Lady Windermere's Lover (16 page)

“Truly?” she said, surprised at his praise. “All I did was have a very ordinary conversation with her, such as I might enjoy with any new acquaintance.”

“If it always works this well, I suggest you continue to treat imperious members of royal families as though they were ordinary people.”

“I was quite nervous about meeting her,” she admitted. “Luckily Prince Rostrov coached me in the proper method of address. I don’t generally call people Your Serene Highness.”

“Grand Duchess Olga might be able to forgive London merchants for failing to bring the entire contents of their warehouses to her hotel, but failing to adequately Serene her might have led to war.”

The word
warehouse
put her nerves on edge. If he intended to torment her with his silence, he achieved his goal. “I had no idea I was so important.”

“I was joking, you know.”

“So was I.”

“You seem nervous, but there is no need. Tonight I am proud of my choice of bride. You would be an ornament to any embassy.”

“How gratifying. For you.”

Was he never going to bring up what had happened yesterday? He sat so still, as perfectly turned out as when he’d left his valet’s hands, unruffled by the stresses of the evening, the swaying of the carriage, or, apparently, the perceived peccadilloes of his wife.

Instead of giving her a chance to explain, he was congratulating himself for choosing her, the bride he’d taken virtually sight unseen as the price of an estate. He hadn’t thought much of her a year ago but she now passed muster and he was
proud of his choice
, as though the credit was all his. He didn’t care that it had taken hours of painstaking reading of French texts, as well as long conversations with her tutor, to reach her current fluency. He hadn’t even asked how she’d done it. Did he think she’d gone from dowdy companion to fashionable countess with a wave of the magic wand? It took
work
to look this good. He hadn’t said a word about Beaulieu and had no idea of the care she’d lavished on the place. Even Windermere House had been spruced up.

True, she’d introduced a few ugly and overpriced objects to the London house. All right, many extremely ugly and shockingly expensive items. But Damian Lewis, Earl of Windermere deserved a little teasing for his horrible treatment. And it had been in a good cause.

The time had come to tell the truth. And if he didn’t like it, too bad. She refused to be ashamed.

“Damian,” she said. “I didn’t steal your money for myself.”

“No,” he said. “I guessed as much. I may not have been an ideal husband, but I don’t believe I have been a miserly one. I left orders that you could spend what you wished.”

“On gowns and furnishings, yes. But not on other things.”

His voice hardened. “Not on your lover.”

“He is not . . .” What was the use? He wouldn’t believe her. “Julian introduced me, but the arrangement was between Hamble and me alone.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

She sensed weariness in him, perhaps a softening of his stance. “I would like to explain myself, but I’d rather show you. First we need to go home and collect something. I think a couple of stout footmen wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”

“Why?”

“We are going to an insalubrious part of town.”

Chapter 17

T
o Damian’s certain knowledge, London was the biggest and noisiest metropolis in the world. It wasn’t quiet on the evening of Christmas Day, but the traffic that usually clogged the thoroughfares of the west end of town and the City was light and their progress brisk. Damian gave up trying to interrogate his wife about their destination, or the contents of the hampers strapped onto the back of the carriage. The whole errand seemed remarkably unwise but he was in the mood to humor her. And he wanted an explanation for her fraudulent ruse. Past Bishopsgate the streets became darker, narrower, and meaner.

“Don’t worry,” Cynthia said. “We’re almost there and I’ve never had any trouble at Flowers Street. The people who live there look out for each other.”

Damian hoped so. The street was so narrow the coach barely fit and a fast escape would be out of the question. His coachman, he noted, knew the way and stopped at the right house without being told the address. Other than helping her down from the coach, he let Cynthia direct the operation. One of the footmen held up a lantern while she knocked on the freshly painted door of a house in markedly smarter condition than its neighbors.

“Merry Christmas, Aggie,” Cynthia said to a young woman with a babe in her arms.

The girl, barely more than a child herself, beamed. “Merry Christmas, my lady! We didn’t expect to see you today.”

“I meant to come tomorrow but decided to bring your gifts now. His Lordship has offered me company. Let me present Aggie Smith, my lord. And this little angel is her daughter, Hannah. May I?” She took the little bundle from the girl and kissed the infant’s nose. “I believe she has grown since last week, Aggie. And become even prettier.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Smith,” Damian said with a nod.

The girl managed a wobbly bob of a curtsey and a noise something between a choke and a giggle, the latter perhaps inspired by his use of the honorary missus. He’d be very surprised if Aggie Smith, who wore no ring, was married.

“Will you ask the men to bring in the hampers, my lord?” Cynthia asked. “Put them on the floor in here.” She walked into a room in which a chorus of female and childish voices arose, along with the cry of another baby.

The inhabitants of Flowers Street might look after their own, but Damian wasn’t going to trust them, after dark, with the Earl of Windermere’s coach and horses. Leaving the driver and one of the footmen to guard his property, he helped the other haul in the hampers. Landing on the floor with a pair of thumps, they were at once engulfed by a mass of shrieking bodies while his wife, still holding Aggie’s baby, laughingly protested.

