A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (19 page)

“Is it? I suppose,” Foyle said with a shrug. “Silly business, all these false names. Most of us know one another anyway. Though I don't think you and I have met before.”

“I don't think so,” Colin agreed. “Mr. Egret.”

Foyle smirked. “And you, dove? Oh, that does nicely, actually. Dove. Don't you think?”

Elinor inclined her head, repositioning herself subtly to appear demure, a touch pleased. It was amazing how expressive she could be with her entire face concealed. “That would do,” she agreed softly. Shyly.

Shy
was not a word one applied much to the women Beauchene employed. Some aped it, of course, but Elinor wasn't pretending; she channeled her natural impulse to withdraw, and she saw Foyle's eyes flicker with faint interest. The girl on his arm noticed it, too. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you been here before, Mr. Egret?” he asked, though his gaze remained fixed on Elinor. Lord Farleigh shifted. Elinor wished she could kick him. Foyle's attention was the whole point of this ridiculous exercise. Lord Farleigh couldn't let any misguided jealousy get in the way.

“No,” Lord Farleigh said. “It's my first visit.”

“Mine as well,” Foyle said. “I admit I was terribly curious, but the pageantry is rather wearing after a while. These markers, for example.” He stretched out an idle hand. The very tip of his finger brushed the silver egret. “An odd way to claim a woman. If she's truly yours, she shouldn't need claiming.”

Elinor's breath hitched. She didn't like him so close to her. Neither did his companion; she nestled herself against him, trying to redirect his attention.

Foyle's lips thinned. “Don't tell the man I said so, though,” he said, and nodded at the doorway. The man who had entered was thin and oddly colorless. His cravat, a mint green, stood out in startling contrast. It ought to have livened the look, but instead struck a note like an ill-timed joke.

“I have ears like a hawk,” the man said in a heavy French accent, drawing close. The little smile he gave made the phrase seem like an old jest, an intentionally misspoken phrase. “I miss nothing. One would think you were perfectly suited for theatrics, Mr. Lamb. You do lead a dramatic life.”

“I lead a boring life, with dramatic interludes thrust upon me,” Foyle said. “My friends, M. Beauchene, our host.”

“I hope you do not mind if I prevail upon you,” Beauchene said.

Lord Farleigh gestured expansively. “Of course. An honor, sir.”

Beauchene waved away the greeting and selected a seat, inserting himself between Elinor and the edge of the bench. It was a tight fit, and she was forced to adjust herself—to either angle her body away from Beauchene, and thus Foyle, or to let her knees touch against his so that she could keep her focus. She chose the latter. Lord Farleigh slipped a hand around her waist. She was still too tense. He pulled her against him, and she leaned against his chest. The picture of a relaxed couple. Having him there, whatever the friction between them, made her feel safe. It might be an illusion, but she clung to it.

“You're acquainted, I take it,” Lord Farleigh said.

“Mr. Lamb and I are old friends,” Beauchene said. “Old friends indeed. It is a pity it has taken him so long to take me up on my offer of hospitality.”

“I've been away from England,” Foyle said.

“In India,” said the fair-haired girl, seemingly pleased to have the chance to interject.

“India,” Elinor said. “How interesting. Did you not find it to your liking?”

“I haven't been there in years,” Foyle said, dismissive. “Hot and damp and full of Indians. I've been on the continent, mostly. Saw some fighting, did my part.”

“A soldier,” Elinor said.

“Does that frighten you?” he asked.

“Why should I be frightened? You are one of
our
soldiers, are you not? I assume you did not fight for France, however fond you are of Monsieur Beauchene.” Bold words, but she kept her voice quiet. As if the words she spoke were only a whisper, meant to reach only one man's ears. A private thing, and so no need to be shy at all. Lord Farleigh's hand tightened at her waist.

“My country of birth is not so fond of me,” Beauchene said with a chuckle. “Nor is yours, alas, as hard as I have
worked to correct the situation. A few years more, and the rancor will settle down, hm?”

“We have too much of a taste for your imports to do otherwise,” Foyle said with a chuckle. “Though our domestic goods have their charms as well.” He looked at Elinor as he spoke.

