Every Scandalous Secret (18 page)

T
o Susanna’s surprise, Leo proved correct. They spent a tolerable two days with the Edgecumbes, who seemed quite enthralled with her talents. She ended up sketching the daughters in a group portrait, and Lady Edgecumbe vowed to have it framed. She never did win over Mrs. Appleby, though, and she suspected there might be other women among Leo’s acquaintances who would feel just as annoyed with his marriage.

He dozed the entire day on the journey to York. He jerked awake regularly, as if he was trying not to sleep in front of her, which seemed silly. She either read or looked out the window at the breathtaking beauty of green hillsides and the occasional waterfalls of Wensleydale. In York, they took lodgings at a crowded hotel with only one bedroom and a small parlor. During a late meal, Leo watched her too closely and said surprisingly little. After several evenings with the Edgecumbes, and her private vow to make a better marriage, she felt a heightened sense of anticipation and nervousness being alone with him, with only a single bed visible through the open door. She waited for him to touch her, trembling over what she might do. Her feelings were still so confusing, especially the lingering sadness at how the decision of her future was taken from her by her own foolishness and his.

When they were finished eating, he offered her the bedroom and said he would sleep on the sofa, bowing in a gentlemanly fashion as he left her alone—and disappointed, to her surprise.

A
t breakfast, Susanna picked at her food even as Leo lounged in his chair and watched her.

“You dozed yesterday, slept last night, but still have shadows under your eyes,” she said into the silence.

He arched a brow. “Concerned for me?”

“You need a sharp mind. How else will you earn your living at cards?”

“And your arrow strikes true,” he said, his smile charming. “It’s a good thing I always have money tucked away. The overhaul of your wardrobe will have need of it.”

She set down her fork. “Excuse me?” Money tucked away? Enough for a
tonnish
wardrobe? That certainly gave her pause.

“York gives me the perfect opportunity. I know a dressmaker here.”

“You do,” she said, her creative mind filling in all the reasons he might have had need of a dressmaker.

His smile widened into an open grin. “I do. Give me free rein with my creativity—I already allow you the same. You must admit I have been the most patient of men with Tyler’s paintings.”

“I know you are not thinking of a wardrobe as some kind of enticement to me. You compromised the wrong woman if you believe so.”

“No, I am not so blinded by lust.”

Apparently not, since he hadn’t even attempted to kiss her last night. She sighed, surprised that it was proving difficult to make the best of this marriage. “And how long did you plan to remain here if we order a wardrobe?”

“I can persuade the woman to work quickly.”

She knew he could persuade a woman to do . . . anything. After all, he’d persuaded her, when she’d known better.

But now he waited, watching her.

Free rein with his creativity, eh? And he claimed to have money put away? He had found the way to interest her. “Very well. I shall accompany you.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Then let us begin.”

Madame Chambord had a small shop on North Street. Beautiful gowns were displayed in the windows, and inside, glass cabinets showcased expensive lace and imported fabrics and ribbon. The dressmaker was only a decade or so older than Susanna, but with hair as dark as midnight.

Madame Chambord clasped her hands with delight upon seeing Leo. “Monsieur Wade, how good it is to see you again,” she cried, rushing toward him as if she would throw herself into his arms.

A former paramour? Susanna couldn’t help wondering. She had to stop assuming that, for every woman’s eyes lightened with delight on seeing Leo. He was that sort of man, handsome and charming, with an edge of recklessness that made a woman wonder just how far he’d go to be wicked.

At the last moment, Madame Chambord dropped into a deep curtsy. “Monsieur Wade, what brings you to my humble shop?”

He stepped aside and gestured. “Madame, allow me to introduce my wife.”

Susanna’s own curtsy was a bit more circumspect. Madame Chambord was far more adept at mastering her surprise than the Edgecumbes had been, for obvious financial reasons, but Susanna knew it was there nonetheless.

“Ah, and you bring such a delightful woman to see me!” the dressmaker cried, her voice oozing delight and pride and humbleness all at the same time.

“We only recently married,” Leo explained, “and I’d like my wife to look as grand as any Society lady upon our return to London.”

“And how long will you be in York, monsieur?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she studied Susanna’s figure.

“As little time as possible, madame.” Susanna spoke up for the first time. “I’m an artist, and have much work to do as we travel.”

“Ah, I should have guessed your talents,” Madame Chambord said, leaning down to peer at Susanna’s dark red skirt. “I see a spot of paint.”

Susanna could not find what the dressmaker referred to. “Then you see how little regard I have for my clothing.”

The woman drew in a breath, and her skeptical gaze met Leo’s amused one.

