Cheryl Holt (23 page)

“I’ve been thinking . . .” she said.

Though she’d started assuredly, she couldn’t complete the sentence, so he nudged her a tad. “About what?”

“Well, we’re scheduled to meet again on Thursday, but on Friday . . .”

“What about Friday?” Hope surged to the fore.

“My family will be out of Town. They’re leaving around noon, and they won’t be back until Saturday evening. There’s a party to attend just out of the city—some acquaintance of Jerald’s—but I’m not going, so . . .”

“You could get away,” he finished for her. “We could spend the entire night together.”

“Yes.”

He felt like a man who had fallen overboard and was about to be rescued. Wasn’t this what he’d coveted? An occasion where he could have her, guide her, teach her? Love her? But even as she threw him a rope, his more rational side was imploring caution. One of them had to keep their teeming relationship under control. He couldn’t discipline himself for that many uninterrupted hours, so she’d very likely wind up surrendering her virginity.

Did she care? Did he?

He stepped to her and cradled her face in his hands. “Do you comprehend what you’re actually suggesting?”

“Yes. I’ve not been able to contemplate any other topic.”

“If we engaged in such a lengthy tryst, my masculine drives would eventually have to be assuaged.”

“I understand. Especially after today”—she placed her fingers on the front of his trousers, where he was still rock-hard—” ’tis what I crave above all else.”

“Are you certain?”

She raised up and brushed a kiss across his lips. “More certain than I’ve ever been about anything.”

He studied her, searching for qualms or reservations, but he detected none. She was a woman full-grown, twentyfive years of age. Surely she could make this type of informed decision. Who was he to say nay?

With deliberate intent, he linked his fingers with hers and squeezed tight. “Until Friday, love.”

“Until Friday.”

He grinned, and she grinned, too. Like two smitten halfwits, they stared into each other’s eyes. The air was charged with sexual tension, but also with joy and anticipation of what was to come. It would be a miraculous rendezvous, brimming with wonderment, and his black heart leapt with something approaching delight.

“Now . . . off with you,” he ultimately said, already regretting the long wait that he’d have to endure.

“Good-bye,” she murmured, taking another quick kiss. Then, like Cinderella at the ball, she peeked at the clock, and she gasped in dismay at seeing how late it was. She fled down the stairs so abruptly that he wouldn’t have been surprised to find a glass slipper left behind.

He listened as the door opened and closed, then he walked to the parlor and peered out the curtains, hoping to catch a final glimpse of her on the street as she hailed a cab. But she’d vanished, so he returned to the bedroom, lingering while he gathered his belongings. He tarried there, where he sensed her presence so strongly. Then he departed as well. Counting the minutes. Counting the hours. Counting the days.

Barbara pushed a comb in place, secured her hat on her head, then stepped to the door of the exquisitely appointed fitting room. She turned the knob and made to leave, but not before sneaking a final glance at the flowered wallpaper, the matching chairs that appeared too dainty to sit upon, the brass hooks and mirror frames that some poor ninny polished to an outrageous shine.

Madame LaFarge, London’s most popular dressmaker, definitely knew how to cater to her wealthy clientele, and Barbara thanked her lucky stars that she was now included in that group. Although certainly not the wealthiest of women, she wasn’t poor, either. Her deceased husband had been a man of some means, and she’d inherited plenty, and she relished the fact that she could shop where she liked, dress as she desired, and spend money without counting every last farthing.

After growing up with a father who was prone to excessive drinking, gambling, and carousing, she understood what it was like to be penniless, to have no food on the table, no cash for the rent, well-off one day, but on the streets the next. With the ultimate loathing, she’d watched him fritter their lives away, so she’d struggled and scrounged, pulling herself from the very bottom and working herself up to . . . well, not the top, but she could definitely see it from where she resided.

Using her wits, youth, and beauty, she’d deliberately set after the old fool who’d married her. He’d given her everything she’d ever needed: security, funds, status, but most importantly, freedom. His death had been a blessed event, and she’d only had to wait for it a handful of years.

