Lady Windermere's Lover (17 page)

Keeping the hand in one of his, his other descended to her waist, following the curves beneath their layers of silk, to the sweetest rounded bottom in the history of the world. Lowering his eyelids for a moment, he recalled her naked.
Pray God, soon
.

“Kiss ’er, guv!”

The sooner he did his duty, the sooner they could leave. It wasn’t as though he didn’t wish to, hadn’t been planning it for the past half hour. He let her go, but only to frame her heart-shaped face between his palms, closed his eyes, and brought their mouths together. Her sweet, pliant lips invited him to invade with all his pent-up desire. But they weren’t alone and there were children present, so he kept it shallow, little more than an exchange of breath. Though it drove him to the brink of losing control, he didn’t want their tenuous contact to end. He held her head still, until it dawned on him that she wasn’t trying to escape him but to kiss him back. A bold dart of her tongue along his inner lip sent blood roaring into his already lively cock. Abruptly he let her go and she swayed. Her eyes were big and dreamy.

“It’s time we took our leave, Cynthia,” he said.

B
y the time they had said their good-byes and entered the carriage, the dizziness that had possessed Cynthia’s brain when Damian kissed her under the mistletoe had abated. Her body still thrummed and her legs felt weak but her head had cleared enough to remind her that she needed to speak with him before anything else happened. Confident now that he would understand her financial ruse, and certain that he intended to take her home to bed, she determined to press for a more perfect reconciliation.

Damian appeared to wish to omit the explanations. As soon as the carriage lurched forward he pulled her into his arms. “Cynthia,” he whispered, “I want you so much.” That his voice was ragged, his words blunt and unadorned, pleased her. She loved to see her husband’s sleek veneer crack.

His hand slipping through the front of her cloak to seek her breast, his lips hot against her neck, tempted her to yield without delay. Her pulses sped and heat bloomed in her lower belly. She managed to wrench herself away and put a foot of plush seat between them.

“Not now, not here,” she said in response to his incoherent protest.

“Why not?”

“There are footmen.”

“Riding on the box.”

“We are in the streets of London.”

“I need to introduce you to new ways of passing the time on a journey. It’s dark and there’s nothing else to do.”

His caressing voice conjured up the possibilities of their situation. The carriage was still warm from the hot bricks provided by their efficient servants. If she extinguished the small lantern they’d be enclosed in a cozy refuge from the chilled world outside, just the pair of them, like a couple of nesting creatures. In the swaying light she could see Damian’s face filled with raw desire that matched his lusty pleas.

“Another time,” she said with genuine regret. “When we have settled other matters between us.”

“Right now the only matter between us is my wish to kiss you.”

“Stop, Damian. You refused to listen to my explanation so I showed you instead what I did with the money I made through Hamble. Every penny has gone to buying that house and maintaining it. Mrs. Finsbury looks after all the children while the other women go to work at the factory.”

He sighed, evidently resigned to conversation. “I have nothing against charitable endeavors. But why this one in particular?”

“Mrs. Finsbury’s husband was killed in an accident at the Finch Street factory. It belongs to my uncle.” She fingered the silk covering her knee. “This material was woven there. But more importantly, every penny that you gained through marrying me comes from the profits of Finch Street and other places like it.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of in successful commerce.”

“Of course not.”

“I am sorry about Finsbury’s death. What of the others? Are they also the widows of weavers?”

“None of them are married.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think you do. They didn’t intend to bear children out of wedlock. Each one is a victim of Wilfred Maxwell, my uncle’s partner and the manager of his London factories. He makes a habit of violating the young females in his employ and there is nothing they can do without losing their jobs and livelihood. Maxwell allows the girls to keep their positions as long as they don’t make a fuss, or miss too many days of work when they give birth. So far I have given a home to five. The most recent addition only arrived last week.”

“What does your uncle say to this?”

“I wrote to him but he doesn’t care. He told me to leave Maxwell alone.”

“Such irresponsibility is appalling.”

“Maxwell is a villain and my uncle not much better,” she said. “I feel a duty to Maxwell’s victims, but I would wish to help them in any case. There are too many young women in the world at the mercy of unscrupulous men, and so little I can do.”