“My wife is a rare flower, madame, which is why I’ve come to you to bring forth her bloom.”

Susanna smothered a laugh, saw Leo’s surprised gaze and relieved grin.

“Oui, oui,
then come with me, monsieur. We will discuss in private and let my assistants deal with the other customers.”

The less-important customers, Susanna thought. Leo must surely have spent money here. Gambling winnings thrown away on women’s clothing—on a whim? He was doing it again—and she was allowing it, wanting to take her measure of him. Did he really have a supply of his own money?

In a small parlor with comfortable chairs grouped around a large mirror, Madame Chambord brought forth dozens of sketches, which she proceeded to spread out before them. Leo sat at Susanna’s side, and she thought for certain he would allow her to make at least some choices. She adjusted her spectacles, opened her mouth, but he took the first sketch away from her.

“Madame, surely this color would not suit my wife’s auburn hair.”

“Non, non,
monsieur, as usual, you have the eyes for such important details.”

Susanna tried to intercede. “Perhaps a dark green would—”

“Blue,” Leo interrupted. “Deep night blue, with silver embroidery.”

And then Leo and the dressmaker rapidly went through a dozen sketches, choosing an evening gown, several day dresses, and a riding habit. He had the fashion sense of a London dandy, and the need to see cleavage, by the way he insisted on displaying her less-than-abundant attributes. But the truly interesting fact that she took away from the afternoon was his memory. Every time he and the dressmaker disagreed about something, he would pull forth a previous sketch and refer to the exact alterations they’d discussed, without looking at Madame Chambord’s copious notes.

When he wanted to concentrate on something, he could do so with amazing accuracy. Hence his success at cards. Then he merely glanced at the order slip on the dressmaker’s counter, and added it up in his head long before she had finished the sum on paper.

And during it all, he tactfully explained his choices to Susanna, educating her without giving offense, leaving her impressed.

As he talked Madame Chambord into having the gowns basted together to be tried on in two days’ time, Susanna found herself listening closely to the final arrangements. He knew just what to say to negotiate the price to his own favor. The price was not inconsequential, yet he didn’t even blink at the expense, and Madame Chambord seemed perfectly confident in his ability to pay. Then he must have his own money, which made her feel so relieved. He hadn’t wanted her simply for her dowry.

His abilities continued to impress her, hinting at more beneath the shallow mask he showed the world.

Chapter 15

F
or the next two days in York, Leo and his new wife danced about each other. She accompanied him on visits to friends as long as he also gave her plenty of time to concentrate on the hobbies so important to her. And she talked about her pursuits—to everyone—making him laugh.

She went to church while he slept in, what with his difficulty falling—or remaining—asleep. Walking the grounds of St. Peter’s School led to more sketches for herself or watercolors for Tyler. Leo found the man’s name grating more and more on his ears. What kind of man cared so much about flowers? If he hadn’t met Tyler, he would have assumed it all a ploy for a lovely woman’s attention.

But ever since the dressmaker’s shop, Leo felt himself the object of her scrutiny in a way he hadn’t been before. He wasn’t sure what he’d done at Madame Chambord’s except play a
tonnish
man of fashion and subtly begin to teach her his knowledge. And he’d liked it, for she grasped everything the first time he said it, and asked succinct questions.

Ignoring her newly sharp regard, he blithely went about doing what he did best—enjoying himself, as he patiently bided his time to earn her trust. He went to another boxing match, and thought perhaps she was enough of a rebel to accompany him, but no. She seemed content with his company at the late Cobbett’s art studio though she’d earlier warned him she wanted to be alone. More and more dusty books piled up in the carriage, along with art supplies, and Leo had to endure the coachman’s sympathetic smiles. Leo knew he looked like a groom willing to tolerate anything to please his new wife.

If only they were pleasing each other in bed.

But he didn’t want to frighten her by insisting she give herself to him when she wasn’t ready. He had thought his many years of sexual escapades would tide him over, but watching Susanna move calmly, elegantly through their two small rooms was playing havoc with his nerves. Even her spectacles aroused him, catching the gleam of candlelight and bringing his attention back to the mysterious depths of her brown eyes. He found himself prowling about, drinking more than he would have as he watched her, all to keep up his merry façade.

She started wearing gowns that hooked in the back, and calmly accepted his help, then remained perfectly still as each open hook revealed more and more of her corset and chemise. And her corset was pale blue, not the plain puritan white of a spinster. His fingers trembled, and his parched mouth longed to touch the slim column of her neck. Was she quivering, too? He couldn’t tell. But when he placed his hand on the bare slope of her shoulder, she thanked him and stepped away instead of flinging herself into his arms, his fervent wish.

