

“Whatever is the matter with you? I have never seen you act so peculiar.”

Peculiar, was it? For once he was not fawning all over her and she thought that made him peculiar ? Well, if she wanted to know what the matter with him was than who was he to deny her? “Do you want to what is wrong, Josephine? Do you want to know why I seem ill?”

Looking suddenly apprehensive, she nevertheless gave a small, jerky nod of her head.

“Because you make me sick!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the stillness like cannon fodder. Ignoring Josephine’s visible flinch he continued, the words erupting from his throat like lava spilling forth from a boiling volcano. “For too long I have held my silence. For too long I have played the part of the dutiful husband while you flitted from man to man like a common trollop. Perhaps I have not been able to give you furs and jewels and the great mansion you believe you deserve, but I gave you something more precious than all of those things combined. I gave you love, Josephine, and you spat it back in my face. You may fool the rest of them with your beautiful clothes and your charming nature and your pretty face, but beneath all of that you are broken, Josephine. You are broken into a thousand pieces that can never be put back together. I was a foolish man to try, and for that I blame myself, but no longer. No longer will I play the part of beggar for your affections. I am done with you.”

Chest heaving, he fell silent, his eyes burning with suppressed rage as he glared at his wife. She stared back at him, her mouth slightly ajar, her cheeks drained of all color, before she spun clumsily around and fled towards the house.

Josephine could not breathe. She tried. Sucking in air again and again through her nose she struggled to feed her starving lungs, but she could never draw a deep enough breath to satisfy the bone chilling ache that had taken over her chest.

Doubling over in the grass just shy of the mansion she braced herself against the ground, her fingers splaying across the cool earth to support her trembling arms while her head hung heavily between her shoulders.

You make me sick.

Traverson’s words cut through her like a knife and she recoiled against them, cringing as though from a blow.

I am done with you.

She waited for the tears to fall, but they would not come. Her cheeks remained dry, her breathing heavy. The ache in her chest grew larger until it consumed her entire body and she slumped back on her heels, burying her face in her hands.

How could she have been so blind? Even before their marriage she had been pushing Traverson away, convinced that she was destined for a better life than to be wed to a lowly Earl. A lowly Earl who had loved her blindly despite her myriad of faults while she mocked his love with every man she had invited to her bed, reasoning away her adultery with a hundred different excuses. Now it was too late… He despised her. She had seen it in his eyes; heard the loathing in his voice.

For too long she had filled the hole in her heart with meaningless dalliances, clinging desperately to the attention her wanton flirtations gained her and ignoring the deep, residual ache that would never quite leave. Now it felt as though her skin had been peeled away, her nerves torn asunder, and her ribs bent back, all to expose the dark cavernous chasm that existed where her heart should have been.

Traverson had been right. She was broken, for what woman would turn down such a man as she had been given? No, her husband was not wealthy beyond measure. No, he was not blindingly handsome. No, he was not witty or quick with a sarcastic jest.

But he was kind. And he was gentle. And he loved her.

No, Josephine corrected herself silently, he had loved her.

“Josie? Josie, are you out here?” Catherine’s uncertain voice swept across the lawn moments before her slim frame appeared as a silhouette in the doorway.

Creeping back beyond the circle of candlelight, Josephine remained silent. In moments of weakness she had always sought out the company of others, for it was much easier to cover up misery when one was forced to wear a smile. Now, however, she wanted nothing more than to be left alone… and she watched without speaking as Catherine called out her name one last time, shook her head, and closed the door.

Finally, when the skies parted and the rain started Josephine gathered up her wet skirts and hurried inside, guided to her room through the darkened hallways by a sleepy maid. She stripped down her chemise and slid beneath the covers of the neatly made bed, breathing in the faint scent of lilac and lye soap.

For what felt like hours she stayed awake, gazing up at the ceiling, waiting for her husband to return. Just before dawn she finally fell asleep.

Traverson never came.

What started as a summer rain turned into a summer thunderstorm and overnight the only road leading from Kensington to London was reduced to little more than a muddy cow path, rendering travel all but impossible.

Face drawn with annoyance and lack of sleep, Traverson found himself pacing the length of Marcus’ study at first light, much to the growing amusement of the Duke who sat behind his desk with his arms crossed behind his head and a forgotten ledger open in front of him.

“…you mean there will not be a coach available until at least tomorrow?” Traverson growled, repeating verbatim the same question he had asked a half dozen times before in the five minute span he had been in the study.

“I am sorry old chap,” Marcus said, not looking sorry at all, “but as you can see the road is washed out. Is there a particular reason you need to leave Kensington with all post haste?”

“Well I…” For the first time Traverson’s step faltered as he hesitated, mulling over an answer before, without meeting the Duke’s eyes, he mumbled, “There is a lecture I must attend to.”

Marcus hid his smile behind a closed fist. He recognized the hollows beneath Traverson’s eyes and the bleakness within them.

The man was heartsick and trying to flee from his problems, as any man worth his salt would. Women were fickle creatures, his own wife was proof enough of that, but there seemed to be none quite so fickle as Josephine.