“I applaud your efforts,” he said warmly. “I understand your sense of responsibility to these particular women and admire you for taking action. I am curious, though. Why do the women not send the infants to the Foundling Hospital? They can have little affection for the products of their rape.”

“You are wrong. Women love their children, no matter who the father is.”

“I see,” he said after a pause. “They seem like fine children.”

“If they are it is because they have loving mothers and a good home. I’ve learned much about the hardships the poor face. It’s made me realize how fortunate I was when my parents died. I cannot now have much respect for my uncle, but at least he didn’t leave me to starve or sell myself on the streets.” The blunt reference to prostitution shocked him, she could see, but she never felt particularly ladylike after a visit to Spitalfields. She also wanted Damian to share her feelings because he was in a position to do more about the problem than she. “I can’t bear to think about those little girls, and the babies like Hannah, living such a precarious existence.”

“Young Tom is a good lad,” Damian said. She had noted his interest in the boy. How gratifying it would be if he would share her endeavors.

“A wonderful boy. His mother relies on him to help and protect the younger children. But she worries too. There are some bad influences on the streets of Spitalfields.”

“He needs male company.”

“How like a man to think that,” she said teasingly.

“I have no objection to the company of women.” His voice dropped. “I envy Tom his mother and sisters.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached out and took his hand. “I wouldn’t imply otherwise.”

“But to do well in life, and perhaps provide for his family himself, he needs an education and the example of other men.”

“He would like to train as a weaver, like his father. I intend to provide the apprenticeship fee.”

“Good. He at least won’t be in danger from Maxwell and his ilk. It’s better if men go to work and women stick to the domestic realm.”

“No doubt that is so, except that women are sometimes left to fend for themselves. From what I have learned, one of the good things about the silk business is that it pays well, even for women.”

“I remember we spoke of this at dinner not long ago.”

“And we spoke of the efforts of many in Parliament to do away with the laws that ensure that the weavers earn high wages.” She squeezed his hand and took a deep breath. “I hope to persuade you to change your mind and support the Spitalfields Act.”

“I can’t do that. I gave my word to your uncle.”

“My uncle! After what you have seen and heard tonight do you believe you owe him your support in this?”

“A gentleman does not go against his word. And it’s not just Mr. Chorley. Others, men I respect, think the same way.” He slid along the seat and put an arm about her shoulders. “Let’s not speak of dull politics now.”

Cynthia wavered. Her inclination was to melt into his arms now and argue later. Like women throughout history, she could influence events through her powers of seduction. That’s what Lady Belinda Radcliffe would do.

She did not, under any circumstance, wish to be like Lady Belinda.

She slid back to her own corner and folded her arms. “At least hear me. Let me try to change your mind.”

“You may continue to support your own little household on Flowers Street with my blessing and admiration.”

“But what of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of others who will see their wages lowered? I can’t support them all. Besides, they don’t want charity but the ability to make their own living.”

“I know you mean well and I honor you for your impulses,” he said. “It’s a complicated issue, and not one that should be decided according to your sentimental response to the cases of certain individuals, deserving as they may be.”

“You believe me incapable of thinking rationally?”

“No,” he said impatiently, “but neither do I think you are the best judge of the wider consequences of the Spitalfields policy. Sir Richard Radcliffe supports repeal.”

She was about to decry the fact that he would listen to Sir Richard over his own wife, then stopped because of the absurdity. Of course he would. At no point in their acquaintance had Damian given her reason to believe he valued her opinion about anything. Certainly not more than that of his revered mentor, a man Cynthia would like to see tossed into the Thames. And his lovely wife too.

The optimism kindled by the spirit of Christmas at Flowers Street and their sweet mistletoe kiss had dissipated, to be replaced by a dull depression. For whatever reason, Damian had decided to overlook her supposed liaison with Julian, but he had no real respect for her and certainly no love. He wanted to bed her, that was all.

While once she would have settled for a small measure of affection, she had changed. “You believe me an adulteress who is too simple to be trusted with an opinion on a political matter. I cannot imagine why you would wish to consort with such a creature.”

Her husband completely failed to grasp the opportunity to make amends she’d served him on a silver platter. All he had to do was deny that he believed her an unfaithful fool. Instead he reached for her hand. “Can we talk about this another time? We’re almost home and I am ready for bed.”