He accompanied her to the dressmaker’s shop to look at her adorned in the basted gowns he’d purchased. She set her spectacles aside and emerged from behind the changing screen as Madame Chambord insisted she do. The sight of her breasts, now molded to perfection with the correct garments, was enough to make him wish he’d bound her up in a nun’s habit.

At night, when she let down her auburn hair, gleaming like fire in the candlelight, he couldn’t look away as she brushed it. He was daring himself, taunting himself, and at last this drove him away from their hotel. He felt . . . lost, not knowing what to do to win her trust, desperate to find the secret to unlocking Susanna’s heart.

H
e hadn’t returned, Susanna thought, awakening at dawn on top of the counterpane in her empty bed. She’d meant to wait up to tell him something, but she couldn’t remember it now.

He hadn’t returned.

Her corset had dug a groove into her side, her skirts were wrinkled—she hadn’t even changed into her nightgown, for she’d waited too long to send for the maid, then been too foolishly proud to let the woman see that her husband had left her alone.

She wandered dispiritedly into the parlor, looking at the new paintings she’d wrapped, ready to send to Mr. Tyler. Surely
he
wouldn’t have deserted her so soon after their wedding.

Then again, Susanna had wreaked her subtle revenge on Leo but had never imagined she’d be hurting herself as well, she realized, rubbing her fist into her breastbone, where the ache seemed focused. He made her feel alive and breathless, as if every moment in his presence could be exciting and pleasurable.

And to think she’d once imagined marriage to Mr. Tyler preferable. She’d come to Bramfield Hall to take risks—and had originally settled for Mr. Tyler, the least risky man in attendance. She hadn’t been the bravest woman then. She wanted to be brave now.

Someone knocked on the door, and she stiffened, then deflated as she realized Leo would never knock. The maid came in, a different girl than before, and Susanna asked for her help with the gown, making it appear as if she’d changed her mind already that morn. She requested a bath, and unlike the tub in Gretna Green, this one allowed the water to almost cover her breasts. She sank against the back, closed her eyes, and steamed, hoping for relaxation.

Where was Leo? It was well past dawn already. Had he come to mischief? Met a thief? Or fought a drunken duel? Her realization that she was worried about him seemed to have changed something inside her.

But when the door opened, and he swept in, smelling of the rain that beaded on the shoulders of his greatcoat, she could only stare at him in shock and relief, her body barely covered by soapy water.

He froze only momentarily, his gaze taking her in. And then he closed the door and leaned back against it.

She couldn’t read his expression; he wasn’t grinning in triumph. Without covering herself in maidenly modesty, she only tilted her head and waited.

“I should have sent a note last night,” he said, slowly walking toward her. “I hope you didn’t wait up.”

“I didn’t,” she lied. She swallowed, too proud to look down and see how much of her body was visible beneath the water.

He emptied his pockets, producing vouchers. “I won.”

She eyed his display and tried to smile. “I guess it’s better than canceling my order with the dressmaker.”

She felt consumed by his slow approach, and the way he looked at her as if she were a tasty morsel for his personal devouring.

He walked slowly about the tub until he was behind her. She was trembling so much that the water rippled. He bent over her, and she gasped, inhaling the scent of alcohol, smoke, and the night, but not a woman’s perfume, as she once might have feared.

“Let me wash your back,” he murmured.

She remained silent. He picked up the facecloth from the stool nearby and was rubbing it in the soft, fragrant soap. Her very flesh seemed to melt at the thought of such dangerous touches. He took her shoulder to push her forward, and she felt the warm cloth begin to soap her back.

And it was heavenly. She held her knees tightly, her face buried against them, and barely resisted the urge to moan.

“Breathe,” he murmured, laughter beneath the word.

She did so, in far too shaky a fashion.

“I like to touch you,” he said.

And she liked hearing that.

The cloth moved slowly beneath his open hand, and it was as if there were no barrier between his skin and her own. He added more soap, then began to move the cloth over her shoulders, making her ease back against the tub. He picked up her arm and ran the cloth down it.

When he touched her . . . it was as if he could turn down her brain like an oil lamp, letting it glow in the background while her body enjoyed the carnality. He worked soap between her fingers and around her wrists, making her feel utterly fragile next to his large hands. He took her other arm and did the same, until she felt like a warm, wet blanket, slumped with abandonment in the tub.

He moved behind her again, and she breathed a shaky sigh. But then he began to soap her shoulders, his longer fingers touching her collarbones with each movement, occasionally reaching beyond to her upper chest. She stared at the glimpses of his hands, feeling unable to breathe.