“You always did want what you cannot have,” Beauchene said with a tsk of his tongue. “Tell me, Mr. Egret. Are you a possessive man? Do you mind that we are admiring the blossom you have selected from my bouquet?”

“Not at all,” Lord Farleigh said stiffly. “I consider myself a generous man.”

Beauchene took Elinor's hand, playing his thumb across her palm. She shivered. His was a skilled touch, but clinical. Testing. At her shiver, she felt the lowest rumble in Lord Farleigh's chest. She laid her hand against his leg and squeezed, a subtle gesture that might have been missed through casual observation.
I can bear this
, she said with her touch.
Don't do anything stupid.

That last part might not have come across, but she was confident he could fill it in himself.

“I collect sketches,” Beauchene said. His thumb kept up its winding path. “Nothing elaborate; simply images of beautiful women. I wonder if you might let me add you to my collection.”

Elinor realized that this was not a competition between Lord Farleigh and Foyle, or Lord Farleigh and Beauchene. The two men seemed to have forgotten her companion entirely.

“And such a large collection it is,” Foyle said lightly. “Such beauty deserves more than to be simply one page among many.”

“Are you an artist, then?” Elinor said.

“He cannot draw a straight line,” Foyle said.

Beauchene shrugged. “I may not have skill in that area. But I make it a point to keep track of those who have skills I lack, and employ them when I have need.”

“Is that why your wife spends so much time with other men?” Foyle asked.

Elinor tensed, expected violence, or at the least some show of anger. But Beauchene only laughed.

“I, too, am not a jealous man. My wife has her pleasures, and I have mine. Occasionally, they intersect. In my experience, insisting that one derives all pleasure from one's spouse results in less enjoyment for both.”

“Unless you are lucky enough to find someone with whom all your pleasures intersect,” Elinor said, doing her best impression of Madame Lavigne's amused drawl. “And what about you?” she asked Foyle. “Do you think you could ever find enough pleasure in a single woman?”

“Oh, I did,” he said. “I found all my pleasure in her, and she found none in me.” He said it as if it were meant to be a joke, but bitterness stained it. Elinor kept herself from sitting forward by sheer force of will. Surely he meant Marie.

The fair-haired girl saw her chance for relevance once again and leaned forward, cooing and stroking at Foyle's hair. He brushed her away, and she flopped back, looking suddenly bored. “I am going to find something to eat,” she declared.

“Fine, then,” Foyle said.

With a pout, she rose. She cast Elinor a look over her shoulder that seemed to translate to something like
better you than me
and stalked out.

“You should treat your women better,” Beauchene said in a scolding tone.

“Women should be more interesting,” Foyle countered. “Didn't we have something to discuss, Beauchene?”

“We did, indeed,” Beauchene said. “We must depart, with reluctance. And you must let me acquire your likeness, young woman.”

“You haven't seen my face,” she said. “How can you be sure you want it for your collection?”

He laughed softly and kissed her palm. “I don't need to see your face to know it will intrigue me,” he said. “Will you come to my study tomorrow afternoon, then?”

“I'm not certain,” Lord Farleigh said.

“Then it is a good thing that it isn't your opinion I
solicited,” Beauchene said. There was a challenge in his words, and a test, and suddenly Elinor understood. She almost laughed. Beauchene's rules were not about keeping the courtesans safe and happy. They were about making sure his guests were the ones controlled, not the ones in control. His guests played their little pleasure games, but his game began with their arrival and did not pause until they had left. And if he broke his own rules, it wasn't as if anyone would speak out against him.

“I would enjoy it,” Elinor said, with the feeling of fitting a key into a lock and turning it. This was how to hook them. “And perhaps I will see you again, Mr. Lamb.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

She kept her languid pose, her weight against Lord Farleigh, until the both of them had left. Then she straightened up, brushing at her sides. His hand fell away from her waist. “That was interesting,” she said. And oddly invigorating. “Though not quite as extensive as I had hoped.”

“We'll have a chance to try again,” he said darkly. “You certainly played your role admirably.”

“Don't say it like that. You know I didn't enjoy that.”

“Didn't you?”

She paused. “A bit,” she said. He stared at her. “I liked knowing I was fooling them,” she said. “I liked feeling like I was winning.”