“I am afraid . . .” she said, haughty as Lady Ashfield, and why not? She was a countess too. “ . . . I must beg you to excuse me, my lord. I have a headache.”

Chapter 18

D
ealing with his wife, Damian decided, was a bit like a game of Chowgan, where each time he took a good shot with his mallet, he found someone had moved the goal. They should send her to manage Prince Heinrich of Alt-Brandenburg. She’d have him in such a muddle he’d sign the treaty just to stop the ache—in his head and elsewhere.

During a brisk morning walk around Hanover Square, Damian tried to make sense of her attitude toward him, the way each time he thought they were becoming close she would find a reason to back away. While admitting his own role in their quarrels, he couldn’t get away from the nagging feeling that he didn’t have the whole picture. Something lay behind her anger, something that had happened in his absence. Returning home, he resolved to take the radical course of asking her a direct question and followed the sound of clinking china to the morning room. She was up early.

Or perhaps not. Oliver Bream sat at the breakfast table, teacup in one hand, applying charcoal to a leaf of a small sketchbook as he drank. Even from a sideways perspective and a few feet’s distance, the artist demonstrated a deftness that came only with hard work. Damian’s unpracticed fingers itched.

“Oh, good morning, Windermere,” Bream said vaguely, waving his cup. Without any perturbation at being found eating breakfast by the master of the house, he made an adjustment to his drawing, nodded with satisfaction, and put down his stick of charcoal. “More tea please, John. And a slice of that ham.”

“I’ll have the same,” Damian said. “And a couple of eggs and some buttered toast. Thank you—er—John.” The servant, hired during his absence, probably knew Bream better than he knew the man who paid his wages.

“Do you often breakfast here?” Damian asked.

To Damian’s amusement, Bream blinked, surprised at being interrupted, but graciously tolerating the inconvenience. “Quite often,” he said. “The servants know to feed me if Cynthia isn’t down yet. It was hard while she was away,” he added wistfully.

“You live in the mews behind the Duchess of Castleton’s old house, I believe.”

“It’s not the same now that Caro lives in Hampshire,” Bream said gloomily. “I used to eat all my meals with her, if I hadn’t sold anything lately.”

“Caro maintained her salon after her husband died?”

“There was always something going on at Conduit Street. Some fellows I didn’t see again.” He stopped and thought about it. “Caro didn’t keep up with Robert’s gaming friends, but most of the crowd still gathered there.”

Damian was filled with sudden regret for the loss of the old times and old companionship. Robert had been a dazzling conversationalist with a discerning eye for a fine work of art, counterbalanced by his unfortunate passion for gaming. He and the seventeen-year-old Caro had eloped as soon as Robert came into his majority and control of his fortune. Rather than spoil the original quartet of Robert, Julian, Marcus, and Damian, Caro had fit in perfectly, a wild child always up for a lark. How angry Damian’s father had been when he’d lent the eloping couple a carriage from Beaulieu for their dash to Gretna Green.

That had also been his last visit to the estate before his own majority a few months later. The recollection dowsed the spark of regret.

They munched ham in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Damian began to see why Cynthia liked the artist. His utter absorption in his own concerns made him a soothing companion. No need to exert oneself to amuse Oliver Bream; the occasional application of nourishment was all he needed to be perfectly content.

Bream abruptly picked up the thread of their conversation. “Caro didn’t buy our pictures anymore after Robert died because he lost all his money. But she still fed us.”

Damian hadn’t grasped quite how much Robert had continued to lose after the fateful night. Somehow it didn’t make him feel better. Julian, almost as much to blame, hadn’t been punished for his part. Instead he’d fallen into a dukedom.

“I suppose Denford was at Conduit Street a lot.”

“Yes,” Bream replied. “I could go to Julian’s for breakfast, but there’s no cook at Fortescue House and he’s out of town a lot. When he wasn’t traveling he was always at Caro’s.”

“How much in the last year?”

The artist, who had reopened his sketchbook, tilted his curly head and considered the question. “Well, he was in town in the spring. I remember seeing him often at Conduit Street with Cynthia and Anne. We all went to a masquerade at the Pantheon. Or perhaps Cynthia and Julian went together and the rest of us met them there. I don’t remember. After Caro married Castleton, Julian was away for a few months. Something to do with a collection of pictures.”