Damian decided to enforce the protest. “Stop! Let’s have a little order.”

The seething mass withdrew and resolved itself into half a dozen children ranging from a couple barely toddling to a skinny boy on the verge of adolescence. They gazed at him with open mouths and an appropriate hint of alarm. “Tha’s right,” yelled another young woman, slightly older than Aggie but also burdened with an infant. “You wait for ’Er Ladyship.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Cynthia said. “I know you are all anxious to see what I have brought, but first you must be introduced to His Lordship and wish him a merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, ’Is Lordship,” the youngsters cried in dutiful unison, their eyes never shifting from the baskets.

Damian tried to follow the introductions. In addition to Aggie, there were five grown women, though two of them were sadly young to be mothers, and another, younger still, was pregnant. The eldest was presented as Mrs. Finsbury, a widow with four children. No other husbands, dead or alive, were mentioned. As the children named themselves he noted that the room, which occupied most of the ground floor, was clean and freshly painted, simply but comfortably appointed with strong, practical furniture.

“Very good, children,” Cynthia said, once the formalities were concluded. “Did you all have your supper already?”

“Yes, but I’m still hungry,” said the oldest boy. “I’m always hungry.”

“I wonder if there’s anything to eat in here. What do you think?”

“Look inside!”

“Open it!”

“If someone will take Hannah from me, I’ll see if there’s something in here that will help those hunger pangs.” Aggie retrieved the baby, and Cynthia blew the little creature a kiss. Falling to her knees and throwing aside the lid of the first basket, she looked as adorably excited as the others and almost as young. She lifted out a cloth-covered dish and took a deep breath. “Mm. This smells good. What do you think it is?”

The children shrieked with joy.

“Cake!”

“Roast beef!”

“Pie!”

Pretending it was so heavy she could barely lift it, she carried it over to a table at the far side of the room and removed the cover. “Pie it is. Mincemeat, I think. Is it big enough to fill you up, Tom?”

“I never seen one so big,” the boy replied, “but I bet I could eat it all.”

“Let’s see what else we have.” She produced bread, cakes, jellies, sweetmeats, cheese, and a huge ham. She continued to tease the youngsters, showing unabashed delight at their reactions and a playfulness that enchanted him. He wanted to snatch her up, twirl her around, and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. His heart expanded with a spirit of Christmas that had been singularly absent at the Radcliffes’ lavish dinner.

Soon the table groaned with enough food, in Damian’s inexpert estimation, to feed the household for several days. The children, though eager to fall on the feast, held back. None was plump but they appeared to be well fed and decently dressed. Thanks to the machinations of Lady Windermere and Mr. Hamble, he assumed.

The former, having consulted the mothers, bade each choose one thing to eat. “We’ll keep the rest until tomorrow when you will enjoy a big dinner.”

Under the watchful eye of one designated mother, they made their selections. Damian began to distinguish between them, and find them interesting. Tom was jealous of his prerogatives as the eldest and kept the middle ones in order, while making sure that the youngest got their due. The two middle ones, both girls, seemed to be the same age, perhaps twins though they didn’t look alike. They whispered and giggled a lot, drawing the scorn of Tom. All were united in adoration for plump little Pudding, a child of indeterminate sex who waddled about with an infectious toothy grin. To a boy and girl they wore expressions of ecstatic bliss as they tasted their carefully chosen sweetmeats, savoring each morsel as though they might never eat again. Damian tried to remember when he’d been happy about something so simple.

If the children had temporarily forgotten the second hamper, Cynthia had not. She produced some greenery and a bright sprig of holly, which she arranged on the mantelpiece over the small fireplace. By this time the children were ready to take an interest in what else would emerge from the casket of wonders.

He watched the ceremony from the fringe, as his wife distributed her largesse with unaffected grace and obvious pleasure. She’d taken trouble to select gifts that were both useful and suited to each individual. All ages received warm clothing, and cloth to make more. For the children there were small toys and books, received with more cries of rapture.

For Cynthia, he observed, charity was not only about giving money. It was warm and personal. She cared deeply about these waifs and strays she’d taken under her wing. She hadn’t merely spent the last year shopping and visiting and consorting with the Duke of Denford. His wife had a whole life he knew nothing about and wished he did.

She seemed to have a particular bond with Aggie and her baby. When everyone else had received their gifts, Cynthia unwrapped a silver tissue package to reveal a blob of fine lace.

“It’s for Hannah,” she said with a rueful smile, placing the tiny cap on the baby’s head. “I know it’s impractical, Aggie, but the minute I saw it I had to buy it. I couldn’t resist. Doesn’t she look perfect?”

Damian stepped closer to look at the little red face in its white frill and at his wife’s tender gaze. “She looks like Lady Ashfield,” he whispered in Cynthia’s ear. She gave a repressed snort at the private joke and elbowed him in the ribs.

Aggie fingered the lace with reverence. “It’s too fine for the streets around here, my lady. She’ll only wear it at home.”

“You and the other Spitalfields weavers make the finest silks in the world,” Cynthia argued. “Why should you not enjoy wearing beautiful things too?”