“I didn't enjoy watching that man touch you,” he growled.

“But did you enjoy watching me win?” she said, a laugh behind the words.

“You haven't won yet,” he said. “But when you do, I think I will enjoy watching it very much.”

She rested a hand on her chest and splayed her fingers, looking there so that she would not have to meet his eyes. Her heart was still beating a little too fast, and with the thrill of nerves came an entirely different sort of thrill.

“We made a deal,” she reminded him. “And I have not upheld my end of it.” Perhaps she was a fool. But she wanted him to look at her with the hunger she'd seen in his eyes the night he'd kissed her. Even if it was only lust, even if he felt
nothing but dutiful friendship toward her, the
wanting
and the
being wanted
were more intoxicating than drink.

“Foyle—”

“We must give him an hour or two before we attempt contact again. We can't risk him becoming suspicious,” Elinor said. She bit her lip.

“I won't hold you to that deal,” Lord Farleigh said. “I couldn't possibly.”

“But I want you to,” Elinor said. She flicked her eyes up to meet his.

“I've already done too much. Last night I was drunk. And I didn't know who you were. Now I don't have that excuse,” Lord Farleigh said.

She ought to have told him the truth then, she knew. But she also knew that if she did, this would all be over. “You don't need an excuse. I'm asking you directly,” Elinor said. She felt as though she might shake apart, but she pressed on. “Please.”

He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Well. I certainly wouldn't want to leave you with last night as the sum of your experience. It does not sound as if I impressed.”

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. The guilt in his voice was unbearable. She might at least ease his mind and tell him he had not taken her virginity, even if she allowed him to think he had bedded her. But she thought again of the look in his eye when he spotted Foyle. She'd tell him when this was over, and she was certain he could do no harm to himself.

“Elinor?”

Instead of speaking, she rose, his hand and hers still linked, and led him toward the stairs.

Colin had thought he wouldn't have to face this until night had fallen. He'd thought he would have time to think of the right way to maintain what little there was left of his honor without offering insult. Because he could not follow through on his degenerate suggestion—he couldn't. It would be selfish of him, satisfying his desires—and oh, they burned. He yearned for her. But when she felt no such yearning for him, it was deception at best. And he did not know if he could bear it, to have her—if only for a moment, if only in body—and to lose her.

That night five years ago at Birch Hall had wrecked him. He had pieced himself back together, and now, with a single touch, he might fall to desolation once more.

And yet he followed her. Even sober as clear day he could not stop himself. She led him to the room without once looking back, and when he closed the door behind them she stood in the center of the room, her arms wrapped around herself, her back to him. She was shivering, ever so slightly.

Now that would not do.

He rested his hands on her shoulders, and her shivering slowly stopped. Still she didn't look at him; her head was bowed. She reached up, and undid her mask's ties. “Don't
be afraid,” he said. “I won't make you do anything you don't want to.”

She turned slowly. “Our deal—”

“Oh, yes. I have claimed you. You are mine to command. Remember, in this house any courtesan may refuse any man. We don't have to do this.”

“But I know that men—”

“What is it you understand?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “What do you know about men? That we cannot control ourselves? That once you excite us, we're little more than slavering dogs?”

She shrugged, let out a strangled laugh. “More or less.”

“If you tell me to stop, I will stop,” he said. “That's the only way we can do this. If I know that you will tell me if something is amiss, if you have changed your mind. I couldn't stand to hurt you, Elinor.”

“You didn't stop before,” she said. “The night you kissed me. I told you to let me go, and you didn't.”

He released her hands then. “Ah,” he said. “I had thought . . . You were enjoying it.”

She tilted up her chin. “Yes,” she said. “And I still wanted you to release me.”

“Because you were worried about your reputation? No one could see us.”

“I am so glad you know my mind better than I do,” she said, and now anger was rising in her voice. “It shall make it all the easier to enjoy myself, knowing I need have no input on the proceedings.”

He made a sound like a growl in the back of his throat. How could he not have realized? He'd treated her like she had no mind of her own. He'd accepted her desire, and rejected her misgivings as inconvenient, and justified it all to himself in the moment because she
enjoyed
it. And she had. But now, she did not trust him. And that, he could not bear.