He had never understood Catherine’s friendship with the blond beauty. While Josephine was rude, brash, and made so secret of her liaisons with other men, Catherine was sweet natured, soft spoken, and — who the bloody hell was he kidding? Making no attempt to hide his grin this time, Marcus chuckled under his breath.

His wife was argumentative, feisty, and stubborn as hell. No doubt that was why the two women got on together so well. They were almost too similar, except Josephine wore every emotion out on her sleeve and Catherine kept hers tucked carefully away.

“Do you know,” he began thoughtfully, “that my wife and I went through nearly three years of our marriage completely separated from each other?”

“Your Grace?” Traverson said, clearly flabbergasted as to where the sudden shift in topic had come from.

“And then one day,” Marcus continued as if Traverson had not said a word, “I came to a conclusion that changed my very life.”

“Which was?” Traverson prompted when he fell silent.

“That I loved Catherine and would do anything for her.” Stretching back in his chair, Marcus cupped his hands behind his desk and grinned at Traverson’s expression of guarded disbelief. “How long have you and the Lady Gates been married?”

“Three and a half years.”

“Ah, nearly the same as Catherine and I before we reconciled our differences. Do you love her?”

Traverson’s mouth dropped open. “I – that is to say… You… That is a very personal question, Your Grace.”

“Call me Marcus,” the Duke said easily. “You are the husband to one of my wife’s closet friends, Traverson. That makes us almost brothers. Or cousins, perhaps,” he amended, nothing the flustered coloring in the Earl’s cheeks. “And from one cousin to another, I am asking you a very simple question. Do you love Lady Gates?”

“I… Yes,” Traverson said, although he did not sound terribly excited about it. Settling into one of the two leather chairs that faced the desk, he rested his elbows on his knees and stared down between them. “Yes, I do.”

“And I imagine,” Marcus continued, warming to the subject at hand, “that your wife, while undeniably beautiful, can be quite a –

er – difficult woman to love.”

“Difficult?” Straightening in his chair, Traverson’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean difficult?”

“I simply meant—”

“My wife may be ever so slightly high handed at times, but I would hardly describe her as difficult. Why, if being opinionated is

‘difficult’, then I fear I suffer from the same affliction! I would rather be married to a woman who has a voice than one who simpers about, mindless as a kitten.”

“Would you now?” Marcus said, arching one eyebrow. “It seems rather odd then, does it not, that a man who so staunchly defends his wife is in such a hurry to get away from her?”

Taken aback, Traverson stuttered, “I am not… That is… There is a meeting…”

“I thought you said it was a lecture.” Smiling triumphantly, the Duke steeped his fingertips together and rose from his chair.

“Finish out the week, Traverson. Mend things with your wife if you can. Life is hard enough, my friend. No need to make it any harder.

Now if you would excuse me, I have a meeting of my own to attend to.” He winked conspiratorially. “That is the secret, you know.

Pretend to be in charge while doing everything they say. A happy life is a happy wife. Remember that, Traverson.”

Wordlessly Traverson stared after the Duke as he left the study, whistling under his breath as he went. “There,” he said aloud when the room was empty, “is a man who I shall never play in a game of chess.”

By noon, Josephine was feeling more like her old self. It felt as though the horrid night before – the kiss, the bitter words, rushing outside to meet Traverson, the rain, creeping inside at midnight – were nothing more than a terrible dream.

Taking careful pains to dress herself in a soft muslin gown of the palest pink, she had Amelia brush her hair until it gleamed and adorned her ears and throat with amethysts that brought out the deep violet of her eyes.

“Are you trying to impress anyone in particular?” Amelia asked.

“No,” she said shortly, leaving it at that.

Descending the main stairway with one hand gracefully trailing the banister and her bearing erect as a queen, Josephine spotted Traverson in the front sitting room, having a cup of tea by himself. Mustering her courage she went directly to him and paused just shy of the threshold.

“You have not left?” she queried, doing her best to make it seem as though she cared not a whit either way, when inwardly she was secretly relieved he was still at Kensington for surely that meant something. What that something was she had not the faintest of clues, nor – for the first time she could remember – the courage to ask.

With a clatter of porcelain Traverson bobbled his tea cup and set it quickly aside on a nearby table. “The road is washed out,”

he said as he stood and faced her.

A stray beam of sunlight from the opposing window caught his face, highlighting the dark shadow of stubble on his chin that he had yet to shave. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest and untucked on one side from his brown trousers, giving him a disheveled appearance that Josephine had once found annoying. Now it took all of her self control not to fly across the room, curl her fingers in his hair, and ravish his mouth with her own.

“The road is washed out? That is, ah, terrible,” she said, averting her eyes. At her side her hands curled into little fists that she hid behind her back, even as heat quickened low in her belly and her eyes darkened. What would it be like, she wondered, to bring a man to his first orgasm within a woman? To be the first to trace her nails across his nipples and watch them pucker? To hear his hiss of breath as she cupped him and ran the back of her knuckles against his hard length? To work her way down his body and take him in her mouth…