“Thank you, my lady. You are very good to us. You too, my lord.” Aggie was grateful but he thought he detected a skepticism she kept hidden from her benefactress. He strongly suspected the piece of lace would find its way to a pawnbroker as soon as the infant grew out of it. And why not? He appreciated Aggie’s practicality as much as his wife’s frivolity and the sentiment behind it. Life was always better for a little pure beauty, and it was likely that the denizens of East London had little enough of it in theirs. Cynthia had brought great joy to her household of women and children this Christmas Day. Later he would discover how far her charity extended beyond the provision of the life’s unnecessary but delightful frills. Very far indeed, he suspected.

She should have children of her own. For the first time he felt an inkling of interest in procreation beyond the duty to produce an heir. This visit to these humble premises made him think of a family life with Cynthia. It occurred to him that since her fraudulent dealing had been in a good cause, there was no reason not to forgive her. Yes, certain matters needed to be settled. Julian Fortescue still cast his shadow. But they were back where they had been the night of the bhang.

A broad smile stretched his lips. He was suddenly
very
interested in procreation.

Young Tom stood beside him with an air of distaste while the others cooed over the lace-bedecked infant.

“It must be hard to be the only man in the house among all these girls,” Damian said quietly. “It’s a good thing they have you to keep an eye on the little ones.”

Tom puffed out his chest. “I’m the only boy except Puddin’ and ’e’s too small to be much help.”

“The ladies like to make a fuss about things, don’t they?”

Puzzled for a moment by the use of a term of gentility, he grasped that Damian meant the other inhabitants of the house. “Aye, m’lord. That they do.”

“See those greens over the fireplace? There’s one branch with white berries. That’s mistletoe, you know.”

Tom extracted the branch in question from a clump of fir. “Can I eat them?”

“I don’t recommend it. They’d taste bitter and give you a pain in the stomach. “

“What’s it for then?”

“At Yuletide anyone is permitted to kiss anyone else if they stand beneath a sprig of the stuff.”

“I can think of a few fellows that’d pay me for this. And some others who don’t need it to get what they want.” The boy’s canny look said that while he might not know much about traditions, his surroundings hadn’t left him ignorant of the basic facts of life. The infants in the house weren’t products of divine intervention.

“I was thinking the ladies here would like to exchange Christmas kisses.”

“Not me,” Tom said firmly.

“Of course not. But we must humor them. Why don’t you hop up on that chair and invite them? You can hold the mistletoe up high
and
avoid danger of having to participate.”

Laughing, Tom scrambled onto the seat. “It’s kissing time,” he piped, arousing a chorus of laughter.

The mothers all knew what to do. A squealing exchange of feminine bussing ensued, with Lady Windermere taking fervent part. The shy older girls won smiles and hugs from their patroness but Cynthia’s greatest enthusiasm was reserved for the babes in arms. He’d give her an infant of her own to cuddle and coo over. But before that blessed event another one (or dozen or hundred) must occur.

Soon.

Tom proved an admirable lieutenant, not even requiring the half-crown bribe Damian had planned. “What about you, guv? Ain’t you going to kiss ’Er Ladyship too?” The boy was going to get his money honestly. “The nippers expect it. They’ve never seen a lord before. Seein’ a lord and lady kissin’ would be a rare treat.”

“Never let it be said I failed in my duty. My lady?” He held out his hand. Blushing, she met his eye over the lace-capped head of Aggie’s baby. While he could admit that the infant was endearing, she was also very much
de trop
. “Give her to me,” he said firmly. The child seemed absurdly light in his arms and terrifyingly fragile. He handed her quickly to her mother, who winked at him. Good girl, that Aggie. “My lady?”

The assembly of women smirked. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Tom brandished the mistletoe. With a martyrish air Cynthia took up position. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the children.”

Damian smiled wolfishly. “Let us not do so then.” Her shoulders stiffened beneath his hands. “Relax,” he whispered, stroking her tender collarbones with his thumbs. “We’ve done this before. Forget that we have an audience.” The perfect mouth formed a mesmerizing O of surprise.

“I thought the only reason we are doing this is to please our audience.” The warm scent of roses flooded his senses. He wished they were somewhere else and alone together. His head buzzed with desire and he couldn’t for the life of him remember why they hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours in bed, making love. All suspicions, accusations, and quarrels seemed unimportant in the face of his need to possess his wife. She was his and he intended to keep her. Her eyes reflected vulnerability and fear but his throat was tight with longing. He couldn’t form the words to reassure her.

“It will please me too,” he said on a breath. The feeble phrase gave no sense of the brew of resentment, forgiveness, and tenderness he wished to convey. Those emotions were for examination at a calmer time when he wasn’t overwhelmed by bone-deep, searing lust. But for now . . .

His fingers skimmed over her gauze sleeves, too fine to disguise the warmth of her skin. Taking one tight fist in both hands he carefully unfurled her fingers. Soft, pretty hands with pearly pink nails. His thumbs traced the lines crossing her palms, another detail about his wife that he intended to explore at length and at leisure. He dropped a lingering kiss into the very center. At her sharp intake of breath he raised his eyes to hers, still wary but softer. Damn their audience.