“The rule is that I get to dictate what happens in this room,” he said.

“But—”

“And I dictate that you tell me exactly what you want,
and exactly what you don't want,” he said. “I was a drunk fool that night. It won't happen again.”

“You may have to swear off drink eternally to promise that,” she said.

“Then I will.” He said it so easily, so quickly, that they were both briefly startled into silence.

“Very well,” she said at last. “Then what . . . what do you wish me to do?”

“Tell me what you want,” he said.

“I think I already have.”

“You have certainly hinted,” he said, with the ghost of a teasing smile on his lips. “But we have established that I am exceedingly dull-witted when it comes to sorting your desires from mine. You shall have to be explicit.”

“I'm not certain that I can,” Elinor said.

He reached down and took the mask from her. “Perhaps you can't,” he said. “But tonight, you do not need to be Lady Elinor Hargrove.” He gestured for her to turn, and when she had he helped her secure the mask in place. He stepped back. He could almost see it: the layers she was shedding, the persona she was wrapping around herself. Her posture changed. She touched her mask once, as if to remind herself that it was there.

He touched the base of her neck, brushing at the few stray hairs that lay there. It was easier for her to hide behind the mask. And easier for him as well. He could lie to himself. He could tell himself he did not love this woman, that he did not dream of touching her, and that the thought of losing her when this was done did not tear at him.

“You know,” he whispered. “You look very much like a woman I know.”

“Is she beautiful?” Elinor asked.

“She is radiant,” Colin said. “And so are you.”

She faced him. He let his fingers trail up the side of her throat and nip at the edge of the mask.

“Tell me what you want,” Colin said.

“I want to be touched,” she said. “I want to be brought
to pleasure, and to bring a man to pleasure. Is that explicit enough for you to understand?”

Every word seemed to arrow through him. Heat coiled at his core, desire a quick pulse through his body. It was all a dream, this place, and when they woke he would no longer have her. But he was not a strong enough man to free himself, to deny himself the illusion's pleasures, even knowing it would make the waking world that much dimmer.

“I understand.”

*   *   *

“Tell me what to do,” Elinor whispered. She spoke in the low, honeyed tone Madame Lavigne had taught her, but her own practical voice was nattering away at her as well. That was the voice that added
Please, since I have very little idea what to do myself
.

Then Lord Farleigh's hands ghosted over her arms, and both voices went silent at the pleasurable hum the touch sent through her. He bent and kissed her neck, and she gasped, tilting her face upward. She wanted to kiss him—but she was safe behind her mask. She was someone else.

“Take off your dress,” he whispered against her neck, and drew away again.

He stayed an arm's length from her as she unhooked the buttons one by one. She watched him watch her, studied the languid desire in his eyes that he made no effort to hide.

When the buttons gaped, she slid the sleeves from her arms, and let the gown pool about her feet. She wore a single petticoat beneath. It came off more quickly, her motions hurried now, that twining feeling in her gut beating with a heartbeat all its own.

She stood only in her chemise, its flimsy fabric falling only to her thighs. She reached for the hem.

“No,” he said. “Keep that on.” He reached out and grabbed the front of the chemise, tugging her toward him. She stumbled against his chest. His hand stayed between them, pulling the fabric tight across her back and hips, his fist against her
stomach. The touch of the taut cloth sent prickles across her skin. So did the light trail he drew down her neck with his nails, a touch as light as a breeze. She wanted his lips there again, wanted his breath against her skin.

“You want me to kiss you,” he said. He spoke it like truth, but it still demanded an answer. A confession.

“Yes,” she said.

“Mm,” he said. “Not yet.”

He turned her, keeping his grip on the chemise, and backed her up until the bed was against her legs. She was forced to sit, and then to lie back as he bent over her, his lips still inches from the sensitive skin of her throat.

“You said that you would do what I wanted,” she reminded him. The only part of him that touched her was that hand. She wanted to raise her hips against him, to press him between her legs where that unbearable pressure lay.

“No,” he said. “I promised I wouldn't do anything you
didn't
want. There is a difference.”

“Then I
don't want
you to
not kiss me
,” she said, frustration sparking. She wanted him to catch her lips with his, to press down on her, to taste her as he had before.