His fingers moved lower, sliding down to the sides of her rib cage, brushing the outer curves of her breasts. She felt her back arching, the water lapping, knew her breasts were visible. With a simple movement, he could cup them and give her the pleasure she remembered.

She took a deep breath and words tumbled out at last. “I heard you having a nightmare the other night.” She cursed her nervousness.

He didn’t say anything, his upper body above her head, his hands still on her wet skin.

“It was nothing,” he said hoarsely.

“It’s not the first time. What were you dreaming about?”

And then he stood up, his hands sliding away from her as he turned his back. She let out a shuddering breath of disappointment.

“You’ve looked tired, so it must be affecting your sleep,” she continued. “And did you stay out last night to avoid experiencing it again?”

He tried to toss her an amused look, but she thought it seemed a bit . . . forced. Intrigued, she picked up the discarded facecloth and washed her legs.

“So tell me, Leo,” she urged.

He stared out the window, hands clasped on the back of a chair. At last, he said, “I don’t know what it is. I’m in a dark place, and there are rats.”

She shuddered. “That would disturb my sleep, too.”

“And now there’s a corpse.”

She straightened. “A corpse? Do you know who it is?”

He shook his head, not facing her. “No idea. Foolish, isn’t it?”

“Are you prone to dreams?”

He shrugged. “It’s all because of your painting, you know.”

“I don’t understand.” She washed her private areas while his back was turned, then reached for the bucket of clean water, stood up, and quickly washed off the soap. Her hair could wait another day.

“The most vivid dream was of your painting,” he said, “and then it . . . changed. Until now, it was the only way to see you naked, of course.”

“Perhaps seeing me naked gave you nightmares,” she said dryly.

He turned about and regarded the towel hiding her body soberly. “I’ve never heard anything more foolish. That painting would haunt any man’s dreams in the most provocative way.”

“That is Roger’s gift, of course, his incredible talent. And I can say that even though I’m still furious with him.”

“He certainly had magic over you.”

“It was not quite so easy to persuade me to pose,” she told him, knowing that continuing such a discussion doubled her risk of making a mistake.

“How often did you have to do so?”

She hesitated, remembering the story she, Rebecca, and Elizabeth had agreed upon. “The sessions were twice a week for several weeks. We didn’t talk much. I’d become his model, and his concentration was legendary.”

“So you lay there”—his voice turned husky—“naked. For hours. Why, Susanna? Why would a properly raised girl do such a thing? For the sheer adventure of it?”

She looked away from him. “I originally thought the scarves would be able to conceal most of me, but then gradually he made me feel . . . beautiful.” She flushed, still unable to meet his gaze. “You will think that ridiculous, of course.”

“Ridiculous? Good God, Susanna, I’ve been able to think of little else since I saw it. You
are
beautiful.”

She tightened the towel at her breasts, feeling far too aroused, as if she couldn’t control her own body. “Thank you, but this discussion cannot help your curiosity. In fact, perhaps the painting is making you feel guilty, hence the dreams.”

“Guilty? Over the wager? No. Over the marriage?”

She stood still beside the tub, waiting, wondering.

“Some guilt, yes,” he admitted. “But no regrets. You’ll be my true wife soon, and you’ll want that.” His eyes suddenly twinkled. “You may think you can hold out until the end of the wager, so I can’t see your body in the light, but you’re wrong.”

She laughed. “You shouldn’t bring up the wager. You only remind me how important it is that I protect my sister and cousin.”

Leo watched her disappear behind the changing screen, his grin slowly fading away. He’d fled last night, hoping to enjoy his old haunts and forget about her, but it hadn’t worked. He’d felt . . . bored, restless, when his thoughts weren’t occupied with her. He’d never felt protective of anyone before, not counting his relatives, of course. He was responsible for Susanna now. He was used to expecting nothing of himself since no one else did. But now he had a wife.

Irritated with his own tumbling feelings, he stripped, washed quickly in the tub, then with only a towel around his waist, flung himself across the bed to nap.

“Wake me when it’s time to leave for Madame Chambord’s,” he called.

But sleep didn’t offer much refreshment.

The final trip to the dressmaker’s was uneventful, although he caught Susanna studying him when he was insisting that the madame had altered the trim on a bodice without his permission. Susanna only smiled and turned away.

She had plans to visit a museum, and he remained in the background, watching as she copied the masters to study their technique. He was fascinated at how she saw curved, well-placed lines where he only saw a flow of movement. Her gifts at perception were impressive, and he knew she was turning those powers on him. Trust in a marriage had to go both ways. Did he want her to see so deeply into him? And she was capable of it, capable of upsetting all the equilibrium he’d worked so hard at.