The news about a picture collection was interesting, but paled in importance compared to the other item of gossip. His breakfast turned sour in his stomach. He recalled only too well the kind of licentious no-good one could get up to at a masquerade ball. “Did he take my wife around town a great deal?”

He failed to disguise the urgency behind his question, for Bream jerked his head up in alarm and relapsed into discretion. “We often went out in a group. I don’t pay much attention to the niceties, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong about a married lady accepting a gentleman’s escort when her husband is away. Cynthia doesn’t mean any harm. She’s the kindest person in the world.”

Damian’s pulse slowed. He was beginning to see the futility of dwelling on the past. “I think you may be right about that, Bream. She cares for everyone.” If he could only resolve what trouble lay between them, she might care for him too. Lady Windermere’s affection would be worth winning.

By the time he’d finished his meal, his wife had not appeared and his uninvited guest showed no sign of departing. He stamped out into the hall just in time to see Ellis open the front door to the devil himself. Julian Fortescue had always possessed unmitigated gall. Tossing him into the street unfortunately wasn’t an option with the butler looking on. Sometimes the demands of discretion were damn annoying.

“Denford,” he said, cloaking his fury in ice. “Come with me back to the library. Please.”

The duke raised a black eyebrow and followed him down the back passage.

Once out of earshot of the servants, Damian crowded his unwelcome visitor. They were much of a height, Julian having an advantage of barely an inch. Damian scowled, thrusting his head forward so they were almost nose to nose. “I told you to leave her alone.”

Denford didn’t flinch. “Where is Cynthia?”

“Lady Windermere to you, Duke.”

“Don’t be an ass, Damian. We may be at odds, but let’s not pretend we don’t know each other.”

“At odds! Is that what we are? My wife is upstairs. There is no reason for you to see her. Ever.”

“I want to make sure she is well.”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“You tell me, Damian.”

With incredulous fury he understood what Denford implied. “I have never a hit a woman in my life and I never will.”

“I’m relieved to hear your years among the dirty machinations of government haven’t changed you in that respect. But there are ways of hurting a woman without striking a blow. The Damian I once knew would never have behaved with so little courtesy and gentleness. The way you hustled her out of Hamble’s and into the carriage was brutal.”

He hadn’t been physically rough with Cynthia, he was certain, though perhaps intimidating in his anger. He must make sure she wasn’t afraid of him, once he’d got rid of bloody Denford. “It’s none of your business. There’s no point revisiting the past again.”

“None at all. Let us look to the future, which is my business.”

“The only thing I have to say about your future is this: Keep away from my wife.”

“That’s not what I had in mind.”

“I’m warning you.”

Denford’s lips stretched into the sneer he used to find amusing when its goal was the taunting of the Oxford proctors, an outraged hostess, or a stiff-backed pillar of the House of Lords, especially the late Lord Windermere. Now Damian understood exactly why those worthies had all wanted to kill Julian Fortescue. “Stop looking as though you’d like to throttle me. You wouldn’t succeed if you tried and you will wish to hear my proposition. I called to see you, so the least you can do is offer me a seat.”

“To see
me
?” Damian stepped back. Curiosity fought with the urge to commit violence and emerged the victor. Beating Denford to pulp was an option he kept in reserve. He waved at the pair of wing chairs on either side of the hearth and they took their seats, like the civil acquaintances they weren’t.

“Last time we spoke tête-à-tête,” Denford began, “you were uncommonly interested in the Falleron collection.”

“You
do
have it!”

“Let’s just say that I can lay my hands on certain pictures in exchange for a consideration.”

Damian felt the rush of anticipation that always accompanied a diplomatic breakthrough. He wasn’t even going to negotiate much. The Foreign Office could afford it, and all he wanted was to complete his mission and get rid of Denford forever. “Name your price.”

Blue eyes flashed in the hawkish face. “Cynthia. I want Cynthia.”

Damian shook his head, doubting he had heard correctly. “Is this a jest?”

“Do sit down again and let us discuss it reasonably. The country gets its alliance, Prince Heinrich the Dreadful gets his pictures, and I get Cynthia.”

“No.” Damian couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. Julian expected him to wink at his wife’s continued infidelity in return for certain considerations. Depressingly, it was the kind of arrangement he might not have found unacceptable if the woman in question were someone else’s wife. It was also the arrangement that Radcliffe had hinted at.