In the process, she’d learned that she was tough, determined, willful, and she never failed. When she focused on
a goal, she never relented until the object she craved was within her grasp. She could be merciless, ruthless, in attaining her objectives, and Lord help anyone who stood in her path, because in the end, she always got what she wanted.

Consider James Stevens, for instance. With no advance warning, he’d left her, and for months after their split, she’d bided her time, patiently plotting and scheming on how she’d win him back. Now a bit of luck, coupled with an excess of preparation, had him returned, and she meant to keep him.

Taking a last assessment of the gilded salon, she walked into the hall, where she passed by the other fitting rooms on her way to the front. Some of London’s most famous and infamous ladies were sheltered behind those doors, and Barbara couldn’t prevent a feral smile from crossing her lips. So many of them had vied for James’s affection, his wandering attention, his riches, his body, his bedroom skills. But she, and she alone, had triumphed.

He came to her regularly, three and four times a week, always urgent, always ready, spilling himself over and over like a lad of thirteen. Possessively, she grinned. There wasn’t a female in all of England but herself who could effectively satisfy him when he was in such a state.

Just remembering their previous night’s sexual play had her reddening, and she paused in the middle of the hallway to fan her flaming cheeks. A man like James could do that to a woman, could cause her to forget herself, her surroundings, her position.

Lest someone observe her woolgathering, she started to move on when she heard a familiar male voice speaking from the adjacent chamber. Instantly she recognized it as belonging to James.

What was he doing here?

Shopping
was the obvious answer, but for what? For whom?

With an informed certainty, she knew that there was currently no other lover in his life. During the small hours
of the night, when he was inclined to roam, she had his home and his club watched. He no longer sought out any other women.

It was risky to eavesdrop; dangerous, too. If she should be detected, James would be furious, but she absolutely
had
to discover what he was about. Even as she sidled nearer, she was practicing the innocent explanations she’d provide should her presence be revealed.

To her great delight, the door was ajar just the slightest fraction. She could see inside! James’s hands were visible. He was holding a bolt of shiny black cloth and warmly running his fingers across the smooth nap.

“I believe I’ll get this one,” he was saying. “And the green.”

“How about the red?” a woman asked in a husky French accent. “Very sexy,
non?”

Barbara’s eyes widened in shock as she realized that James was privately secluded with Madame LaFarge. Despite her extensive staff, the modiste had deigned to wait on him herself!

The distinguished couturiere was so celebrated that she rarely interacted with the clientele. Only a special circumstance would have her showing fabric samples to a gentleman. If the customer was renowned, an old friend, or the order required extreme discretion—which Madame possessed in abundance—she would handle the matter personally.

Why was she pandering to James? Evidently, an important event was occurring. How lucky to have the chance to ascertain what it was, and the shrewdness to use the information to best advantage.

There was a silence, then James muttered, “Ah, hell . . . I can’t decide. Give me outfits in all eight colors.”

“Magnifique!”
Madame crowed, growling lustily. “Your friend . . . she will look very naughty in my tiny creations.”

“I’m hoping.” James grinned and commented in a flurry of French, which Barbara didn’t understand, then he made a gesture that was blocked from her view, but whatever it
was, Madame laughed with unbridled glee. He said, “Just promise me that at least one item will be delivered by Friday morning.”

“I will have the first ensemble done by Thursday,
mon ami
. Would you like to have it modeled before it is sent?”

“No,
chère
,” he replied familiarly. “I trust you to design something perfectly scandalous.”

“Oui!
Just for you, my Jamie.” She paused, then added, “I am thinking that I will begin with the black. . . .”

“Ooh, I do
love
black,” he murmured, his tone oozing carnal promise.

They were both laughing as Barbara tiptoed away, her heart racing with excitement.

James was buying her lingerie! As a gift!

He never had before, not for her or any of his other paramours. She’d extensively researched his past and had dug up all there was to know about James Stevens. He did
not
shower his women with presents, not even in good-bye when he was breaking off an association.