“Now you're playing games,” he said. “I will kiss you, though.”

He bent his head. His lips found the corner of her jaw. She gasped at the touch, but he was dipping further down. He held her in place, his kisses wandering to her sternum, to the crest of her breast, and then—

His touch was rough through the cloth of her chemise as his mouth closed around her nipple. She bit her lip and arched her back, and he laughed softly, the breath and sound making a vibration against her skin that only intensified the pleasure.

He rose, eye-to-eye with her again. The wet place where his mouth had been cooled. “Did you like that?” he asked.

“You couldn't tell?” she asked.

He tapped a finger against her jaw. “Who's in charge in this room, again? I asked if you liked that.” His eyes were sparkling. He was enjoying himself entirely too much.

And God, so was she.

“Yes,” she said.

“And would you like me to do it again?”

“Yes.”

He grinned slyly. “I thought this was a high-class establishment. Where are your manners?”

“Yes, please,” she amended, a hoarse whisper, and he obliged. His mouth closed around the same spot, and his hand cupped her other breast, fingers teasing at the nipple as his lips and tongue and teeth explored the other. She shut her eyes, tipping her head back. The movement of his hand rucked her chemise up, its filmy edge brushing against her sex, but still he held himself braced above her. She crooked her knees up, bracing her feet against the edge of the bed so that she could lift herself.

His hand returned to her stomach, catching a fistful of cloth. He tugged, pulling up and back, and she followed the motion, climbing up further into the bed. He followed, and propped himself over her with one knee between her legs. He looked down into her eyes. “You truly want this,” he said, as if still trying to convince himself.

“I do,” she said crossly. And added, sweetly, “Please.”

“What is it that you want me to do?” he asked. “Exactly.”

“I want . . .” she trailed off. A blush crept up from her neck to her cheeks.

“Be specific,” he instructed her, playing with a strand of her hair. “I'm frightfully dense.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?” he asked, his lips nearly against her throat.

I am anyone I want to be.
She caught his hand, and pressed it between her legs. “Here,” she said. “Please touch me there.”

He pressed his palm against her sex. She let out a soft moan of pleasure as the pressure within her met the pressure of his hand. He moved it in slow rhythm, his lips against her neck, and she moved with him. The pressure moved upward, tightening in her belly and then clenching back to a single point of intense pleasure. His rhythm increased. His fingers were slick with her wetness. They slid over her nub, first in quick,
fluttering strokes and then a quick, hard pulse that made her back arch. A shudder ran through her, from her thighs to the crown of her head—and then suddenly it was too much, pleasure tipping into so much sensation it was almost pain.

“Wait,” she said, gasping. “Stop.”

He pulled his hand away at once, trailing his fingers over her hip instead. And finally he kissed her, at the curve where her shoulder met her neck, a soft reassurance. He shifted his weight over her, and she felt his erection pressing against her sex—weight only, no movement, letting the pain recede back to steady warmth. Her brief flutters of nervousness settling back into excitement.

And with it, impatience. “You are still wearing all your clothes,” she pointed out.

“How shortsighted of me,” he answered, and drew away suddenly. She yelped, every inch of her protesting the sudden deprivation of touch. But he stilled her with a hand against her shoulder and stood. He disrobed with remarkable efficiency, leaving scattered pieces of clothing around him, rather like an oak dropping its leaves for winter. When he stood only in his drawers he turned back to her. Pale hair lay in whorls across his chest, then arrowed down until it vanished beneath the fabric. His desire was obvious, and she examined it with interest.

He knelt on the bed beside her, then maneuvered himself between her legs. He ran his hands along the outside of her thighs and spread his knees, drawing her legs up onto his.

“We can't risk . . .”

“I know,” he said. He shifted, bending forward, moving both of them so that his whole body lay atop hers. He kissed her lightly on the shoulder. “You needn't fear.”

He moved against her, and her concerns vanished. He was firm and hot against her, his member taking the place of his hand as he reclaimed the rhythm of before. She clutched his shoulder as he moved, slowly at first and then with increasing urgency, responding to every moan and sigh with more pressure, less, with a thumb flicking over her nipple or a touch of his teeth against her neck.