“You can’t have her,” he said, returning to his seat with a stiff spine that matched his determination. “Once you helped me lose the thing that mattered to me most. I won’t let you besmirch my wife with your squalid morals.”

If Denford were capable of sincerity, that’s how Damian would have read his softened gaze. “You mistake me. My intentions are entirely honorable. I wish to marry your wife.”

“You can’t. She’s already married to me.”

“Obviously. That’s why she’s your wife. That can be changed. Divorce her. I’ll give you cause—God knows I’ve been trying hard enough—then you can bring your plea to Parliament. Given your connections in the cabinet, there should be no difficulty persuading that coterie of rogues and extortionists.” Denford spoke of His Majesty’s government with the scorn of a bishop sermonizing on the denizens of hell.

“You are mad. I understand you wanted to seduce Cynthia to get back at me. But why would you go to all the trouble to wed her?”

“I may be mad, Damian, but you are a horse’s arse. I used to feel guilty about what happened at Cruikshank’s, but no more. You marry a lady who not only brings you a fortune, but is also beautiful, clever, and kind, and you have no idea how lucky you are. Instead of appreciating your treasure, you neglect her.”

Damian stared at Julian in amazement. He really meant what he said. “Are you in love with my wife?”

“I’m not even sure I know what love is. I doubt if I am capable of feeling it and I’m quite sure I don’t deserve it. But I have a fancy to settle down and the scandal of a divorce doesn’t trouble me. I’ve never been respectable and I don’t care if I am now. Some people will fawn over me because I’m a duke, others will shun me. Either way, I don’t give a damn.”

“You never did.” At first this carelessness of convention had strongly attracted Damian. Invited to Julian’s rooms in Christ Church College, he’d discovered an Aladdin’s cave of drawings and watercolors pinned on walls, propped on the mantelpiece, and littering every flat surface. Drunk with aesthetic stimulation, Damian had tripped over a stray copy of Aristotle’s
Politics
that lay abandoned on the floor. When he apologized for damaging the book, Julian opened the window and flung it out into the quadrangle. “Dreadfully dull book,” he said. Damian, who had dutifully plowed through the Latin and Greek texts that Eton required for university preparation, was alarmed and thrilled. Shortly afterward he discovered how little was required of a nobleman at Oxford and took full advantage of the laxity. But it was Julian who had showed him the way.

It was Julian who had led him down the primrose path of wild behavior and cocking a snook at his father. Julian who had opened his world to a dizzying variety of sensations and experiences outside the ken of a naïve and sheltered boy. Julian who had ultimately driven him back to embrace the straight and narrow with all the zeal of the convert.

Julian, the most important influence in his earlier life, had stolen the woman who should be the central figure of his future, and wanted to make the theft permanent. Except, he hadn’t. Damian was so shocked by his proposition, he’d missed the careless admission of Julian’s failure to seduce Cynthia.

He’d refused to believe her when she swore she’d never been with Julian, but she’d been telling the truth. Of course she had. Cynthia, Lady Windermere, his wife, was an honest woman, as anyone but a consummate fool would know after half an hour in her company. A dozen times, as he’d come to know his wife, he’d found himself thinking of her as innocent, and he’d been right all along. If only he’d listened to his instinct instead of his reason. She was true blue and incorruptible.

“You never bedded her,” he stated. The question that had haunted him was settled in his mind without a shadow of doubt. He didn’t even need confirmation.

Julian shrugged. “Lady Windermere proved a tough nut to crack. I did my best from the first day I met her at Caro’s. A worthy punishment for you, I thought.”

“Because of the Maddox business.” The exploitation of an innocent in their strife turned his mouth sour. His desire for revenge had set off the exchange but it was Julian who had brought Cynthia into their conflict. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said. “My wife had nothing to do with what happened between us.”

“Believe it or not, I am ashamed.” They looked at each other across the endless two-yard width of the marble hearth, and Damian wondered if he imagined the regret and anger in the other’s eyes, or whether he was still reading his own mind. Then Julian shook his ridiculous long hair, ran a long thumb over the silver tip of his affected ebony walking stick, and smiled his taunting smile. “Not that being seduced by me wouldn’t have been thoroughly enjoyable for her.”