Surely this was a monumental leap forward in their relationship! Although she cautioned herself not to be overly confident, she couldn’t help preening. The past few weeks, James had been remarkably amorous when they were together. She couldn’t point to any one thing she might have said or done to have brought about the change in her condition, but she wasn’t about to dissect the reasons behind her good fortune. Whatever had happened, she intended to ensure that he never regretted his decision.

She exited onto the wet street and hailed a cab, already planning how she’d endeavor to look surprised when the package from Madame’s shop arrived.

Caroline Weston strolled along the pathway through the garden behind her brother’s Town house. It was too early in the season for many of the plants to be blooming, so vegetation was scarce, and there wasn’t nearly enough foliage to hide her furtive trip to the gazebo.

The temperature was frigid, and she shivered. She’d
stealthily slipped outside without a cloak because, if she’d grabbed one, someone would have noted her behavior and questioned her. There was a light mist falling, yet she couldn’t let it dampen her clothes. How would she explain it?

She sneaked a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, back toward the house. No one had witnessed her escape. Everyone was too busy with the last-minute preparations for their brief jaunt to the country, but just in case she was found to be missing, she needed to appear nonchalant, as though she’d just stepped out for a spot of fresh air.

Which she had, although she was certainly hoping that she’d encounter Charles Stevens along the way. The previous evening, Charles had whispered of his desire for a secret rendezvous, and Caroline had readily agreed. She was bearing an immense risk by meeting him, but for pity’s sake, it was the middle of the morning, in her brother’s yard. Surely the consequences couldn’t be too terrible if they were observed.

What a tedious affair this was, having all these intrusive chaperones and guardians! She was never alone! Not that she ever had been in the past, but for the first time ever, she didn’t want anyone following her about. There wasn’t a single second where she and Charles could be by themselves. She was madly in love with him—at least, she thought she was—but how was she to know with any conviction? They were hardly permitted to converse, and never afforded any privacy where they might disclose deeper feelings. The situation was so frustrating!

He was absolutely the most handsome young man she’d ever encountered, but he was also sweet, witty, and a joy to be around. Always cheerful, always gay, it was impossible to be in his presence and not be delighted with the day’s prospects. Though it had only been a matter of weeks, she felt as if they’d been acquainted forever. They were so close in temperament that each could guess what the other was thinking. While standing together at a ball or in a supper line, all he had to do was gaze at her, raise a brow, and
she could read his mind. They were that attuned to one another.

When he stared at her with those gorgeous brown eyes and confessed how much he’d pined for her while they were apart, she dissolved. His beguiling voice, broad shoulders, and lanky build stirred her insides until she yearned to throw herself into his arms and let him do all those things about which she fantasized—which were few in number.

Her imagination was vivid, but not
that
vivid. Some acts were simply beyond her discernment. She was aware that physical episodes transpired between men and women, and Abigail kept insisting she’d explain all when the opportunity was ripe, but curiously, the nearer Caroline grew to Charles, the less inclined she was to wait for Abigail to get on with it. She craved firsthand knowledge, and she craved it straightaway.

Her marriage would be carefully arranged, but in spite of the strictures under which it would come to pass, she refused to settle for a boring half-life. Love, passion, and friendship with her husband were her lofty goals. Abigail contended it was possible to have it all, and Caroline adamantly believed her. Yet, while she was beginning to perceive that Charles was everything she’d ever dreamed of finding in a man, how was she to determine if she was correct in her assessment?

She’d never enjoyed a man’s exclusive company. Had never held a man’s hand. Had never ambled in the moonlight or been passionately kissed.

But she certainly wanted to be! Oh, how she wanted. Starting now.

With vast trepidation, she advanced toward the entrance to the gazebo, taking great pains not to hasten, even though she was eager to rush up the steps. Margaret would suffer an apoplexy if she uncovered Caroline’s antics, and the older woman’s distress would be so enormous that she’d probably harangue poor Jerald until he suffered one, too. If Caroline pushed the pair of them into a conflagration, she’d very likely never be allowed to see Charles again.